No light showed from the windows of the first and second floors of the stately Colonial-type house which stood virtually by itself on the corner of Macklin and Van Ness at the farthermost edge of Oakland. It looked like a ghost house, and the illusion was intensified by the dense fog which had come in at five this very evening from the Bay. It was on an April evening, yet the wind was still and bleak. The house seemed deserted, prey of the specters and the wraiths and phantoms of the night.
But in the heavily fortified cellar, constructed underground so that absolutely no windows could be displayed to show light anywhere, there were blazing lights. In the middle of this immense cellar, a kind of auditorium had been constructed by the simple means of hanging purple drapes to shut off each side; the walls themselves acted as the other two boundaries. There was a platform against one wall, and in the middle was a cross-arm whipping post, which seemed out of medieval times with its heavy iron rings set into the wood at each end of the crosspiece.
With her wrists tied by fine but tenacious silken cords to these rings, a beautiful young naked girl was posed, a black bandana tied around her eyes and knotted at the back of her head. The pitiless glare of the high-watted electric lights in the transparent fixtures set into the ceiling illuminated every iota of her flawless young body. She was about five feet six inches in height, rather slender, with long, nervously muscled calves and thighs, from which the surprising amplitude of her full, round, tightly compact buttocks became the more exciting-particularly to those who watched in their upholstered lounge chairs drawn up in three rows between one purple drape and the other. In these lounges sat some fifty guests, or rather, members of a highly exclusive clandestine club. All of them, whether men or women, wore black masks which completely covered their faces and left slits for the eyes, the nose and the mouth. They were all richly dressed, and the smell of excellent Havana cigars mingled with the delicate tang of expensive French cologne and perfume.
There was even in this blend of scents a cloying reek of marijuana, for several masked young women, leaning forward, their eyes glittering through the slits of the masks, were smoking reefers in ivory cigarette holders.
The girl at the post was stark naked except for black opera-length hose drawn high on her long thighs and secured by red rosette garters which clung almost chafingly to her flesh. She was sobbing softly, and her hair was coppery red, originally coiffed in a thick pageboy which had been gathered together and tied with a silken cord and pulled upwards to a pulley wheel so that it tractioned her sensitive scalp. Her skin was almost obscenely pale white, with rosy flecks. Because her arms were drawn out in a horizontal plane, one could see the dark-red curls of private hair growing in the soft hollows of her armpits. Her spine was deeply hollowed, which emphasized all the more the prominence of her buttocks. It was seen also that because of the traction on her hair and the height of the cross piece of this whipping post, she was obliged to arch up on her stockinged toes, so that all her muscles were in vivid interplay. Long shivering flexions surged along her calves and thighs, visiting the magnificent globes of her bare bottom, and ran upwards the column of her back, the taut smoothness of the sides where the rib cages could be seen plainly outlined by the tightness of that bare white skin. And one could see also the faint drops of agony-sweat, or rather, suspense sweat, since the torment had not yet started.
This platform was ascended to by three steps, and to the right was a kind of upright roulette wheel, a lottery wheel with a pointer which would designate the number so vital to the entertainment awaiting these masked witnesses. One number would designate the executioner; a second, the number of strokes to be applied and the third, the instrument which should inflict those strokes.
On a low bench near this lottery wheel, which would be spun by the president of this secret club, there lay an arsenal of flagellatory instruments. including a slim, whippy rattan cane, a short-handled three-thonged French martinet, a Scotch tawse of thick black leather whose last six inches had been cut into "fingers," and a birch rod made of about a dozen peeled, thin hazel switches wrapped at the bulkier end with a black cloth to serve as handle for the designated executioner should the lottery decree the use of this stinging, hissing implement of pain.
It was a Friday night, and the session of this club would last until at least dawn. Then, after a sufficient pause for rest and refreshment, it would resume again in the afternoon and continue well into dawn on Sunday. Finally, there would be a kind of auction late Sunday afternoon, with a luxurious collation served by well-trained slavegirls who also would be masked, and whose anonymity would perhaps make it less agonizing for them, at a command or whim from any one of the masked spectators-whether male or female-to provide intimate sexual services, no matter what might be required of them in this wise.
The name of the secret club was "Les Masques", the French equivalent of The Masks." It had been the brainchild of a wealthy psychiatrist who, now fifty-six and having retired two years ago from his profession, had determined to devote not only his great wealth but his comprehensive knowledge of the female id and psyche to the cultivation of exquisite carnal delights, through pain, degradation, humiliation, suffering and slavery . . . a twentieth-century slavery with even more vicious cruelties and penances than ever the Middle-Ages' barons thought of when they usurped the bodies of their serfs, and embellished with the most depraved and modern sophistication.
A hush now fell on the masked audience, as their president, this same noted psychiatrist who had come from the East three years ago and, cunningly changing his name and purchasing this old, abandoned house through an agent whom he paid very well to represent him, had created here in the shadow of the Golden Gate a paradise for sadists and a hell for its victims.
He rose now, from his seat in the very first row and ascended the platform, amid loud gasps of excitement and expectation, He wore a black satin robe, which took him from the neck to the ankles. It was held by a single button in the front, and under it he was naked, save for soft sandals which made no sound as he slowly moved forward towards the lottery wheel. The wheel had numerical signs from the figures one to one hundred, in varying colors. True, there were only fifty members here including himself. If on the first spin beyond that which any one of the masked members or guests retained should be registered, the wheel would be spun again until at last an executioner was chosen. He had declared himself exempt from this evening's procedures. First of all, he had a confidential and highly important conference scheduled half an hour hence in the study of this sumptuous old house, when he would meet with a fabulously wealthy and equally depraved couple desirous of becoming members and also of purchasing specially trained slaves to satisfy their vicious whims. Besides, the girl at the post would, tomorrow night, come to his bed, either of her own volition or through the coercion of what would be done to her now or later.
He inclined his gray head to the silent audience, then spun the wheel. Gasps of expectation were heard as the immutable pointer waited to select the number. It stopped at last at 33, and a cry of joy rose from the second row of loges. "That's my number!" It was the voice of a young woman, a 19-year-old silver-blonde, who had come tonight in the company of a man of nearly sixty, her uncle, who was viciously debauched and who had taken her maidenhood when she had been only fourteen, and had thereafter instructed her in all the arts of lechery and lust until she was as avid as he for new, exciting, dangerous joys of the flesh.
Her uncle himself chuckled softly as he watched his lovely young niece make her way past the other seated spectators, so impatient that she did not even stop to apologize when she stumbled against one or another. Carefully, he slipped his hand through a slit in his red robe and put it on his prick and began to tickle the head as she ascended the steps and stood beside the masked president of Les Masques.
"You have won the right to spin the wheel of fortune twice more. Number 33," the president intoned in a solemn, resonant voice that made the girl at the whipping post sob and groan and press herself forward till her coral-tinted firm young nipples brushed the edges of the vertical post to which she was tethered.
"You know our rules," he continued. "But first we will designate the number of lashes; the second turn will be selective of the instrument you will use to inflict those lashes."
The silver-blonde turned eagerly to the wheel and spun it vigorously. Her gray-green eyes glittered as she watched its constant whirling, observed its slackening, and then clenched her little fists as it slowly came to a stop. "Oh damn!" she peevishly exclaimed. The pointer had stopped at the number 37. The girl at the post would suffer strokes only to that number. And now it would be determined what instrument should deliver those kisses of pain on such white virginal flesh, immaculate and till this moment untouched by the ignominy or the torment of corporal punishment.
Once again the silver-blonde spun the wheel, and once again she watched with glittering eyes and heaving breasts. It came to rest at the number 14. She exhaled a sigh of delight, "Aahhh, well, that's better, anyway!"
The president had coded, long before, the meaning of each number when it came to the choice of whipping instruments. One, for example, would be a paddle with holes; two would be a thin birch rod of no more than six switches; three, a metal ruler; four, a hairbrush with stiff horsehair bristles and so on. The number which the silver-blonde executioner had spun called for an oval-shaped leather paddle whose one side was smooth, and whose other was covered with sharp, coarse horsehair. Thus she might use either side at her choice, or of course both, as she fully intended to do. The agony of the bruising shock of the paddle's flat surface would be augmented viciously by the digging, spike-like bites of the bristles which would tenderize and sensitize the martyred naked flesh of the young victim's virgin ass.. . . .
CHAPTER I
Sally Durmont wished she hadn't come along on this date with Brad Tobler. She had really never liked him, because he was too self-assured, too smug and conceited, too rich and too cynical. Still and all, he was the last person to have seen her sister Laura before the latter's disappearance two months ago. In that two months, not so much as a postcard or a letter, and no phone calls or telegram. It had happened early in February, after a stormy scene in which Laura had defied her stepfather, told him that she'd be damned if she'd stay any longer in this house now that Mother was dead, because her real father (who had died ten years ago) had been decent and kind, but he was vicious and shouldn't even have the right to be in this house now that Mother was gone. So
Matthew Durmont had slapped Laura angrily across the face, and told her that if that was the way she felt, it would be good riddance and she could shift for herself. "Perhaps," he had concluded, "when you have to get out on your own and earn your own living and understand that things aren't going to fall into your lap just because you want them, young lady, then you'll come back here to me ready to apologize for the insults you've piled on me ever since I married your mother. What I really should have done a long time ago was to have taken the strap to your bottom, Laura, because maybe you'd have had some sense by now!"
That had been the last straw for Laura Durmont. She'd cried out, "Oh sure, you'd like to strap me, you dirty old man, you'd just love to make me take off my clothes so you could look at me all over, because I've seen you doing it! Even when you were going to bed with my poor mother, I knew you always wanted to have me, don't try to deny it. Besides, it doesn't matter anymore, I've already packed my suitcase, and I'm leaving. And you can all go to hell. And if my poor sister Sally is stupid enough to stay in the same house with you, God help her!"
Then she had stormed upstairs, come down with her suitcase and slammed the door, and to this date, nearing the end of April, that was all anyone had heard from Laura Durmont.
Sally had deeply loved her father, and her mother as well, though she had felt that the latter was somewhat weak and scatterbrained at times. That was why she had married Matthew Durmont eight years ago, and it seemed to Sally that life had changed, had come under a cloud. There wasn't the gaiety and laughter there had been when Dad had been alive. Oh sure, they'd just been kids then, but even so-he'd been a companion and a friend to them, not a stern unyielding and strict man whose every word seemed to harbor some criticism of the way they acted or dressed or talked or even walked.
And now that Mother had died, just last January, from a sudden heart attack at the early age of forty-one, still a beautiful and desirable woman, with honey-colored hair and a buxom figure and a sweet if pathetic smile and a soft hesitant voice, there was just she herself left alone with her stepfather.
Matlithew Durmont was forty-five, and looked older. He wore spectacles, his sparse graying hair was receding, and at times when the lamplight shone on one side of his face, he almost looked cadaverous. Tall and lanky, with bony-looking fingers, there were times when he made Sally shiver at the thought that he was like one of those old Puritan deacons who would rap you over the knuckles in church if you were whispering, and who would spy on you at every moment.
They had lived happily in this bungalow on Rochester Avenue towards the Hollywood end of Los Angeles, all these years. Sally and Laura had both gone to Los Angeles High, and Laura had started and finished two years of junior college before she had had that row with her stepfather. Laura was twenty, and intensely beautiful. But then, Sally thought to herself, a fiery temper usually went with red hair, and certainly Laura had possessed them both.
Sally Durmont herself was twenty-two, creamy-skinned, her black hair coiffed in a mature chignon which made her look quite poised, five feet six and a half inches in height, with a magnificent figure. Her gray-green eyes, her slantingly set cheeks, her high forehead, her soft ripe and sensuous mouth, and her dainty Grecian nose made her in many ways even more desirable than her younger sister-though she would have been the first to insist that Laura was surely the lovelier. Sally was quieter, more self-contained, but even she had begun to dread her stepfather's condemnations and constant carping. Lately, he had objected to both of their dating as much as they did, grumbling that it was high time they both picked a steady young man and settled down and married instead of flirting and teasing. In his day, he told them, girls like that were little better than harlots. Yes, in many ways, Matthew Durmont reminded her of one of those seventeenth-century Puritans with somber faces and black, drab clothing, who thought of punishment instead of joy and happiness.
Sally had thought a good deal about Laura's denunciation of their stepfather that terrible night. She'd heard only part of it, upstairs in her room. The sound of voices had made her open the door and step out onto the second-floor landing, and she had caught just a few of Laura's angry words. Was it possible, was it really possible? But to say such a thing in front of him, Laura surely must have had good reason. Even though her sister had a temper, certainly she wouldn't have made up such a terrible accusation . . . the accusation that Matthew Durmont had had physical desire for his own stepdaughter.
And yet, now that she thought of it, there were certain curious signs which she had noticed herself. Once, shortly before her mother's death, she had been sitting in the living room, her legs crossed, her skirt slightly hiked up, engrossed in a new novel which had come from the Book of the Month Club. Suddenly she had looked up, feeling the presence of someone in the room, though it had been utterly quiet there. And she'd seen her stepfather staring at her, and his eyes had been at the level of her legs, and when she glanced down, she saw that just an inch of bare creamy thigh flesh was showing. She'd smoothed down her skirt and blushed, and then he'd said something to her and the moment had been forgotten. But was that, also, one of the telltale signs which proved the veracity of her sister's accusations?
And now, the past few weeks, he'd seemed to be with her all the time. Even when she watched TV, which she usually did by herself, he would join her, which had not been his habit before. He had said that he despised the stupidity of the programs offered, and yet night after night he sat there with her, sometimes commenting in a dry, humorless voice over what he saw and did not like. But again and again, she had caught him staring at her. And when she had done that, his thin lips had formed a cold little smile.
But Brad Tobler had been Laura's boyfriend for about six months, and at one time Sally herself had thought it was serious between the two of them. Yet now she could understand why Laura had broken it off just the week before she had left the house for good. She had thought that perhaps going out with him tonight, she might learn something of Laura's plans. Maybe Laura had confided something to Brad Tobler about her decision to leave Los Angeles. She knew that Laura had a savings account which their now dead Aunt Agnes had left her on her eighteenth birthday. A thousand dollars. Well, that would take her quite a distance away, but then she would have to find a job and a place to live, and it wouldn't last forever. And yet in two months she had not even sent so much as a word, and this had begun to frighten Sally Durmont. That and her stepfather's constant vigilance, as if he were waiting for something to happen, brooding there and coming in to the living room or wherever she was, even in the kitchen, unannounced and silent, standing there like an accusing ghost, his eyes always on her body.
Brad had taken her to The Brown Derby for an excellent dinner, and now was driving his Thunderbird out in the direction of the Hollywood Hills. There was a rumbling of thunder in the distance, and the windshield wipers were working because there had been, a few minutes ago, a hint of rain. He sat cockily at the wheel, a little sneer on his mustached lips. He thought very highly of himself, she knew. All he had been able to talk about at dinner was his own achievements, the new clothes he'd bought, the trip to Europe that he was going to make this summer with his father.
Suddenly he parked the car off the road, and switched off the lights, then turned on FM. The soft lilting strings of a dance band, back from the Forties, came to her. It was nostalgic, because she had no use for the driving, raucous noise they called music these days. Laura had seemed to like it, though, but then Laura didn't care for classical music at all the way she did.
"Brad, I-I really have to confess something. When I called you and sort of hinted at a date, I had something in mind."
"I'll bet you did, honey," he laughed easily as he slipped his arm around her waist. "So did I, confidentially. I've wanted to take you out for a long time, or didn't you know that?"
"Please, Brad. I'm serious." She disengaged herself and sat closer to the door. "Look, the real reason and I'm sorry if I misled you in any way is that I'm worried about Laura. She's been gone two months, and there hasn't been a single word, not a phone call, nothing. I know that well, she did have a date with you just a week before she left. I thought maybe you could tell me something about her."
"Sure I could. But why should I? She's old enough to lead her own life, honey. So are you. The fact is, you're way behind the times. And I'll bet you're still cherry."
"What do you mean?" Sally innocently asked, for such expressions were entirely unknown to her. True, mother had talked to both girls when they were about thirteen and ready for their menstrual period, explaining the fundamental difference of the sexes. But it had been sort of idealistic and certainly there had been no harsh, vulgar words to draw graphic pictures of what happened between man and maid.
"Oh come off it," he chuckled nastily. "I mean a virgin. I bet you've never screwed with a guy, have you, baby?"
"Of course I haven't!" she said indignantly, her face coloring hotly. "Look, Brad, please, I'm really worried about Laura, won't you please tell me if you know anything? It would help so much."
"I might," he conceded with a smirk. "Of course, you'd have to be nice to me. Nothing for nothing, that's my motto. Come on, relax, don't sit so close to the door as if you were thinking of running home. It would be an awfully long ride, and it's going to storm before too much longer. Come back over here and let's really get acquainted."
Once again he reached for her with his arm, and pulled her to him. Sally decided to submit temporarily, if only to find out what she could about her sister.
"That's better," he chuckled. "Now then, baby, did you know you've got the loveliest blush I've ever seen on a girl? That proves you're a cherry--sorry, I mean virgin. But don't tell me you don't know the facts of life by now. Hell, you must be about twenty-two."
"Yes, I am, but that doesn't mean that I let men get familiar with me. Please take your arm away. Please be serious just for once, Brad. It's been a lovely evening until now, don't spoil it."
"To hell with that noise! You want to know something, and I want a little loving. Why don't we trade, even Steven, fair exchange is no robbery, you know?"
"Because I don't want to. Besides, you were her boyfriend, not mine."
"And that's a hot one! I tried to get into her pants, but she wouldn't until she got married. And I'm not the marrying kind, Sally, just in case you didn't know that. I'll tell you one thing, though. I'll give you the hottest fucking you'll ever have, and you won't get pregnant, either. I know all the tricks, and I'm good at them. Relax, you're all tight and nervous. That proves that you need a good fucking. Boy would that relax you!"
"I wish you'd keep your filthy language to yourself and drive me back home. If that's all you're going to say to me about Laura, then I'm sorry I came out with you tonight."
"Oh but, baby, don't go off in a huff! I've got an idea where Laura went, only you've got to pay for it. You can start with a kiss. Come on, one kiss won't hurt you."
Taking a deep breath, conquering her rage, Sally passively turned her mouth to his. He gave a little grunt of satisfaction, and then he pulled her to him, his hands first gripping her waist as his mouth came down on hers. It wasn't brutal, but lingering, even persuasive. For a moment, she actually felt a kind of tingling warmth inside of her. And then she felt his tongue slip between her lips, felt his hands glide up from her waist to her pear-shaped, widely spaced and swelling titties.
With a cry of indignation, she twisted her mouth free and slapped his face. "How dare you do that to me! I want to go home this minute, Brad Tobler! No wonder Laura broke off with you, if that's what you tried to do!"
"Don't act like a nun, baby, it doesn't become you. And I'll tell you something else you might not have known. Your sweet little red-haired sister wasn't exactly a prissy virgin either. Oh, she didn't fuck, I don't mean that, she let me feel her up, though. Lots of times I had my hand right over her cunt and I was rubbing it through her pants. She just didn't want to go the limit, not without marriage. She was a prick teaser, baby, and I think you're the same thing though in a different style." Again she slapped him, trembling, her heart racing madly, shaken by the coarseness he had shown tonight.
"You owe me something for that, you little bitch!" he growled. And before she knew what he was going to do, Brad Tobler had got out of the car, walked around to the other side, pulled open the door and dragged her out. "Now you're going to get slapped, and right on your sweet ass where you need it most! Maybe that'll warm you up and stop you being a cold prick teaser," he snarled. Sally screamed and struggled, but to no avail. Mastering her revolt, Brad Tobler yanked up her dress and half-slip, tore down her panties, and, gripping her wrists with his left hand, bent her across his left knee, having posed his foot on an old tree stump just off the road. Then he began to spank her naked bottom with violent, rapid and noisy slaps, while she screamed and struggled, the tears running down her cheeks.
"There!" he panted, as he let her go and she sprawled ignominiously on all fours in the darkness before him. "Maybe next time you won't see how far you can lead a guy on, not without giving. All right, I guess you've earned a little information. That sweet sister of yours said she might go off to San Francisco and try to find a job. She said your old man was making googoo eyes at her. Well, now that you're back alone with him, baby, seems to me he might teach you to fuck and keep it all in the family."
Crushed, sobbing, Sally stumbled to her feet and readjusted her clothes. Take me home, for God's sake," she groaned.
"Sure, baby. Always glad to oblige a lady. Sorry I haven't got any cushion to put under that big sweet ass of yours. And you can thank your lucky stars I'm gentleman enough not to have taken real advantage of you. I could see your pussy when you were waving your legs in the air there as I was fantailing your sweet ass, Sally. It was all I could do to keep from taking that cherry of yours. Next time maybe I will." He walked round to the side of the car, got behind the wheel, waited impatiently for her to drag herself inside and then burst into heartfelt tears as he started up the motor and turned the Thunderbird back to Los Angeles.. . . .
CHAPTER II
Sally Durmont was trembling when she opened her purse and took out the key to put it into the front door of the bungalow on Rochester Avenue. The scene with Brad Tobler had shaken her more than she was ready to admit, even to herself. Now she had absolutely no clue to her sister's whereabouts, and it was evident that Brad wasn't going to cooperate, even if he knew where Laura was. No, that wasn't really quite right. Brad had said that Laura might go to San Francisco in search of a job. But even if San Francisco was much smaller than Los Angeles, to search for her sister there would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack.
Aunt Agnes had left her a thousand dollars in a savings account, too, just as she had done for
Laura. It would be sufficient stake to take her to San Francisco and begin her quest. Besides, the inheritance from her mother and father, since she was of legal age, was in the bank and she had full access to that. That was one thing that her stepfather didn't and couldn't take from her.
And so she felt just a little better as she finally opened the door and walked into the living room. But then she started with surprise, for Matthew Durmont was sitting there in an armchair, glowering at her.
"You've been out with a man, haven't you, Sally?" was his first remark to her in a stern, almost cruel voice. And she saw that he was wearing his bathrobe over his pajamas and his slippers.
"Yes, I have. If you must know, I was out with Brad Tobler. He used to date Laura, and I wanted to find out if he knew where she was."
"I see." His thin lips twisted in a kind of sneer. "I think I remember that young man. Your sister Laura and you have a good deal in common, it appears, Sally. Both of you like to tease and to flirt and to lead a man on, and that's damnable. Even a respectable harlot deserves more admiration than girls who lead men on without any intention of satisfying them."
"That's a dreadful thing to say!" Sally gasped, her cheeks reddening angrily. "I told you, I went out with him only because I wanted to see if he knew where Laura could be."
"And why is it so important for you to find your sister? You know perfectly well I told her she could go out on her own until she learned commonsense. So perhaps at last she found herself a job and understood what responsibility really is. And if she's a failure, she'll come whining back here, you wait and see."
"No, I don't think she will. I want to go find her."
"You're of age, Sally, and I can't stop you legally. But I'm still your father, and I have some authority as long as you're living here with me. I don't want you to do that. It would be a great mistake."
"Why? Just because you hate her?" Sally flared.
He rose, his face dark with anger. "That's not true. She's the one who hates me, yes, and you too. And just look at yourself-your lipstick smeared, your skirt rumpled. Oh yes, you're going the same way she did, and yet you're older, and I thought you had better judgment. So you were out petting and necking with that fellow, in your attempt to pry away secrets from him."
Sally Durmont blushed again, this time in indignation and remembered shame. Brad Tobler, in his unexpected attack on her when he had spanked her, had ripped her panties off so that she could not wear them. She had flung them out of the car, and even now she felt the immodesty of how scantily she was clad, with only her half-slip and her skirt covering her loins and bottom.
"I didn't neck or pet with him, and you've no right to say such a thing!" she exclaimed, her eyes welling with tears. "He tried to make love to me, and that's the truth, and I fought him off."
"Oh I'm sure you did," Matthew Durmont sneered. "Old as you are, Sally, I think it's time you learned a lesson. You've had it coming for a long time, just as much as your sister did before you. You're on the path to shamelessness and harlotry."
"Why do you say horrible things like that to me? Just because I wear makeup, as any girl my age does? I told you, he made advances to me, and I told him to bring me home. I detest him!"
"And yet your lipstick is smeared, and your skirt is rumpled," Matthew Durmont persisted. "No, I'm afraid I can't accept your explanation. I promised your mother I would look after both you girls, and now that Laura is gone, you are still my responsibility. Come along now!" With this, he seized her by the wrists.
"What do you mean? What are you doing? Ouch, my wrists, you're hurting me!" Sally Durmont cried out, trying to tug herself free.
Matthew Durmont had surprising strength, and his face was hard and his eyes were glittering almost with the zeal of a religious fanatic as he pulled her towards his bedroom.
Forcing her inside, he closed and locked the door behind him, flipped on the light switch. "I'm going to give you a whipping, Sally," he announced.
"Oh no you're not! I won't take that from anyone, least of all you!" the beautiful black-haired young woman cried out, her eyes sparkling with tears of indignation and rage. She had never been more desirable, her magnificent titties rising and falling violently against the bodice of her dress. Her fists clenched, she stood in an attitude of defiance.
Matthew Durmont coldly reached out and slapped her viciously across the cheek. "That's a start for your impertinence, young lady!" he exclaimed.
Sally uttered a cry of horror, recoiling, a hand to her flaming cheek. "You're mean and cruel, and now I know what Laura meant when she said she couldn't stand it here anymore with you! I'm going to leave, too! And you can't stop me, do you understand?"
"Not legally, as I told you. Very well, if you are set on becoming a slut as I think your sister is, go and good riddance," his tone was sarcastic. "But you're not leaving until you've had your punishment. Both of you girls have constantly flouted my authority, hated and resented me ever since I married your mother. And now you come in and have no contrition at all for your shamelessness tonight."
With this, and with a strength that Sally would not have believed, he seized both her wrists, pulled her towards him as he sat down on the bed. With a cry of furious indignation, Sally tried to jerk herself free, planting her feet on the floor and resisting. But his wiry strength was too much for her. With another cry of anguish, she felt herself pulled over his lap, stretched out along the edge of the bed, and then his left hand had gripped both her wrists and forced them to the small of her back, and his right hand was yanking up her skirt and then the half-slip.
"So!" he thundered. "You shameless hussy! And then you tell me that you went out with this young man to get information about your sister.
And you went out without wearing panties, exposing yourself. And I see that he's been amusing himself with you-look at the red marks on that wicked bottom of yours! Well, my girl, I'm going to put a few more there!"
"No, you shan't, you're wrong! He-he spanked me because I wouldn't because I wouldn't let him make love to me I swear that's the truth I'll never forgive you for this you hateful, cruel man you let me go aahhh!"
For Matthew Durmont, raising his right hand, had brought it down with an angry SMACKK on the lower right cheek of Sally's magnificent bottom. It was splotched all over from Brad Tobler's "sour-grapes" attack in the car, and so it stung atrociously, reviving all the pain of that first humiliating punishment.
Sally's lovely legs kicked in the air, as she tried desperately to shove herself off the bed.
But her stepfather managed her as if she were a child, and as his hand continued to rise and fall, flattening the reddening globes of her naked ass, she began to become terrified by his ferocious and unjust emprise of her.
As she wiggled and twisted, frantic with pain and shame now, actually crying like a child with tears running down her cheeks and pleading with him to stop, her movements made her naked loins rub against his lap, and to her horror she felt the hard, unmistakable protuberance of his prick press against her furry virgin snatch.
Then in a blinding flash, she knew all to well the truth of Laura's accusations. She should have remembered what Laura had said to him when he had told her that he ought to have taken a strap to her bottom a long time ago; Laura had said that of course you would have liked to do that, because he was a lecherous old man, because he wanted to see her naked and lusted for her. Oh God, it was horrible! And to think that poor Laura had had to run away from home, the home that had been theirs since early childhood, all because of this dreadful man who had somehow made their beloved mother marry him!
But the rapid, stinging blows on her naked seat, already tenderized by Brad Tobler's spanking, began to hurt her, and she cried out poignantly as he continued with apparently no sign of stopping. With methodical regularity, Matthew Duromont continued to spank her squirming, jerking, hurling bare bottom, until the dark red marks spread and her flesh felt bruised and hot and it was sheer agony for each new spank to fall on her cringing flesh.
"You harlot!" he sermonized her as he continued to spank. "Now I understand what those marks on your bottom were, you sinful creature! Yes, I've read a good deal about the deviate ways you young people of today seek to experience in your depraved rut of the flesh! He spanked you to stimulate both of you so that you could fornicate! I'm sure you're not a virgin any longer, if you ever were!"
And this completely stupefying charge left her utterly stunned by its injustice and its perversity. As his hand continued to smack her burning, throbbing naked behind, Sally Durmont now exerted all her strength and flung herself off his lap, managing to break loose from the grip he had on her wrists, and stood tottering, tears running down her cheeks, panting, trembling, staring at him through the tears as if she were looking at a monster.
"I'm going to leave, I don't ever want to see you again, you filthy, horrible man! Yes, whatever Laura said about you was true, I know it now! I'm not a stepdaughter to you, I'm just a female that you enjoy torturing for your own dreadful excitement look at yourself oh you animal!"
"Yes, you bitch, I'm an animal, because both you sluts have aroused me that way with your easygoing, harlots' ways," he sneered as he rose to face her. "Well, since you've been out fucking with that young man of yours, you can't object too much if I take my pleasure with you too--after all, you're still under my control, Sally!"
His bathrobe gaped now, and so did the fly of his pajama trousers. Sally's eyes fixed incredulously on the thrusting spear of his lean, taut prick. Her mouth gaped, and she stood rooted to the spot in utter loathing and dread.
He sprang at her, his hands clutching her shoulders, dragging her back to the bed and flinging her down upon it. Bent back, she struck at him with her fist, but he laughed and buried his mouth in her throat, pinning her down till her back ached from the uncomfortable angle at which she had been thrust against the edge of the bed. His left knee was between her thighs, clamping her there, and now his left hand fucked up her skirt and half-slip, exposing her cunt and lovely creamy thighs. As she struck at him with all her might, his right hand flashed out and gripped her wrist, then twisted it behind her back, and Sally screamed in pain.
She felt his prick rub against her inner thigh, then the furry muff of her pussy. With a last desperate resistance, she twisted her face and sank her teeth into his forearm. He let go of her wrist with a yowl of pain and swore at her viciously, "You dirty little whore, you're going to get it for that!"
But he had relaxed his grip and half-straightened. With all her might, Sally drew up her right knee and smashed it into his crotch, against his testicles.
Matthew Durmont uttered a hideous, piercing shriek, doubled over, grabbed for his balls and then sank down on his knees to the floor, twisting this way and that in unspeakable agony.
Panting and sobbing, Sally Durmont ran out of the room, and back to hers. There, taking down a small suitcase, she hurriedly packed it with her under things and a few dresses and hose, opened the top drawer of her dresser and took out her bankbook and the letter of trust from the bank executor which told her that her parents' legacy was being administered by the bank and that it would be at her disposal. Then, still hearing her stepfather's bellowing agony, she ran to the front door, opened it and slammed it shut as she hurried out to the street to find a cruising cab.
CHAPTER III
Sally Durmont had hailed a cruising cab and had the driver take her to a downtown Los Angeles hotel. In her anxious and frightened haste to leave her vicious and depraved stepfather behind her forever, she had at first thought only of the thousand dollars which her aunt had given her. It was only when, after hurrying to her bedroom and packing a few things and taking the letter of trust to the bank executive, that she remembered that after all she and her sister were each entitled to half of the estate. Her parents hadn't left too much, but there was at least several thousand dollars there. So she would have something of a nest egg in her search for her sister and at the same time be able to find a proper job and earn her own livelihood. It would be freedom for her at last.
But she was still shaken from the ugly scene with Matthew Durmont, and her bottom still pained her from his harsh spanking. The throbbing of it as she sat in the back seat of the cab and shifted uneasily on the leather seat reminded her, also, of the shameful humiliation to which he had subjected her in baring her virginal body to his glittering, lust-burning eyes. She began to weep softly in a kind of nervous aftermath of that violent scene. Yet she had no remorse for what she had done, and she only wished she had killed him.
She checked into the hotel and went right to sleep. She was exhausted from the emotional draining of that scene, and so she slept until nearly noon of the next day, which was Saturday. There was just time to get to the bank and to draw out the thousand dollars from her bankbook, and then to consult with an officer of the bank to learn how much she could probably draw from that letter of trust. To her pleasant surprise, the executor himself was there and told her that there was something like twenty thousand dollars being held in trust for Laura and herself. Ten thousand apiece-why, it was a fortune!
She thanked the man and told him that she was going to San Francisco and would have a bank there contact him. She explained that Laura had been missing but that she believed her sister was in San Francisco, which explained her departure. The man, a plump gray-haired executive in his early fifties named Elsworth Laklin, frowned and replied, 'This may present some legal difficulties, Miss Durmont. How old is your sister?"
"Just twenty, Mr. Laklin."
"I see, It would be very helpful if, when you find her, you can have her up here before a notary public in San Francisco, unless she wants to come back here, to attest that she is the proper heiress to this other half of the money. I don't think we could give you the entire half now, Miss Durmont if you wished it. We could, of course, advance a reasonable amount. But do keep in touch with us."
She had thanked the man and promised to communicate with him as soon as she learned the whereabouts of her sister. And then she had gone out to the Los Angeles International Airport and by late afternoon was arriving at the San Francisco International Airport in San Bruno.
It was true that San Francisco was a much smaller city, but the problem of finding Laura Durmont when she had absolutely no clue except Brad Tobler's contemptuous declaration that Laura had gone to find a job in San Francisco, was an almost insurmountable task. And yet she knew she had to find Laura. There were mysteries to be cleared up, and one of the most pressing was exactly how Matthew Durmont had treated Laura to make her run away. Another one, almost equally pressing, was what had really made Brad Tobler so sadistically vindictive against both her and her sister. He had accused Laura of being a--Sally blushed to think of the vile word he had used. Well, a teaser, one who promised and didn't perform. Virgin though she was, she knew enough of biology to understand how a man might desire a woman whose beauty would incite his passion, only to deny him, and how furiously spiteful he might become as a result of that denial.
She decided on taking an expensive room in a hotel on Geary Boulevard, and asked the help of the cab driver at the airport. He was a friendly little man with glasses, a native of Boston who had come out here on a vacation some fifteen years ago and fallen in love with the City by the Golden Gate. He found her a modest little hotel near Seventh Avenue and on Geary Boulevard, and she checked in at once, took a bath, and then walked down the boulevard to find a pleasant little Italian restaurant where she had a nourishing and very tasty bowl of minestrone, ravioli with meatballs, and a small flask of Chianti, with spumoni and strong black coffee to finish.
She purchased the Chronicle, the evening paper, and read the want ads. There were not too many jobs, mostly for secretaries, dental receptionists, girls to work as filing clerks in insurance and realty companies and the like. Nor were the wages too high. San Francisco was an expensive city, she knew. And Monday she went to the Bank of America to deposit the draft for eight hundred dollars (which had been part of her aunt's gift, the other two hundred dollars being kept for immediate expenses), and left on file the letter of trust from the Los Angeles bank executor with one of the officers of this San Francisco savings institution founded by an Eastern investor who believed in the little people and especially the farmers of California and had lived to see his dream of a friendly little bank grow into one of the financial giants of America.
The thought came to her that she might advertise in the "personal" columns of the newspapers, something like, "Laura, Sally is in town and needs you. Call the Gurlaine Hotel at once." And yet Laura might never see this, and it might be run for months before anything would happen and the suspense would be intolerable.
But how could she find her sister in all the districts of this city which was forty-nine square miles in size, dominated by the Presidio, by Twin Peaks, and in the business district by the elegant Coit Tower and Fisherman's Wharf?
She spent the afternoon registering at employment agencies, but they discouraged her for the most part. It was true that Sally had had two years of junior college, but she had never actually worked in a business office. True, she could type, she could even read and write French passably well, but these were minor talents which could be surpassed by hundreds of girls with even less formal education than herself, girls who had gone to business school or had to go to work right after high school in jobs in order to help their families or to survive on their own. No, it wasn't too heartening for Sally Durmont that April Monday in this town which was nearly five hundred miles away from its sister to the south and yet which snobbishly prided itself as being infinitely more important in culture and sophistication. . . .
The naked red-haired girl who had been bound to the cross arm whipping post in the cellar of the house on Macklin and Van Ness in Oakland had been severely whipped by the silver-blonde young woman who had won her at the lottery that night.
Her executioner's name was Ernestine Helms, and she lived with her lecherous uncle, Harold Buttridge, in a house in the Marina district of San Francisco.
From the attic window of that magnificently spacious old house, one of those few to survive the great earthquake of 1906, one could see the Golden Gate Bridge on a clear day. It was very foggy this Monday afternoon, and there was little vision in the attic. Besides, the shutters had been drawn, and Ernestine made certain that not a single ray of daylight could come through any of the dusky glass windows.
Her gray-green eyes narrowed, burning with an unholy and perverse light, as she stared down at the naked red-haired girl bound en crapaudine on the dirty floor of this attic. The girl was blindfolded, there was a ball gag in her mouth with a narrow and very solid strap pressing against her jaws and buckling tightly at the back of her neck to force the rubber ball into her mouth so that she could not expel it. Her wonderfully pale white skin, nuanced with the rosy flecks typical of her red-haired type, was cruelly marred. The marks were fading, it was true, and they appeared to have been made about a week ago. At least this was true of the stigmata which appeared on her upstandingly rounded bottom-cheeks and her long, gracefully sculptured thighs. There were splotches which had turned bluish, and there were also scores of tiny black-and-blue pore-like marks all over her behind and upper as well as inner thighs. These latter marks had been made by the bristles of a hairbrush. On closer examination, one could see the faint marks of what had been blisters, raised by a paddle with holes in the applicator.
The girl on the floor was weeping softly. Ernestine stood, hands on hips, sneering down cruelly at her victim. The silver-blonde heiress wore white linen playshorts and a sleeveless blue pullover polo shirt, her feet thrust into sandals with open toes. Her thin small mouth was twisted in a vicious and sadistic smile of anticipation. Her snub nose betrayed her lascivious temperament in the thin, widely flaring wings. And her own complexion was a blend of pink and tan, pink over buttocks and loins and titties, tan over all the rest of her, for she was an inveterate swimmer and also expert sailor. Often she had handled the tiller of her own sailboat out in the Marina Dock, going out to Sausalito to see some of her dear friends.
Dear Uncle Harold was taking his afternoon nap. Perhaps tonight he would join her in putting this little bitch through her paces again. They'd paid two thousand dollars to "rent" her for two weeks, and Ernestine thought it was money extremely well spent. The bitch wouldn't give her name at all, and she kept calling herself Vilma. But it was obvious she was lying, because there had been an old movie magazine with a story about Vilma Banky, one of the silent screen's most famous heroines in the days of John Gilbert and Wallace Reid. But even the worst whippings that Ernestine had given this bitch had failed to elicit the truth about her background. Not that it really mattered. After all, when one went to "Les Masques," one could rely on the discretion of its founder, Dr. Helmuth Weirath.
Ernestine closed her eyes a moment and considered the name she had just summoned up. Dear Helmuth! What a wonderfully imaginative man he was, and how clever he was to have founded something like "Les Masques"! And how grateful she was to dear Uncle Harold for having taken her there last week and letting her participate in that wonderful lottery!
By Saturday night, this bitch would have to be returned to him, of course. She would do it herself, she would insist, and of course dear Uncle Harold couldn't say no to her. Not if he wanted to get into her panties anymore, and of course the old devil did. For a man of fifty-nine, it was just amazing how capable Uncle Harold was. And what he couldn't do with his tongue and fingers to a girl's pussy! Ernestine sighed and hugged herself in reminiscence.
No, but this time she'd do something she'd wanted to do ever since she'd been introduced to Dr. Helmuth Weirath. She'd bring this bitch back, all right, and then she'd ask if she could have a few minutes with him. She'd wear one of her sheerest gowns, and under it she wouldn't have anything at all except a garter belt and of course her sheerest stockings. And she'd wear her spiciest perfume and use her most alluring makeup. She wanted him to fuck her. She wanted him to tie her up and just spank her playfully until she squealed and felt warm and until her pussy got so hot it couldn't stand it anymore, and then be fucked by that gray-haired genius who had made all these lovely games possible. Who had brought this red-haired little slut to be used as a slave.
Last night, she had tied the redhead to her bed, on her back and with a pillow under her bottom. With wrists and ankles spread-eagled, the redhead had been just about helpless. And then she'd worn just her boots and gloves, and taken a feather and started frigging the bitch's titties and pussy and along the insides of her long white thighs. MMMMM, how the slut had squealed and yelled and wriggled and begged for mercy, not that it had done her any good. And she'd crouched over her victim's face and started using the feather on the girl's pussy with one hand while with the other she had taken her little military hairbrush and begun to pat that gaping cunthole with the bristles, just the way she had done at the end of that ritual last week at the meeting place of "Les Masques." And finally she had forced the bitch to gam her; and when she refused, all she had had to do was to keep on spanking with the bristles, and pretty soon that tender soft little cunt couldn't take it any more and she had felt the bitch's tongue and lips pay homage to her own pussy.
"You know, bitch," she drawled as she kicked the naked, bound and blindfolded victim in the side, but not too hard so as not to hurt her bare toes, "if you'd just tell me your name, I could make it a little easier on you. You know what I'd really love to do? Strap you down over a sharp sawhorse so it would cut into that soft little pussy of yours. Tie weights to your wrists and ankles, and maybe even clamp on some nipple-pinchers. Then I'd like to give you a nice hot enema, dear, and fig you with a medicated suppository. Then I'd give you a nice little spanking, with a switch and maybe the hairbrush. I'll bet that you'd just break down and tell me everything you ever thought about or dreamed about, wouldn't you? I know you've been a pretty good girl, because you were cherry when Uncle Harold fucked you the night he brought you home from where we got you, darling. We'd like to know a little more about you. If we do, why, there's just the outside chance we might decided to keep you, say, as a maid or a servant. Of course you'd be our slave, we'd pay for you and buy you outright. Come on, be a good girl."
But only a thin moan could be heard through the gag, and faintly the redhead shook her head in sign of negation.
Her lips very tight, her eyes sparkling with anger, Ernestine Helms walked over to a dusty table, picked up a wooden yardstick, swished it through the air to test its flexibility, and returned to the unfortunate naked captive. In the crapaudine position, the victim's knees are drawn up against her titties, while her hands clasp her own knee hollows and her wrists are corded to her knees. To complete it, a rope goes round her neck and then under her knees and passes round her wrists and again around her elbows. It is a pose not only of shameful presentation but also the most painful constriction imaginable. And the girl on the floor had already tasted twelve hours of this, with only a little water and two or three crusts of bread fed to her by Ernestine herself.
CHAPTER IV
Sally Durmont had decided to put an ad in the San Francisco and Oakland papers in her desperate attempt to find her sister Laura. It was worded as follows: "Laura, I'm here in town looking for you. Please call me at the Gurlaine Hotel. I've left Matthew forever, and I miss you a lot. Sally."
Next, having looked up in the telephone directory the names and addresses of several private detectives, she decided to visit one who had a large display ad in the book, and took a cab down to Sansome Street to his office. In a few minutes, she had revealed her mission, and Henry Wadsworth, a lanky, personable thirty-two-year-old brown-haired man who had been graduated from the University of California at Berkeley and seen service in Viet Nam, was listening to her with a great deal of interest. It wasn't only because it meant a case for him, it was because he thoroughly approved of his beautiful new client. Henry Wadsworth had been born in San Rafael, a lovely little town beyond the Golden Gate Bridge and along the highway that led to the state's capitol of Sacramento. His younger brother had been killed in Viet Nam, and his parents had died two years ago. He had a first cousin living in Los Angeles, who was married and had two kids already.
So far, Henry Wadsworth wasn't attached, though that didn't mean he didn't appreciate girls. Quite the contrary. He had had a torrid romance going with an Eurasian dancehall girl in Saigon, but she had been stabbed by a member of the Viet Cong about a month after they had started shacking up together. Here at home, he had just had a breakup with a very snooty legal secretary named Peggy Follansbee, a twenty-three-year-old auburn-haired young woman who, coming from a wealthy family, had wacky ideas about the fight for Civil Rights and other things he just couldn't stomach. Even though she was one of the hottest pieces of cunt he had ever fucked, practically insatiable, he couldn't see himself marrying a girl like that and being tied down to someone who thought that "niggers ought to be kept in their place" and other equally stupid beliefs.
And so, when lovely Sally Durmont entered his office, he made some notes on a pad, but Sally would have blushed if she could have seen what he was writing. It read something like this: "Just about the sexiest brunette I've ever seen, and yet she doesn't wooze it out. She's just naturally gorgeous and she doesn't have any silly notions about what a looker she is, thank goodness. Hope she never learns. What a figure! Such titties, like big firm pears! Td just love to get my hands on them. And long sexy legs, and a slinky tail I could grab while I'm fucking her sweet hot box! I hope she isn't engaged or married, it would be a bad break. After sampling Peggy's pussy, I've realized that I've got to have regular fucking or I won't be able to concentrate on this private-eye job of mine at all."
"Mr. Wadsworth," Sally said earnestly, "I feel so helpless, I just don't know where to look for her. All I know is that her former boyfriend told me she would probably try to find a job in San Francisco. Now here's a snapshot of her."
Henry Wadsworth picked up the snapshot and stared at it. His prick began to ache. Two such gorgeous sisters in one family was a rarity. Either one of these girls would provide all the pussy any normal red-blooded young man could ever hope to get in a life-time of searching, he told himself. Personally, though, he leaned more towards Sally, if only because she was here and in the delicious flesh sitting right opposite his desk. Anyhow redheads were inclined to be unpredictable, and besides, from what Sally had just told him, Sally was older and really ripe for plucking-which meant fucking in his book.
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "I don't mind telling you, Miss Durmont, it's going to be really tough to find her. I mean, she's beautiful enough to attract a lot of attention, but if she's got a job in some little office and is living in one of those tiny apartments anywhere from here to Cliff House, you're really going to have a problem. Or rather, I am, since I'm taking the case. But I don't want to build up any false hopes, you know. Also, I don't want to run up the tab too high. I generally work for forty dollars a day and expenses."
"Oh dear!" Sally involuntarily exclaimed. "I-I couldn't afford to hire you for too long, Mr. Wadsworth, not at those prices. I know that we have some money in the bank, but half of that is Laura's, and I wouldn't feel right if I used any of it until I can find her and make sure she gets her rightful share."
"You're a very decent person, Miss Durmont, if I may be permitted to say so," the lanky private eye sincerely declared. "You tell me you've put an ad in the papers, here and in Oakland too? That's not a bad idea. What sort of work do you think she would go after?"
"I really don't know, Mr. Wadsworth." Sally shrugged helplessly. "Laura had two years of junior college, and I think she had a little bookkeeping and shorthand and general typing."
"I see. That doesn't tell us much. Of course, jobs are easy to get in this town, as you've probably found out for yourself from what you told me. She doesn't know anybody in this city, does she?"
"Oh no-at least I'm sure she doesn't. We don't have any relatives, and there just isn't reason, unless she happens to like San Francisco."
"A lot of people do just for the sourdough French bread," he grinned-likeably. "And you're sure she doesn't have a boyfriend?"
"I can't be sure of that, of course, Mr. Wadsworth," Sally Durmont said truthfully. "I know she broke up with this fellow Brad Tobler, and I don't like him either. He's the one that told me that he thought she was going here to find a job. Of course that's not positive proof."
"No it isn't. She might have gone to San Diego or even Palm Springs, for all we know." Once again he picked up the snapshot and stared at it as if trying to memorize the features of the en-chantingly lovely red-haired Laura Durmont. "Now I've got your address at the Gurlaine Hotel-are you going to stay there for a while?"
"Most-likely. The rates are low for the week, it's nicely located, and what I'm really going to try to do if it seems to take any time to find Laura, is to get me some sort of job."
"Hmm. Well, the thought occurs to me-" a brilliant idea had just leaped into the lanky private detective's head. "Look, I know that this sounds crazy, but would you consider doing some secretarial work for me? I have to go out a lot, and the last girl I had got married and I haven't had a chance to catch up with my paperwork, so I haven't had time to hire anybody from the agency. It wouldn't pay much, but that way I'd sort of be indebted to you and maybe I could handle this case a lot longer without costing you money. Think it over."
"Why, that's wondrously generous of you, Mr. Wadsworth! I can type a little, but I don't take shorthand."
"That won't be necessary. You've had some college, even if it's only Liberal Arts, and you've got a quick mind. Besides," he grinned again, "you'd help bring in clients just by sitting at the reception desk and looking gorgeous the way you do now."
Sally Durmont's face crimsoned at this extravagant compliment. "You-you're very flattering. I-I really would like to work for you. I think it would help keep my mind off worrying about poor Laura."
"Now you leave the worrying to me, Sally. Excuse me-but I guess I've just gotten into the habit of calling people by their first names because I'm the friendly kind."
"That's-that's fine, I don't mind that at all. When would you like me to come to work?"
"What about next Monday? Meanwhile, I'll be working on this and at an absolute minimum of cost to you, I promise." The lanky private eye rose from his desk and extended his hand to Sally with a warm smile. The touch of her hand on his sent new tremors of desire racing up and down his legs and hardening his prick. He hated to see her go, but he consoled himself that she would be back Monday and sitting right in this office taking calls and messages and maybe typing a few letters and sitting around to chew the fat with him when he came in for a hour or two off an assignment.
"Well, I haven't mentioned salary yet, Sally. Tell you what. All I could afford to pay would be about sixty bucks a week."
"Oh, that would be wonderful! I could live very nicely on that, just with my rent and my food. After all, I do have money in the bank, I don't want to mislead you, Mr. Wadsworth."
"Make it Henry, please."
"All-all right, H-Henry. I'll see you Monday about nine o'clock, then. And thank you ever so much, I'm most grateful!"
Again she shook hands with him, and her smile was radiant as she turned and left his office. Henry Wadsworth stood looking after her, then lit a cigarette and drew a long sigh. He was wondering if he had yielded to a foolish impulse. He was just barely making out after a couple of years in this business, and he needed just one good break. Maybe some case that would be sensational, maybe tracking down a missing embezzler or something like that, which would get him rave notices in the papers and draw new clients to his office. He wasn't really rich, and his parents had left him only a few thousand dollars. He'd worked hard most of his life and then there had been the war and he'd almost been killed by a Viet Cong sniper. But he was certainly glad to be alive, especially at the thought of being the boss of a delectable creamy-skinned black-haired dish like Sally Durmont. . . .
Ernestine Helms squatted down by the side of the naked, red-haired captive on the attic floor, the flexible wooden yardstick gripped in her right hand. Her eyes feasted on her victim's many whip marks, and she licked her lips with anticipation. Though only nineteen years old, Ernestine Helms knew practically every deviate way of making love and causing pain, as well as tantalizing both male and female sexual partners. She knew, for instance, that all she had to do was to slip off her playshorts and walk into Uncle Harold's bedroom right now and just stand close to him, and pretty soon he would wake up from his nap and he would want to fuck her. And of course she'd make him pay for it, and she'd tease him until he was half-crazy with wanting her, and then maybe she'd first make him kneel down and suck her cunt to get her in the mood. And then maybe she wouldn't give him pussy after all except what he had just had orally.
She grinned cruelly as she lifted the yardstick and brought it down with a solid Smack across the upper hip of the young woman lying in the crapaudine position. She was going to take the ball gag out pretty soon and listen to what this little bitch had to say. She was really curious as to who the girl was, where she had come from, and she knew that her name wasn't Vilma. She didn't think she was a native San Franciscan, either. She had a different kind of voice and accent, a different kind of style. Maybe she'd come from Los Angeles. Maybe she had a boyfriend around here and had come up to look for him. Whatever the reason was, Ernestine Helms was very glad that she had gone with Uncle Harold to the meeting of "Les Masques" the other night. And that reminded her; one of these days, when Uncle Harold wasn't around, she was going to telephone Dr. Helmuth Weirath and let him know that she would like very much to see him alone and at his convenience.
She put her left forefinger to her pussy and tickled it gently through the tight playshorts. She applied another Smack of the long yardstick over her victim's naked thigh. The girl on the floor stirred and moaned faintly. Ernestine Helms grinned wickedly back at her prey. She hadn't even begun to do all the lovely little things she was planning to do to this red-haired slut. She was going to make her kneel behind her and open up her bottom-cheeks and lick her little brownie and swear that she was going to be a good little slave-girl, or else.
Her left forefinger rubbed firmly now against her cleft, and she felt the lips gape and twitch. Her natural hair was a dark brown, but, knowing how much it excited Uncle Harold, she had shaved herself there so that the lips were pink and naked and tempting. She'd even put lipstick on to make them more alluring. He'd had to put it on one evening, and she'd made him put his hands behind his back and then tied them tightly. He'd had to take the lipstick in his teeth and paint her pussylips. She'd never forget that evening. How ridiculous he'd looked, practically frothing at the mouth in his desire to fuck her, his eyes rolling, sweat rolling down his face, as he'd stared at that soft tantalizing cunt of hers all bare and ready and yet not ready enough to be opened to his prick. And after he'd put on the lipstick, she'd rewarding him by telling him, "Now then, dear Uncle Harold, you can just gam me, and that's your reward tonight. And that's all, you hear?"
She could wind him around her little finger any time she wanted to, and she knew that after all he was almost in his sixties and wouldn't live too much longer. Then she'd inherit all his money and this lovely big house, and then she could really go to Dr. Weirath and maybe buy outright a slavebitch like this naked redhead on the floor.
As she became more and more excited, she began to spank the unfortunate young woman. The yardstick rose and fell with crisp noisy cracks all over the already marked flesh of the woman's thighs and behind. The captive struggled, trying to roll over, to twist herself away, but Ernestine pursued her. Then she stood up suddenly, and shoved the tip of the yardstick into the girl's hipbone and viciously dug with all her might. A pitiful wail faintly came through the ball gag.
"We're just going to have a lot of fun today, honey," she promised. "Now I'm going to take the ball gag out of your mouth, and you're going to tell me what your real name is and where you come from and everything you know about yourself. Because if you don't, I'm going to have Uncle Harold wake up from his nap and come up here and give you a real good hard spanking, and then I'm going to let him fuck you and bugger you all he wants, you understand?"
She knelt down again now, and removed the gag. Panting and groaning, the naked captive gasped out, "I won't tell you anything, I won't! You can kill me but I won't!"
"That's the spirit I love, honey," Ernestine crooned sadistically. "But never is an awfully long time. I'll lay you odds I make you change your mind before dinnertime. And here's something to start with."
She went over to a rickety little table, picked up an ice pick. Squatting down again, she began very lightly to jab at the captive's panting naked titties and belly and the insides of the young woman's thighs. Huddled together as she was in this torturing position, the red-haired beauty could not protect herself in any way. She could only cry out and groan and sob. Though Ernestine did not cut the flesh, for fully twenty minutes she amused herself by prodding the naked captive until the unfortunate victim was moaning, drowned in tears, her body jerking fitfully, and her lovely flesh marked everywhere with the angry little pink splotches of the ice pick.
CHAPTER V
Henry Wadsworth, the handsome, good-natured private eye who had just hired Sally Durmont to be his secretary after accepting her case and helping her find her missing sister Laura, had been heated up by the appearance of the beautiful creamy-skinned, black-haired young woman. It had reminded him that since his breakup with Peggy Follansbee, about three weeks ago, he hadn't had a piece of pussy at all. And the way Sally had walked out of his office, her lovely bottom undulating against her tight skirt, had left him with a very considerable hard-on. So that evening, he decided to accord himself a treat. First he had dinner at Grison's Steak House on the corner of Pacific and Van Ness Avenues. Grison's had the very finest beef in town, but it wasn't California beef. Out there, they served at the butcher shop what they called "Manteca," which simply meant that it was fed on grass or on whiskey mash, and what you have to do is cook it by steam, not by boiling. It was tough and unpalatable and expensive. Not that Henry felt that he was in the chips right now, but somehow he had a premonition that from now on in, everything was going to turn up roses for him. Sally's unexpected appearance in his office had given him that very inspiration.
But the trouble was finding pussy when you wanted it, not when you could get it. With Peggy, that Southern bitch had been prone to stand in front of him, wearing just her bra and panties, her arms around his neck, arguing that he was a damned fool to stand up for "Niggers" and "Jew-boys," and all the time she was rubbing her crotch up against his crotch and driving him crazy. Up until their breakup, he had tried to be practical and realistic about the matter. He knew she wanted it as badly as badly as he did, so he had just shrugged and said that maybe he would learn, and finally he had talked his way into getting her to take off those panties and give him pussy.
What he really wanted to do and never had had the guts to do it, was to take her over his lap, pull those panties down and spank that sweet ass of Peggy's until she howled and apologized for all her nasty racist cracks. There was enough trouble in the world without having a pretty girl add to it by mouthing lies and ancient prejudices which she had probably picked up in school or maybe even from her parents without realizing the implications of them. If people would be more careful about what they said, this might be a better world in which to live.
But that was enough philosophy tonight for Henry Wadsworth. After enjoying a magnificent steak, a bottle of wine, some cheese shortcake covered with strawberries and two cups of scalding black coffee and a strong Havana cigar, he walked out into the foggy night of San Francisco and looked around hopefully. Naturally he didn't expect to see a hooker walking along the street. The police had just about run those out of town. But there was one place, he knew, where he might just be lucky enough to get a tip that would lead him to a girl's apartment, and that girl would be working for the syndicate and he would have to pay for it, but he needed it bad right now. His prick was already aching fit to kill, just remembering how Sally had looked, so hopeful and grateful, when he told her he was going to hire her while at the same time working on her sister's case and not costing her all the money she had left.
Then he thought of a still better idea. He had a contact, a florist named Rudy Chipender. Rudy had a little shop over on Judah, near Ninth Avenue. Rudy was almost bald, short, with a constant twang to his voice, and when he wasn't selling flowers, he was in the back of his shop playing a guitar and trying to make up a song which he hoped one day would make him famous and get him out of the rut of penny sales and nasty customers who always wanted something he didn't have and didn't have the money to pay for what he did have.
Rudy owed him a few favors. A gang of toughs had tried to break up Rudy's store about a month ago, and he had been passing by and had had a blackjack in his pocket from another case in which he had almost gotten mugged himself by the angry lover of the wife whose husband was paying him to track her down and catch the two of them being naughty together so he could get a divorce and marry his secretary. It was a nice cosh, as the English called it, and he had got it from some wino on Mission Street for the price of a bottle of cheap muscatel. It had come in very handy, especially in a dark alley on a foggy night like this.
So he had gone into the store and routed two of the hoodlums and the others had run away, and Rudy had been almost weepingly grateful. He had said that if ever Henry needed a favor, just call on him.
Well, tonight was the night. He needed a favor very badly. He needed to be steered to a willing girl with warm and yet muscular thighs who could house his hard-on and haul his ashes and leave him with a certain peace of mind he had lost ever since Sally Durmont had entered his office.
Rudy was just closing up to put out the "gone to supper" sign when Henry Wadsworth walked in, puffing at a cigar. Rudy always ate late, because there was last-minute business for newspapers, which he also handled as well as flowers, and Henry suspected that Rudy ran a bookie joint on the side. It was true. Rudy had a friend downtown on Turk Street who worked upstairs of a massage parlor and rented a little cubbyhole with a couple of phone lines to the tracks. Rudy got two percent commission for all the bets he took in, and every bit helped, what with rent going up the way it did.
"Come on, I'll buy you a hamburger and coffee, Rudy," he greeted the bald little florist. "I want to talk to you anyway."
"Sure, Henry, anytime. Gosh, I still can't get over how you made all those hoodlums leave my store. I'll bet they were armed. What if they'd had guns and knives?"
Henry Wadsworth shrugged good-naturedly. "Then I might not be here to buy you a hamburger and coffee, that's all. Come on, dope, time's a'-wasting!"
Two blocks down on Parnassus, there was a little Italian all night restaurant, and soon Henry and Rudy were installed in a booth at the back. Rudy sighed nostalgically as the cute little black-haired waitress took their order and hurried toward the kitchen. Her bottom-cheeks were jiggling under the tight black short satin skirt that she wore, and her saucily rounded calves jiggled too. "Man, what wouldn't I give for a roll in the hay with that one!" Rudy was saying.
"Friend, you've touched on a nerve," Henry chuckled. "You remember you promised me a favor?"
"Just ask it, Henry, you've got it."
"All right. I know this sounds as if I'm trying to make you out to be a pimp, but what I need right now is a girl. I've got the hots, Rudy, and
I've got them bad. Some girl came in from Los Angeles, wanted me to find a missing sister. Thinks there might be foul play or something like that. I wound up hiring her."
"You dope!"
"Oh no, she's got dough in the bank. Half of it belonged to her sister, though, and the bank doesn't really want to divey it up until they find her. That's part of my job. The other part is, with a girl like that around me all the time, I might just get the notion to make it something permanent. Is she a looker!"
"So because she's a looker, you got a hard-on and you want your ashes hauled, is that it, Henry?"
"Rudy, you oughtn't have been a florist, but a mind reader with a crystal ball," Henry Wadsworth laughed as he offered his friend a cigar. "Now listen, I'm serious. I'm really hot. You remember Peggy? Well, that was a long time ago and I haven't had a piece since. Know anybody who could be available?"
"Most of it's paid stuff," Rudy complained. "But wait a minute, there's just one girl I know, she's in the shop a couple of times, I know she's a hooker. Only she's not a streetwalker, don't misunderstand me. I'm pretty sure she happened to mention that she lived in some nice new building down on Green Street near Van Ness. Her name's Rose. On the bell it's R. Marks."
"You're a lifesaver, Rudy," Henry Wadsworth chuckled as he rose, crushing out his own cigar. "I better get cutting because she might just be dated for the rest of the night. Here, I'll take that check, I told you I would."
"Thanks a lot, Henry," Rudy Chipender called gratefully after him. But Henry Wadsworth had already paid his check and was walking swiftly out of the restaurant in search of a cab that would take him to Green Street and Rose Marks.. . . .
He was in great good luck. The apartment was a five-story and reasonably new building, not too far from the Marina District where all the rich swells lived. He had rung her doorbell, and after a minute a voice filtered down to him, "who is it?" He had called back, "Business, and I'm heeled." That had been the magic password. The buzzer had sounded, he had gone up on the self-service elevator, and now he was inside Rose Marks' apartment. She was wearing just a blue satin quilt robe and flurry blue mules to match. She was also delicious. Even though her dark-brown eyes showed a kind of boredom with the world because of her ancient profession. She couldn't have been more than about twenty-four, and she had a gorgeous figure. The quilt hugged it, shaped it out. Her titties were widely spaced, almost great big pears. Her bottom was enticing, with widely oval, firm cheeks and a quite sinuous crease between them. She wore a hairpiece and it seemed to match the rest of her naturally chestnut hair, but he wasn't so fond of that. Henry loved to run his fingers through a girl's hair-now Peggy, for one, had had really wonderful long hair. It was an advantage too for the male when he was wooing a girl. All he had to do was grab her by the hair and drag her off to bed for a fuck when the argument got too heated. The only trouble was, he hadn't practiced what he preached so far as Peggy was concerned.
"I don't know you, Mister," Rose Marks's face seemed to freeze and her eyes were colder than ever.
"There's a fellow by the name of Rudy, a florist, an old buddy of mine," he began.
"Oh yes, him! Well, you're lucky, I'm not booked for the next hour. How do you want it, straight, or French or maybe even a little Greek culture?"
"Let's play it straight to start with." Henry Wadsworth dove out his wallet, made a few mental calculations, and then took out three twenty-dollar bills. "Will this cover for an hour or so?"
"I'm pretty sure it will. If I need more, I'll just ask you," was her practical answer.
Henry Wadsworth laughed. He liked this girl, she was open and honest and aboveboard.
"Or maybe," she went on as she held out a pack of Pall Malls to him, "you'd like to get your kicks by spanking my butt. Or maybe my spanking yours."
"No thanks, but I'll save that idea for future reference," he said good-naturedly.
You know, Mister, I don't think that all the kooks are up in Los Angeles. I think a few of 'em have drifted down here. Do you know, last week, I had a couple of wealthy Johns, both the same time, they paid me double. They wanted to double hole me as I stood between them. So I let them. But they started to talk about a certain special house out in Oakland, something with Masks to it-I didn't get it all. Seems they could go there and get just about anything in the world they wanted and they didn't even have to pay for it, except dues. And there they said they could whip girls whenever they wanted to."
Henry Wadsworth felt his heart beat to bursting point. This was really his lucky day. A brilliant idea just entered his head. If there were organizations which practiced white slavery, what was to prevent them taking advantage of a naive young girl who didn't know her way around San Francisco and of luring her to work at the place they were hiding out at just to get their hands on her. Stranger things than that happened in the detective business.
"You know, Rose, you're really terrific. Until I got up here, I didn't really realize how much. Will this help me realize it more?" he asked now as he again took out his wallet and added two more twenties.
"Honey, for this sort of dough, I'll lock and bolt the door and nobody will come in, not even the Mayor, till midnight. That do you any good?"
"We can only try," he chuckled. A few minutes later, Rose had shed her bra and panty set, and stood in just a black narrow satin-elastic garter-belt whose narrow tabs clung lovingly to the tops of her black opera-length mesh hose.
"Tell me about those customers you had, the ones who talked about a club and masks," he urged as he stretched on his side before her, his hands going at once to her bare titties and beginning to love them up.
"I didn't get too much, see, Mister? The one fellow was sort of old and the other was sort of young, and they were talking something about letting a girl go on and not worry about anything, and then one night to take her down in the rec room and give her the works and see just what made her tick."
"Masks," he repeated. It was bothering him. Because he had a blinding hunch that here he was on to something, on the track that would lead him to Laura Durmont. "I don't suppose they mentioned their names or where they lived?"
"Well, one fellow's name was Bruno, I know he must have been a Nazi, the way he talked about how wonderful Hitler was for the German people. I almost spat right in his face. Only that I'd been in the hospital with the flu and I had a lot of expenses, you understand?"
Henry Wadsworth stood up, took out his wallet from his trousers pocket, the trousers having been neatly draped over a chair beside the bed, and took out still another twenty-dollar bill which he laid on the top of the table. "That's for you, Rose baby. Now try and see if you can't remember something about those guys. Their names or what they were doing or whatever. It's really important."
She studied him a moment. "You know, I think you're telling the truth. All right. I guess maybe either the fellows related or they knew themselves from business or something, but anyway the older fellows was saying that Friday nights were really big in Oakland and that some doctor-darn it-I can't remember his name. I'd remember it in a minute because it's so unusual, if somebody only said it."
"What about this doctor?"
"Well, he owns the house. And he has also some cute girls down there in that house, wherever it is, and from what I gathered, the older fellow said that those girls could give them whatever they wanted and it was funny to have to pay for pussy in a place like this. That sort of got me mad. Oh, they paid me good, but there was a messy bother to the whole deal. Now who are you trying to find, cop?"
"I'm not a cop, Rose, I'm a private eye." His hands fondled her big opulent naked titties and he exchanged a long passionate kiss with her.
"You sure you couldn't remember this doctor's name they were talking about?" he pursued. Rose Marks shook her head, then reached out her hand and took his prick and cuddled it gently in her soft warm palm. "For the life of me I can't right now. You show me a phone book and say some names, though, I bet I could get it right off. It's unusual," she murmured.
"My gosh!" Henry Wadsworth gasped as he sprang up out of bed, naked except in socks though he was, and hurried over to the telephone table. Rose sat up, frowning at him: "What the hell are you doing, honey? Don't you want pussy?"
"Later. Pussy I can always get. But I want a fellow that has stolen a kidnapped girl-and she's probably a virgin."
"Lot's of luck," Rose said sarcastically.
Henry Wadsworth had picked up the classified section of the Oakland phone directory and was thumbing through the yellow pages for "Physicians." His practiced eyes ran down the columns, looking for unusual names. As it chanced, Dr. Helmuth Weirath had, out of his own ego, had himself listed under that category as well as under the heading "Psychiatrist," otherwise it is theoretically possible that Henry Wadsworth's luck wouldn't have been recorded on this particular night in Rose Marks's pad. Suddenly he stopped, put his thumb against a name, and turned to the naked call girl. "Hey, baby-how does this sound-Dr. Helmuth Weirath."
'That's it! Now I remember, it was so foreign-that's it-how in the world did you pick it?"
"From your lots of luck wish, that's how. And baby, just for that, not only are you going to get the fucking of your sweet young life, but I shouldn't at all be surprised if you earned a little tip besides. Get yourself ready, I can feel myself ready to burst!" Grinning from ear to ear, he strode masterfully towards the bed.
CHAPTER VI
Henry Wadsworth, after he had mentioned the name of Dr. Helmuth Weirath to the call girl Rose who had identified it as one of two clients she had overheard talking about orgies and the like, rewarded her memory-and himself as well with a furiously prolonged and gloriously satisfying fuck. Even Rose herself was astonished at his energy and happiness. Most of the times, a man went to a prostitute to cry on her shoulder, to tell her about his troubles, to be babied and pampered, made to feel important and finally to get himself enough of a hard-on to be able to do a man's duty in bed. But Henry had gone at her with all the zest and gusto of a man who had been on a desert island for ten years and was seeing his first piece of pussy.
In fact, so ardent was he that he actually succeeded in making her come twice under him before he finally burst his bubbling essence deep into her quaking cunt.
As they lay side by side, exchanging a cigarette between them, Rose gasped and patted his cheek. "Honey, you're simply wonderful! That's the first time I've come with a John in over two years, did you know that?"
"Maybe we can set a new record tonight, baby, I feel wonderful myself. And thanks to you, I feel like a new man besides," he said gratefully.
"What's it all about? Mind letting me in on the secret?" she smilingly asked.
"No." He took a puff of the cigarette, then handed it back to her. "You see, Rosie, I'm a private eye. Usually it's a lousy job, maybe trying to get evidence on some poor jerk who's playing around a little because his wife won't give him enough, and she, the jealous bitch, wants every cent he's got and so she hires me to get the goods on him. Oh sure, I get money, but sometimes I feel dirty. But this time, I get a chance to help a perfectly gorgeous gal who's looking for a missing sister. And what you told me, sort of gives me a crazy idea. It's worth looking into anyhow."
"What kind, honey?"
"I can't say too much about it yet. Anyhow, you've heard about white slavery, haven't you."
"Sure. Who hasn't?"
"Well, this is a highly specialized kind, Rosie, somewhat out of your class and mine. I mean, I figure it has to be some rich guy who's got wads of dough, maybe a house way out in the sticks. Where nobody bothers him, enough of a reputation so the law wouldn't even think of going out his way to check on a parking ticket he got. Now this guy, I figure, might have a lot of rich friends who want to get kicks not just from screwing the way you and I did-which is damn good, don't misunderstand me. But some customers like to have a girl whipped, don't they?"
Rose shivered, nodded. "You said it," she said hoarsely, "I can remember a guy when I started this thing about six years ago, paid my boss-my pimp then-an extra fifty bucks to tie me up and bend me over a couch and lace into my ass with his belt. He just about killed me, and then the dirty bastard browned me on top of it, and he did it dry. Oh brother!"
"Sure. He was a sadist, he got his fun out of hurting you and making you cry because you didn't want to do anything like that," Henry Wadsworth agreed. "And that's exactly the point here, honey. Now let's suppose this rich guy we don't know about has got his friends and he's got his house and his protection and his money. Let's suppose they have to find girls to get their kicks from. Maybe they kidnap them. Or they advertise in the papers that they want a secretary or something, and first thing you know some poor out-of-town girl takes the bait, then she's hooked. She disappears, and nobody ever finds her. Why hell, they could even sell her all around their club where everybody has her. And people that rich can kill people too without leaving a trace."
"Brrrrr!" Rose shivered. She took a last puff of the cigarette stub, reached over and crushed it out, and then turned to him. "Fuck me again, lover," she whispered. "You've made me all chilly telling me things like that. Give it to me hard, see if you can't make me cream again. It'll be on the house!"
* * *
Henry Wadsworth left the call girl's apartment whistling a merry tune and feeling better than he had in months, ever since the naggingly harassing arguments with Peggy Follansbee in trying to coax her into bed without having a longwinded argument about his ethnic beliefs. The theory which he had thought out loud about while making love to Rose Marks sounded like one of those lurid paperback novels flooding the newsstands these days, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it could make. There wasn't any doubt that there were plenty of well-heeled people in this country who figured that money could buy anything, most of all pussy. Men who were powerful enough and with a good enough reputation to ride roughshod over the little people's feelings, and who could arrange for a price to have a girl kidnapped or to drug her and then make her do all sorts of carnal submissions which in her right mind she wouldn't even think of doing. It was possible for a lovely girl-and if Laura was as lovely as that snapshot, it made the idea even more plausible-to come to a big city like San Francisco and simply vanish without a trace.
To be sure, this was the twentieth century, and you didn't have to worry about the yellow fiends of Chinatown abducting girls once they got into a Chinese restaurant and smuggling them down into the cellar, drugging them and blindfolding and gagging them and shipping them off to some whore house for the pleasure of the wealthy mandarins. That was back in the days of Sax Rohmer. But all you had to do was to read some of the kooky magazines about leather clubs and spanking swapping clubs, and you had a pretty good idea of what could really happen if some innocent broad went for a modeling job or maybe worked as a servant for some rich bitch who was actually a secret member of a cult. Such a girl could easily disappear and nobody would think twice. And since Laura had quarreled with her stepfather and left Los Angeles without telling anybody where she was going except maybe that boyfriend Brad Tobler, the chances were very good that she had got herself involved with something offbeat.
He had copied down the phone and address of Dr. Helmuth Weirath from the book in Rose's apartment, and he now looked at it to refresh his memory. It might not do any harm to go pay this doctor a visit and get the lay of the land . . .
Dr. Helmuth Weirath chuckled softly as he opened the mail which his pert, saucy-featured coppery-red-haired secretary Jan Caldwell had just handed him. At fifty-six, he enjoyed remarkably good health and vitality-as all too many of the young women who had been brought to his luxurious house could testify, if they ever had the opportunity of so doing. He was about five feet eleven inches in height, with sparse gray hair, and his face was that of a sensualist. It was a broad nose with fleshy wings, an even fleshier mouth, and a short Van Dyke beard which he kept meticulously groomed. He wore a gray tweed suit and his spectacles, which he used only for reading, for his vision was remarkably clear, especially when he was on the stage at a performance of "Les Masques" examining the naked flesh of a trembling captive who was about to be punished or tortured for the pleasure of the esoteric cult audience.
Despite her fresh and almost ingenuous beauty, Jan Caldwell was in her way depraved as he. She had become his secretary about three years ago, fresh out of a women's college at Berkeley. Now twenty-four, she was virtually his right-hand aide. Through her efforts, indeed, had come several of the choicest girls who were compelled to agonize upon that stage in front of the masked cult members.
Jan Caldwell had been an only child, and her parents had separated, leaving her with her father in San Francisco. He had died when she was eighteen, but left sufficient money for her schooling and a considerable amount to tide her over in the days when she should be looking for a job. Consequently, she had decided not to take any kind of job with a boring nine-to-five routine, but rather something that would be a mental challenge and be interesting and stimulating. So when Dr. Weirath had advertised in the Oakland and San Francisco newspapers for a private secretary who was familiar with French and who enjoyed initiative and responsibility, she had written a letter in such an impertinent vein that he had at once called her for an interview. He had hired her over ten other quite as attractive and capable applicants so because he recognized a kind of hidden sensual quality which he felt certain that he personally could exploit for his own lascivious pleasures.
He was unerringly right, and after all, having been a practicing psychiatrist for a good number of years before his retirement which was at that time impending, he understood that Jan Caldwell was basically amoral and as lustful in her way as he himself.
At the time he had hired Jan Caldwell, Dr. Weirath had been contemplating the founding of his secret society for sybarites, as he was pleased to call it in an alliterative fashion. "Sybarites" meant those who devoted their lives to pleasure to the exclusion of all else, and that was precisely what he meant. As a psychiatrist first in Vienna and then in San Francisco, he had established an imposing practice, and many of his patients were neurotic women and even adolescent girls who really needed sexual adjustment more than mental analysis. Carefully and discreetly, he had been able to have a few burningly exciting affairs with some of these passionate but thwarted women. And then the thought had occurred to him of going back to the Middle Ages or maybe to the Roman era, or to have something like the famous "Hell-fire Club" in which the females would serve as slaves and be compelled under bondage and a whip and all kinds of humiliations to be the most abject sexual slaves it was possible to turn them into. It would take money, and he had enough, and there were other men, he was certain, and women too, Lesbians who would not go out cruising into the night to find a temporary bed partner
SI but who would on the other hand pay a great deal to purchase a sensitive and cultured young female whom they could train to their vicious desires.
Thus "Les Masques" had begun, in a very small way, with only two or three of his closest friends whom he had carefully sounded out in advance to guarantee their trustworthiness and also their financial backing. And now after two short years, there were some seventy-five paying members, each of whom paid a minimum of five thousand dollars a year. This fee gave them the privilege of attending all sessions of "Les Masques" and of enjoying with active participation the lustful pleasures provided. It gave them also a voice in determining what events should be scheduled for future meetings, and then there were other tariffs imposed for the acquisition of new slaves. This was dangerous and it was also expensive.
Since his practice gave him access to all kinds of drugs on prescription without question, and since he had experimented with hypnotic and drug techniques for several years in Vienna and in San Francisco as well, Dr. Weirath was thus able to take a perfectly innocent and trusting young girl and so affect her mind and body that she would be a submissive slave without any danger of reporting to the authorities what had been done to her. A number of wealthy young girls had fallen into the hands of the members of "Les Masques," and all of them had been hypnotized into writing deeds of trust which gave their estates to Dr. Weirath or which separated themselves permanently from their families. He was always careful in dealing with such prizes to choose those who had no living parents but perhaps only relatives who were disinterested or themselves financially independent and cared nothing for their nieces or cousins, as the case might be.
His liaison with Jan Caldwell had begun about four months after her employment. That was at the stage when he was considering turning his house into the magnificently furnished retreat for domination and bondage and lustful coercion which it had now become. He knew, for one thing, that Jan was not a virgin, for she had blithely told him after about the first month of her association with him that she had had an experimental affair with a young college senior from the University of California, simply because she wanted to rid herself of the old fashioned symbol of "virginity that's outmoded," as she put it. Since she was on her own and had her own apartment, seduction was easy. Besides, he was magnetic, with a soft voice, persuasive manner, and an exceptional lovemaking technique which had won many a far more mature and emotionally stable person than Jan Caldwell.
So, one rainy March evening, when he had kept her working overtime preparing some carefully worded letters to these first trustworthy associates of his whom he thought would make excellent material for membership in his proposed erotic society, he had offered to take Jan to dinner at Ernie's, that swanky restaurant of great cuisine in San Francisco. They had dined sumptuously on a rack of lamb and a superlative salad, and then crepes suzette, abetted by a bottle of vintage
Clos de Vougeot. After dinner, Jan had turned to him and asked him, "Wouldn't you like to come up to my place for a nightcap, Doctor?"
"I should indeed, very much, Jan," he had chuckled.
Her apartment was near the downtown park area of Oakland, a pleasant little one-and-a-half efficiency which she kept immaculate. She had a cherry wood secretary left her by her mother in which she kept most of her books. He observed several that were rather racy, which confirmed his private opinion that Jan Caldwell was really top-rate bed material. And so, after an excellent brandy which she gave him, he walked over to the secretary, opened the glass doors, and took out the spiciest of these books, which happened to be "The Story of O." Walking back to the couch, he smiled at her and showed her the book and said, "This is even better than the original French, my dear."
"I know, I've read it. I got it at college, but I lost my copy so this has to do."
"What do you think of the heroine, Jan?"
"I can understand her," she had said, looking up at him through serenely limpid dark-blue eyes. He sat down beside her, and then he said, "What would you say, Jan, if I were to tell you that I have been dreaming about a kind of secret club in which cultured and quite wealthy men and women would mingle, served by girls such as this masochistic O?"
"It sounds fascinating!" she had replied. "I don't think I'd want to be one of those girls, though. I mean, I don't think I'd like to be a slave to all the men. Maybe just one.'
"Just one," he echoed. "Someone who understands you and can cater to your needs, I have no doubt."
He was very close to her now, and their eyes met and held a long, significant gaze. "Yes," she breathed.
"Such as myself, perhaps?" he had ventured.
Her lips had formed the word "Yes" without uttering it. And then there was no need to utter any more words, because his fleshy lips had come gently on hers, his hands had pressed against her shoulders, drawing her gently to him, and he gave her a kiss of lingering and high-charged sensuality.
Before it was over, she was quivering violently, and her arms had clutched him tightly and then her pert pink tongue had suddenly thrust between his lips.
He knew that she was consenting. His left hand moved to her pear-shaped tittie, fondling it through her dress and bra. Jan moaned, "Oh yes, oh yes, my darling!" and he knew that he was dealing with as passionate a female as he had ever fucked.
But being the master of psychiatry that he was, Dr. Helmuth Weirath was in no hurry to savor all Jan's exquisite charms. His hand gently rubbed over her nipples till he could feel them harden through her clothes, and his other hand caressed her knees and thighs over her dress until he could feel her molten with desire, quivering uncontrollably and wanting to be possessed.
Then delicately his own tongue joined hers, and she moaned feverishly in her ecstasy. He could feel her fingernails dig into the back of his neck, and her eyes were starry and hugely widened, the delicate wings of her nostrils flaring and shrinking.
Delicately again, he lifted her skirt and the lace-trimmed petticoat beneath it, furling them up to her waist, exposing long, beautifully sculptured thighs and high-set, sensuously chiseled calves sheathed in smoke-colored nylon hose of the very finest gauge and denier. Keeping his left hand on her panting tittie, he put his right hand now on her stockinged legs and began to stroke them very slowly and very evanescently. Jan was now in a frenzy of desire, and her muscles flexed furiously under his caress. He observed that she was wearing panties and a garter belt, and so he gently put both hands to her panties and she at once arched up with a moan of "Oh Doctor darling, yes, oh yes!"
Her panties were snugged down to her lower thighs, and he could see the thick dark-red curls of her bush. But although she believed he was about to fuck her, Dr. Helmuth Weirath intended to bring her to the absolute crux of lust and uninhibited passion by showing his understanding of her female yearnings.
Swiftly he knelt down, his hands on her stockinged knees, pressing them widely apart. Then, as she leaned back against the couch, her eyes closed, her fingernails dug into the upholstery of the couch, he plunged his face between her straddled legs, and his tongue thrust between the soft lips of her cunt to find the nodule of her clitoris.
"Ahhhhh, oh God, oh Helmuth, oh that's so
ST good-oh my darling-oh I knew you were going to be the one for me-oh Helmuth, yes, I want to be your slave-oh don't stop-you're driving me wild-oh I love it, darling, oh darling, yes, yes, more, more!" she panted.
Her bottom squirmed frantically, and now his hands moved under the naked cheeks to grip them and to hold her tightly as he kept frigging her with his tongue. Sometimes his tongue moved away from the stiffened button of her clit to rim the palpitating pink lips of her avid cunthole. She was whimpering and sobbing now, almost hysterical with yearning, her titties rising and falling violently against the bodice of her dress.
But when he sensed that she was at the moment of climax, he rose, and stood smiling down at her.
"Oh don't-don't leave me like this-oh have me, Helmuth, fuck, oh my God, I want you to fuck me!" he heard her groan.
He had waited for that. It was her acquiescence to his lust, and it had to come of her own free will before he could be sure that Jan Caldwell could be his puppet and his aide.
He stooped, lifted her up, snugged her panties off and let them drop upon the floor, as he carried her over to a long lounge chair. Jan, shuddering with desire, felt mildly surprised that he had not concluded their lovemaking there on the couch which she used as her bed, But instead, he stretched her out on the lounge chair and then began to undress. His body was hairy, but also wiry and superbly vigorous for his age. He was like a satyr, and his prick was enormously turgid, long, almost bony-looking, with an elongated head that thrust out from the wide, shallow circumcisional groove.
Now swiftly he undressed her, pulling off her outer garments, leaving her only in her bra and garter belt and hose, removing even her pumps. Then, kneeling down on the couch, he lifted her stockinged legs and draped them over his shoulders, his hands squeezing her lithe, resilient hips and began to gamahuch her again, tantalizing her by withdrawing his tongue and rubbing against the insides of her thighs down to her knees and back even over the stockings. Jan Caldwell threshed about in a perfect frenzy of lust, her eyes glazed and exorbitant, sobbing groans exuding from her panting mouth.
In his right hand he had clutched a French-tickler condom, and he now adjusted it, without her seeing. Then, moving forward, perching her knees back up against her titties, he thrust himself with a single dig to the very balls inside her cunt.
Jan Caldwell nearly went wild in her frantic ecstasy. Her rising scream denoted the most avid rapture. She drummed her stockinged heels against his back and shoulders, her head turning this way and that, and raked at him with her fingernails. His mouth crushed hers, and then he began to fuck her with long and slow and artful digs until she had at least three orgasms before he finally liberated her with a torrential gush of his own gism.
Now she had become his creature, his confidante, and it was she indeed who had coaxed a girl with equally lovely coppery-red hair to come to work for Dr. Helmuth Weirath and from there to go out upon the stage before the members of "Les Masques." A girl who had run away from her home and, too had rebelled against her stepfather. A girl who, unaccountably, had refused to give her right name-which was all the more advantageous for Dr. Helmuth Weirath and his depraved associates.
CHAPTER VII
Dr. Helmuth Weirath looked up from the letters which he had unfolded and read, and smiled at his lovely red-haired secretary Jan Caldwell. "Very satisfactory returns to our last prospectus, Jan, I'd say," he chuckled.
"They do seem rather good, don't they, Helmuth darling?"
"Well, you deserve some of the credit, my dear." His left hand slyly reached out and caressed the voluptuous curve of one of her firm bottom-cheeks. Jan shivered, closed her eyes and moved just a little closer to give him complete access. "Yes, I really think you need a bonus, Jan," he went on. "The way you wrote that up was certainly mouthwatering. If I'd been a novice at the field waiting for the chance to meet people with my same interests and to watch exciting spectacles, I don't think I could have been any more stirred than I was when I read your letter and pretended to know nothing about this entire business."
"That's a very nice compliment, Helmuth. I do try to please."
"I know you do, my dear. I'm very fond of you. You know, it's amazing in some ways how much you have a-likeness to that lovely girl who was so stubborn last week. You remember her, the one who came from Los Angeles and answered your personal ad in the Oakland Tribune for a personal secretary?"
"It is uncanny, Helmuth."
His hand went on stroking her behind, and Jan Caldwell began to quiver and breathe more quickly now. while her face became flushed. Her eyes were closed, but her eyelids fluttered, and the wings of her dainty nose began to flair and to shrink, a sign that she was becoming emotionally stirred by his languorous manipulations. "In fact," he murmured, "for a moment there when that girl was on the stage, Jan, I almost thought it was you. And it was very exciting."
"You mean you'd like to have me as your slave, Helmuth? I think I am that already."
"Only psychologically, my dear. You haven't yet gratified me by demonstrating that you are willing to accept a semblance and the decor of servitude. It's a little thing, but it would be a wonderful proof of your loyalty to me. You are fond of me, aren't you?" At this point, his left hand moved around her side and haunch, and came to rest against her lower abdomen. Jan Caldwell uttered a stifled moan, and bit her lips, putting one palm on the desk to steady herself.
"Think it over, my dear," he went on in his most persuasive voice. "I think it would mean a wonderful new change in our relationship. And I am certain you would enjoy it as much as I should."
"You-you aren't going to take me out there on the stage and auction me to any of your friends or customers, are you, Helmuth?"
"What an incredible idea! After all that has gone on between us, my darling? I shouldn't be very thoughtful if I did that, should I? But don't have any worries, You're the girl I most depend upon, the only one I can trust, the only one I accept as an equal. That's why I don't see why it should be such a problem for you to agree to my proposal. The benefits you would derive would be enormous, and I should certainly show my gratitude in many tangible ways."
"Very well, Helmuth." Once again Jan Caldwell shivered, and by now she had both palms pressed down on the desk to balance herself. She opened her eyes with an effort and stared at his smiling face. His eyes were lecherous and gleaming, and she knew that he was excited at the prospect of seeing her in the costume of bondage and slavery. "Would it please you, Helmuth, if I did it right now?" she asked in a faltering voice."
"Enormously, my dear! And you would have a proof of my gratitude almost at once."
"Then-I'll do what you want. May I-may I be excused for a few minutes so I can come back dressed the way you want to see me?"
"Of course, my dear. I'll just enjoy a good cigar and think about the program for the next few minutes. Surprise me!" he smiled with a soft chuckle.
He leaned back in his swivel chair, puffing at his cigar, his eyes closed, his face serene as he contemplated the future. It was indeed very bright. It would also be financially magnificent. There were at least five new member applicants eager and willing to pay an extraordinarily large fee for the privilege of being accepted as guests and on probationary rank for the customary three weeks until all their references could be cleared and they themselves could have shown their congeniality to the group. There were always more applicants than there were openings for membership, he knew.
Yes, Jan Caldwell had been very valuable to him. But just the same, there was a wealthy amateur in Houston, Texas who was very anxious to buy a beautiful red-haired slave. Just supposing that he were to sell her, he would certainly get at least twenty-five thousand dollars-that was what the man had talked to him about on the phone yesterday morning. And it had been a good thing that Jan Caldwell hadn't been around at the time to intercept or eavesdrop on that call, or she would have discovered that her magnetic and dynamic lover was also a traducer.
Because Dr. Helmuth Weirath was very seriously thinking of considering that offer. Also, of inviting its maker to the next session of "Les Masques." What delicious irony it would be to have beautiful and gifted and intelligent Jan Caldwell up there on the stage with the spotlight beaming down on her, perhaps wearing only a bra, gauzy black nylon hose, and pumps. And to stand there as master of ceremonies wearing only a black satin robe and holding a whip, and making her strip absolutely naked and then go exhibit herself to any potential buyer-that would be paradise itself.
He had nearly finished his cigar when the door on his left which led to Jan Caldwell's own private office opened, and his red-haired secretary walked slowly in. She was blushing, her eyes were downcast, and her hands were clenched like fists at her side.
He held off opening his eyes so as to prolong the moment till the very last, like the true voluptuary he was. And then he had to gasp. Jan in her slavery costume was maddeningly enticing. She had put a gold slave collar around her neck, which had a soft ring at the front to which if need be a hook-on leash could be snapped. She wore a black leather sleeveless tunic, which took her from the throat down to the waist and very snugly. To cover her pussy, she wore a pair of black rubber panties, skin-tight and shaping out her behind in the most lascivious way, and then she wore black opera-length mesh hose high on her thighs, held up by tiny tabs which hooked to the thin rubber sheet of her panty tights. These were scandalously brief at the crotch, permitting the full length of the diaphanous stocking to be seen and appreciated by his glittering eyes.
And finally, Jan Caldwell had put on a pair of slave bracelets and anklets. Which were united together by a short chains to permit her to lay her arms down in front of her and to walk with tiny steps.
"You're magnificent," he breathed. "I've never seen submission expressed so well before. You should make a fortune posing for magazines in the field."
"No thanks, Helmuth. I'd rather pose for you and satisfy you. So long as you still desire me, that's all I live for." Now, in a kind of excess of masochism, Jan Caldwell suddenly went down on her knees, circled his crossed legs with her arms, and panted, "I've been awfully naughty, master! I think I ought to be punished."
She had knelt down now, leaning to him, and extended her shackled arms. On her face was a look of absolute submission. He thrilled to it.
"I don't recall you've done anything bad, Jan," he said studiedly.
"Oh, but I have! I mean, I'm jealous, I don't want you to take up with any other girl, and I don't like the way you sometimes ogle those married women members from the stage. Of course I haven't any right to think such thoughts because I can't marry you."
"Yes, those are possessive thoughts, and a slave shouldn't have them, I agree," he said sternly. "Will you leave the punishment to me or do you have some special suggestion, my new slave?"
She shivered, lowered her eye, and suddenly pressed her cheek against his leg. "I leave everything to you, my master," she said.
"Very good. Over there is a filing cabinet, as you know. It has a pair of doors which close it when we leave the office and make it look like a secretary rather than a cabinet. Suppose you go over there, open it up and in the second drawer you will find an old-fashioned wooden hairbrush. You're tall enough so you can just bend down and pick up the handle with your teeth and bring it over her to me and then tell me what you want to do with it. Of course you'll drop it when you talk to me, so after you've told me what you want, you'll pick it up again with your teeth also. Then you'll hand it to me and then you'll take the position. Is that all clear."
"Oh yes, master!"
Dr. Helmuth Weirath stared at her compellingly. He watched Jan Caldwell walk with mincing little steps, hampered not only by the high heels but also by the short chain lengths locking between the guise on her slim ankles, over to the cabinet-dresser, opening the paneled doors to each side, then pulling open the second drawer from the top, and then finally turning to her side, bending her head down into the cabinet itself and coming out with the hairbrush clutched in her mouth.
CHAPTER VIII
What Dr. Helmuth Weirath was considering was not so much a letter from a potential member of "Les Masques" but actually a phone call from Houston from a man who identified himself as Jason Barnes, with interests in oil and cotton. Jason Barnes was a name to conjure with, certainly so far as Dr. Weirath was concerned. The retired psychiatrist had seen that name in the financial columns not only in the San Francisco newspapers, but also those of New York and London. He was a man of multiple interests, and yet a shadowy figure. One columnist had written him up as one of the potentially wealthiest men in America, but nothing was known of his background or his personal life, except that he was known to be married or to have been married, but without progeny.
The fact of the matter was that Jason Barnes was sixty-one, extraordinarily vigorous and virile for his age, that he had been married when he was twenty-two, that his wife had been a kind of "camp follower" in the oil fields of Tulsa in the days of wildcat wells and overnight booms. Jason himself had been at first a driller, then a pipe fitter, and then he had worked for a man who was long on talk and short on money. Then he had shrewdly decided that the land was good and that he might make more money by taking out his pay in a vested interest rather than in any stipulated sum.
The speculator for once had struck it rich, and Jason, who had got himself fifty percent of the vested interested, was able to buy out his former boss. That well, known as the Barnes Numbero Uno, was the beginning of his windfall. Within three years he had made his first million, and within ten more was up to an even ten, in stocks, fiduciary settlements, land and bonds.
By then his wife had left him for a salesman who traveled Oklahoma, Texas and Arkansas, and two years later she was dead when her new husband caught her in bed with a sixteen-year-old neighbor's son. Jason had no time to mourn her, he was too busy making more millions.
At the age of fifty, with a fortune close to a hundred million at a rough estimate, he felt it was time for him to enjoy some of the fruits of this rich material life which up to now had only been theoretical for him. He lived in a modest hotel room most of the time, and it was only two years ago he decided to build an extraordinary mansion, whose basement was large enough for a catering party of over two hundred, with room to spare.
Of rugged stock, Jason had thrived on hard work, and he had had only a few casual fuckings with prostitutes in his early youth. But now, with more leisure time on his hands, with his money making income for him just on the basis of interest alone, he came to a decision that he was going to taste the fleshpots.
One of his friends, Albert Barndee, a Dallas financier, had gone with a member of "Les Masques" about three months ago and had witnessed the whipping and compelled subjugation of two attractive young cousins, ages seventeen and nineteen, who had subsequently been sold as slave-girls to a wealthy Lesbian who owned a chain of dress shops in upper New York and Baltimore.
Barndee had spent a lavish week at Jason Barnes's palatial estate on the outskirts of Houston and had told his friend of the thrilling and perverse joys to be gleaned from visiting Dr. Weirath's establishment and becoming a member of that highly esoteric and extremely expensive coterie.
In the weeks that followed, Jason Barnes was involved in several stock manipulations, had to fly to London to sell some of his holdings at an astonishingly large profit and he decided to take the bull by the horns and call Dr. Weirath on the phone.
Dr. Weirath had a private line that couldn't be tapped, and he listened with growing interest and then with greedy avarice when Jason Barnes reached him on the phone.
For what Jason Barnes wanted, he said, was to purchase a slave, not a young girl, but one who was reasonably mature, sophisticated, cultured, imaginative, and physically attractive. It would not be necessary to subjugate her into slavery, for he wished to do that himself. And the price he offered was fifty thousand dollars in hard cash. For that amount of money, Dr. Weirath might well have sold his own sister into bondage.
And that was why, unbeknownst to amoral Jan Caldwell, he was contemplating placing a call to Dr. Barnes' private number and inviting the eccentric multimillionaire to visit "Les Masques" ten days hence, when he intended to have a very special presentation for a very select group of members. Indeed, each one of the members would have to pay $2500 as an extra premium to be privileged to attend. His idea was that at the end of this festivity, he would leave Jason Barnes alone with Jan Caldwell, and thus learn whether Jason Barnes coveted her. If he did, Jan Caldwell would leave with him, gagged and bound, blindfolded and in chains, that very night.
Meanwhile, Henry Wadsworth was doing some snooping around, though he didn't want to attract too much attention. He had taken a cab within two blocks of the Weirath mansion, and when he saw it in all its imposing grandeur, he whistled long and respectfully. Anybody who could afford the upkeep on a place like this, must be in the chips, and with a mediaeval castle like this, had all sorts of opportunities to capture a girl and have her locked away and helpless to get free, so he could do just about anything he cared to with her. The more he thought about his theory, the more he felt it had considerable validity now that he had seen where Dr. Weirath hung out.
But getting into that house was another thing. He had no search warrant and he couldn't very well ring the doorbell and tell the old doctor that he had a sneaking hunch that young girls were being kept there against their will, and that he wanted to look around. He could lose his license for the unauthorized harassment of an important citizen, and certainly Dr. Weirath was an important citizen with a domicile like this.
What made things more complicated was that a tall head-high iron grilled fence enclosed the estate, and even the gate was locked. The gate was controlled by an electrical current piped under the ground and into Dr. Weirath's own personal study-den. He also had a closed circuit TV setup, so that when the bell rang, indicating that someone was trying to get in, he could flick on the switch and see exactly who was out there. It had cost him a pretty penny, but with the money he was deriving from the wealthy amateurs who were members of "Les Masques," that was a mere bagatelle.
Henry Wadsworth made a few notes on a memo pad, smoked a few cigarettes, glowered at the house, and then got onto a streetcar as far as it would go, whence he made connections across the Bay Bridge and on to San Francisco and his office. A lot of ideas were going through his head, but he hadn't come up with one that would get him any closer inside that house than he had been standing outside the house and on the wrong side of that gate wondering what the hell was going on inside.
He would have been greatly intrigued if he could have seen what was going on inside that mansion. For Jan Caldwell, who had of her own volition donned a bondage costume and who had just, upon her knees, bowing her head down to her employers' feet, begged him to punish her for being a bad girl, was about to show him that she loved him blindly and was ready to offer herself as a private love slave.
She now lay across his lap, and the rubber tights had been dragged down to reveal her naked ass. His right leg clamped over her calves, his left arm went around her waist but higher up, so he could edge over and squeeze one of her titties, Dr. Helmuth Weirath was spanking her beautifully firm, jouncy, naked behind with a black wooden hairbrush. It made a lovely sonorous noise, and Jan's bottom jumped every time it cracked on down, flattening the tender flesh and letting it spring up again, a sight that was one of the loveliest in the world to the perverse retired psychiatrist.
He gave Jan about fifty spanks, and she tried to be quite stoic, to bow her head and close her eyes and take it to prove how brave she was and how glad she was that he was accepting her as his slave. She did this to cement their relationship, because she was inordinately jealous and she knew that her employer lost no opportunity to fuck nearly every pretty girl who passed through the portals of this mansion.
But towards the last fifteen, she was crying like a baby and kicking her legs about, and it was all he could do to keep her on his lap to get the rest of it.
At last he finished, and she lay sobbing plaintively. He put the ruler in his left hand, pressed it to her lips and commanded her to kiss it, then to thank him for spanking her naked seat. Jan Caldwell humbled herself and went through the formula, then turned back her tearstained face, her eyes full of naked longing.
"Now do you think you can be a good girl from now on, Jan?" he asked, his own voice thick with passion.
"Oh yes, master," to his delight Jan used the word which thrilled him to the core, for he had always seen himself as a ruler of beautiful girls. "I'll be ever so good. Only please don't spank my poor bare bottom any more, please, master!"
"Very well. You may kneel down now and take my prick out of my shorts and see how nicely you can pay homage to it with the tip of your tongue. But don't make it come, because I want to use that juice to put into that sweet pussy of yours, Jan."
"Oh yes, master, I'll do just what you want," she declared abjectly.
With all the burning zeal of a true masochist, Jan Caldwell now, shackled though she was and by her own hands (for it was not difficult to apply the wrist-irons and ankle-bracelets with their chains and fasten the spring lock on each set which would clamp tightly around her limbs) drew his swollen ramrod out. Her eyes glistened with a feverish desire. Her tongue darted out and began to swipe at the glans while the doctor stood there, straddled, hands on hips, puffing at a cigar now, eyeing her with great relish.
Definitely, Jason Barnes would pay a fortune for a handsome, imaginative, experienced piece of cunt like this one.
The idea of making fifty thousand dollars by disposing of his trustworthy aide who had been invaluable to him in the past and yet might one day have the power to blackmail him or turn state's evidence against him, managed to make Dr. Helmuth Weirath savagely excited. He had to clap his hand over his prickhead and push Jan Caldwell away almost rudely, closing his eyes and breathing deeply until he had regained his self-control.
"Now then, slave," he ordered," go lean yourself over my desk-wait-take a book and put it under your belly. I want to raise that belly of yours so I can get at that sweet cunt."
"Oh yes, master!" Jan Caldwell panted. She wriggled forward to the desk after he had released her, and in a moment was bending well over, her bottom reddened and lewdly upreared, her gaping pink cunt temptingly exposed in ready invitation.
Moving to her, he dug his fingernails into the edges of her bare hips, and guided himself towards the soft petals of her pouting cunt. Slowly he tantalized her by rubbing his weapon all over her cunt, softly against the lips and just barely touching the open cleft while she moaned and sobbed and gasped, her own passions mounting fiercely.
Then, with unerring aim, he crammed himself home to the balls in a single decimating jab, and Jan's face rose, eyes goggling and glassy with her rapture. Her mouth gaped in a wild, husky cry, and then she began to thrust her body back to him every time she felt him press against her, wanting to go ahead of him and prove how fervently devoted she was to the proposition that she was now his most intimate slave of slaves.
At last with a cry of ecstasy, his head tilting back and his eyes closing, she felt him burst into her womb. Her climax came with his, and when it was over, she felt him move away from her and then, he leaned forward, trembling, almost sagging with aftermath as he felt his prick gripped by the embracing walls of his lovely secretary's cuntwalls. He was thinking that Jason Barnes ought to have seen this, because then there wouldn't be any doubt in the multimillionaire's mind that this woman was worth far more than fifty thousand dollars.
CHAPTER IX
Sally Durmont had started work at her new job as secretary and general girl Friday to Henry Wadsworth. Her duties were light, because there weren't too many phone calls and not much more mail. He was just struggling along, she decided, and she felt a little guilty about taken even sixty dollars a week from him. Still in all, she guessed that maybe the balance of her pay would be in his efforts to find her missing sister, Laura.
As for Henry Wadsworth himself, he didn't want to give Sally any false hopes. His visit to the elaborate house of Dr. Weirath had given him a hunch, but you didn't go into a courtroom with a hunch, and you certainly didn't tell a beautiful girl who was worried to death about her missing sister that you were pretty sure her sister might be somewhere in that house. Because if she wasn't he would just be getting Sally's hopes up too high for an awful letdown.
' He found himself worrying a great deal about whether Sally would like him and like being around him, because he felt from the opposite point of view that he was an awfully lucky man to have such a gorgeous piece of pussy so close. He was wondering how he could get even closer to her, and he figured that the best way would be to find her sister. Then she would be so grateful and if he made a pass, she would receive it in a very happy mood, out of gratitude alone. And from there, he was pretty sure that he could steer his way clear to paradise between those lovely thighs and grabbing onto those gorgeous titties and feeling his mouth to hers. The thought of having her legs wrap round and her arms lock him tight while he slowly thrust himself back and forth inside her tight young warm cunt was enough to give him a hard-on just thinking and dreaming about it.
Meanwhile, Ernestine Helms was just about ready to drive her borrowed slave girl back to dear Dr. Weirath. Of course, she still had about two hours left, and maybe if she let Uncle Harold work this red-haired bitch over, they would find out at last what her name really was. The girl was up in the attic, where she had been all the time. This time, she was stark naked and had a black bandanna tied around her eyes and knotted at the back of her neck. Just so she couldn't get away, Ernestine had put a noose around her neck and hoisted it up over a ceiling beam and then tied the end that came down to an old hook driving into the opposing wall. If she moved around too much, the noose would tighten and strangle her. Finally, she had tied a cord around the girl's ankles. And her hands were tied behind her back.
Ernestine had fed her this morning, just some soup with crumbled bits of bread dropped into it. The marks made on the redhead were fading now, and there was just time enough to put some nice new ones on before it was time to take her back.
Ernestine lit a cigarette and stared at the whimpering captive. All she herself had on was a pair of blue linen playshorts and sandals. Her titties were naked, and she was cupping them lovingly, looking down at her figure and admiring it. She liked especially the combination of her pink skin where she was fondling herself and the tan over her shoulders and arms and legs. It made Uncle Harold very hot just to see her like this. On second thought, it might be an excellent idea to get Uncle Harold up here for a last workout.
She squatted down now, plunged the fingers of her left hand into the redhead's hair and yanked at it: "Are you awake, bitch? Good! You're going back to that nice place we got you from, dear. But before you do, I think that Uncle Harold will want to give you another spanking. And I'm sure he'll want to fuck you or maybe bugger you after that. You really have a gorgeous ass, I'll say that for you. Are you sure you still won't tell me your name?"
"I'd rather die," the girl on the floor moaned. "Well you won't die. You'll suffer, and I'm sure that-well, I almost said the name of the man who rented you to me, didn't I?-but anyhow, I'm sure that he'll have other ideas for you. You see, honey, you're going to go on being rented out until you're worn out, and then maybe we'll find a way to dispose of you. Maybe like sell you to a South American whorehouse where you will disappear forever. So don't worry about dying, pet." So saying, Ernestine Helms opened the door of the attic, walked down the stairs, and put her hands to her mouth as she called out, "Uncle Harold, darling, can you come up here for a few minutes, please?"
Harold Buttridge slowly walked up the stairs, grunting with the effort. He was wearing just a bathrobe and slippers, and had already had a sumptuous breakfast of oatmeal, half a pound of bacon fried very crisp, hashed-browned potatoes, coffee and toast and melon. He was an excellent cook, and for that reason did not employ a housekeeper. In that way, he avoided any annoying dangers of having some stranger notice that he and his niece were somewhat more intimate than the law allowed.
"Well, good morning, my dear. I see our little playmate is just about ready to go back, isn't she?" he cackled.
'That's right, Uncle Harold." Ernestine stood, her hands on her hips, squaring her lovely dimpled shoulders so that her bubbies would stick out. His eyes glinted as he noticed them and she saw him lick his fleshy lips. There was an unnatural color in his wrinkled cheeks, and she could see his adam's apple moving in that scrawny neck of his. How awful it was to be old, she though to herself. Now Dr. Weirath wasn't old, he didn't look that way, and he certainly had terrific young ideas. Her pussy itched just thinking about working for him or being associated with him in any way. Well, when she took this bitch back, she was going to see if she couldn't work on the dear man.
"How would you like to give her a spanking, Uncle Harold, and then brown her?" his silver-blonde niece artfully suggested.
"Very much, my dear. You really think of your old uncle, don't you?"
"Of course I do, darling. You're the only kin I have. I rely on you a great deal, you know." Ernestine Helms stepped closer to her uncle, and slyly sneaked a hand into the folds, finding his cock at once and beginning to caress it. Her magical touch made him throb and swell with desire, and his unhealthy color grew darker than ever.
"Well, go ahead, then, show me how good you are, Uncle Harold," she teased.
"If you'll help me untie her, my dear, I'll be happy to show you that I'm still quite active in such sports," Harold Buttridge chuckled. Now he removed his bathrobe entirely, and Ernestine made a grimace of distaste at the sight of his emaciated legs and his pebbly grainy skin, and all the veins which were the sign of old age. But there was nothing wrong with his prick, she had to admit to herself. It stood out ferociously now, as he bent over the quivering and moaning red-haired girl on the floor, adroitly removed the noose, and then began to cut the cords binding her wrists and ankles with a penknife which lay on the little old table where Ernestine had put several flips and a pair of metal tweezers, which she had used to amuse herself in pinching the unfortunate young captive's inner thighs and calves and belly.
"Here, I'll give you a hand, Uncle Harold, don't strain yourself," the silver-blonde beauty purred. Between the two of them, they lifted the tottering, still blindfolded redhead and led her over to a wicker armchair, with very solid legs. They forced her to kneel down on the seat, and then Ernestine grabbed the victim's wrists and squatted down and pulled them down as hard as she could. The victim began to groan and sob: "for God's sake, kill me and be done with it, I can't stand anymore!"
"I'm sorry, pet, it's too bad you have such a sensitive skin," Ernestine giggled, looking up at the blindfolded tearstained face and gloating in her sadistic and perverse anticipation. "But you see, you haven't any right to say anything because you're just a dirty slave. We paid a lot of money to have you to ourselves this nice lovely weekend, and we have to get our money's worth, don't we? Go ahead, Uncle Harold. How do you want to spank her, with your hand or a hairbrush or maybe a nice leather strap?"
"I think," he nursed his chin pensively for a moment as his eyes feasted on the redhead's squirming and beautiful bottom, "that a strap makes a lovely noise and will get me quite eager to do something about it after I have finished."
"I would have chosen that myself, dear Uncle Harold!" was Ernestine's reply.
The girl kneeling on the chair bowed her head and groaned again. Ernestine dug her fingernails into the girl's wrists and hissed viciously. "You can cry all you like once you feel the strap. I want you to cry. I just love watching you cry, bitch. And you're so stupid, really. If we don't find out who you are, your next renter will. And maybe somebody will buy you and take you far away, like maybe to Australia or possibly even Alaska. How would you like that, pet?"
But the girl kneeling on the wicker chair only groaned and sobbed as the naked debauchee walked over to the table and selected a thick leather strap of about twenty inches in length, whose spanking end was formed in a kind of arrowhead, so that it stung with cruel impact upon tender skin already so well sensitized. Stepping back of the unfortunate girl on the chair, Harold Buttridge drew back the strap, measured his distance, and then lunged forward. The brown leather strap clung across the tops of the captive's hips and drew a stifled cry of pain from her. She jerked at her wrists, but Ernestine held them as in a vise. "Did you like that one, darling? That's just a start. Give it to her hard, Uncle Harold, I'm getting sick of the snotty way this bitch keeps trying to pretend she's somebody important so she won't tell us what her name really is. Lay it on her ass, Uncle Harold, warm her up for her browning!"
"I shall try my best, my dear," he said with a chuckle. His eyes were narrowed, and bloodshot from his excesses. His prick continued to be as rigid as ever, and Ernestine again passed a covert look at it. Her pussy started to itch, but somehow she didn't want to have sex with Uncle Harold today. She would much rather hold herself back for dear Doctor Weirath.
The strap fell again and again, up to a dozen lashes. Broad angry red bands marred the pale white skin with its lovely rosy flecks. The captive was twisting and wriggling frantically, trying to lower her bottom to her heels, but when that ocurred, Harold Buttridge swept the strap across the very base of her behind with all his force. The victim promptly arched up her bottom and let out a wail of pain and began to sob harder than ever.
Then, flinging away the strap, and panting hoarsely, the elderly roue dug his bony fingers into the flaming bottom-cheeks of the sobbing, squirming captive, gaped them apart, and thrust the tip of his cock against the shrinking petals of her asshole.
"Oh don't-aahhhrrr-oh for God's sake, stop it, please or kill me, kill me, I want to die!" the young woman screamed as she tried frantically to pull her wrists away from Ernestine's grip. But once again the silver-blonde niece of this viciously depraved old man punished her for that by gouging her sensitive wrists with her fingernails, and by hissing. "Just for that, before we go back there, I'm going to give you a little extra myself, you'll see!" And then, with a giggle. "Give it to her good, Uncle Harold, make her feel it!"
"I shall try my best. She's quite tight, you know. Aahhh, there, now we are in the way we like to be-it's quite tight and it's delightful, Ernestine. In some ways, its too bad you're not a man. You could really enjoy this bitch," the old man panted.
By now he had forced himself halfway into the victim's bum hole, and her piteous cries were deafening.
"How thoughtful of you to soundproof this entire old house, dear Uncle Harold," his niece crooned. She squatted, holding tight to the redhead's wrists, and her thin tight shorts rubbed against her cunt and made her realize that she was getting very excited. But she didn't want Uncle Harold to take care of it. No, this afternoon she was going to talk to that wonderful man who had founded "Les Masques" and brought about such a wonderful revelation of pleasure in her young life.
By now, her uncle had forced his way into the very depths, and the girl's cries were hoarse and trembling. Her head lifted, then bowed, and great tears rolled down her cheeks.
Having planted himself vigorously, Harold Buttridge now began to draw himself back slowly, just to the very brink where her sphincter muscles were most active. Her sobbing cries told him that she was feeling the pangs of this sodomy very satisfactorily.
But now his own furious rut betrayed him. He could not sustain a long-drawn fucking for much more than two or three minutes, a fact which had made his niece plainly contemptuous of him. On the few occasions when she did let him fuck her, he always had to pay some forfeit, whether it was a new bracelet or a new dress or to do something particularly self-denigrating to satisfy his imaginative and wickedly perverse young niece.
Only last week, for example, in order to persuade her to come to bed with him and use her mouth on his cock, Harold Buttridge had had to play "horsie" for her. On all fours, a dog collar around his neck and a leash clipped to it, which was held in Ernestine's hand, he was obliged to go around the room on all fours with her mounted on his back. She had mocked him and jeered at him, slapped and pinched him. But the humiliation was compensated for by those times when she was as viciously passionate as himself, and when even though he knew she was closing her eyes and pretending that some much more handsome and younger man was doing it to her, he could feel his cock dig to the very depths of her tight warm pussy.
So with a cry he felt himself burst into the victim's asshole, and the victim was shaken by new sobs as she realized her degradation.
"Well, I guess I'd better get some clothes on this slut and get her over where she belongs," he said thickly when he had finished.
"Let me take her, Uncle Harold, please. I've been cooped up in this old house too long. I'd just love some fresh air and a car ride with this little bitch in the back seat all nicely tied up and gagged and covered with a blanket so she couldn't tip off the cops," his niece proposed.
"Well, I don't see any harm in that, Ernestine darling," he said after a moment of reflection. He moved now to pick up his discarded bathrobe and put it back on. She was glad for that, because she thought his body rather ugly. She hoped that when she got to be his age, she would still have a nice skin and at least something left of her fine figure. Who was that French woman-oh yes, Ninon de l'Enclos-who had men falling in love with her even when she was eighty or ninety?
Ernestine had read something about that, and it had fascinated her.
"I'd love to. Anyhow, I want to get some pairs of panties and maybe a new scarf, dear Uncle Harold," she cooed. She moved up to him now, and gave him a quick kiss. His hands rushed to squeeze her titties, and she allowed it for a moment. Then laughingly she pushed his hands away and whispered, "We'll be here all day and we'll be late and have to pay another rental if I don't hurry up, dear Uncle Harold." Reluctantly, he released his hold of her, and she hurried down the stairs to her bedroom, returning with an armful of clothes for the martyred redhead who knelt on the chair, abandoned in her desperate shame and degradation.
"Come on, bitch, don't dawdle!" Ernestine called impatiently. "You have to get your clothes on. Take that strap again, Uncle Harold, and lace it to her if she doesn't cooperate now."
"I think you had best do what my niece tells you to, young lady," he said as he stooped down and picked up the leather strap. Then, before the unsuspecting blondfolded naked redhead could anticipate what he was going to do, he raised his arm and slashed her diagonally over the ripest curves of her shuddering, welted bottom-cheeks.
"Ahrrrr!! Oh please don't, oh not any more, I'll do what you want, but stop beating me, oh please!" the captive sobbed.
"You see how we've improved her disposition, Uncle Harold?" Ernestine Helms laughed evilly. "All right, you take off the blindfold, and I'll help her get into her clothes fast-or else!"
Passively, the lovely red-haired captive made no resistance whatsoever as Ernestine put on her bra and then made her lift first one leg and then the other to get her panties pulled up. They were white cotton panties and very brief, and they showed off the base of her well spanked bottom in a most provocative manner.
She raised her arms listlessly when Ernestine drew a blue cotton dress over her, after first putting on a slip. Then she sat down on the chair, her arms behind her back as ordered, while the old man himself knelt down and lovingly drew her new stockings on, smoke-colored nylons, very sheer, and his fingers roamed into her pussy and the tender groin.
She only whimpered a little, but she did not struggle. When at last she was dressed, Ernestine had already hurried down the stairs and come back with her own armful of clothing which she now put on.
The silver-blonde had donned a pair of knee-length white calfskin boots, the kind that laced down and fitted snugly. She had also put on a one-piece matching white kid corselet, which took her between her thighs and covered her pussy, and developed her bottom in a most suggestive manner.
Finally, she put on a light cape, and thus arrayed, she made a gesture to her uncle, who promptly tied the victim's wrists behind her back again and made sure that the knot of the bandanna-blindfold still held.
Then Ernestine, an arm around the blindfolded and bound girl's waist, guided her down the stairway and out at the back of the house through the pantry into a garden. Beyond the garden, her own Impala was parked, camouflaged by growths of trees and bushes. She forced the sobbing captive into the car, and then got in from the other side and took the wheel. Then, starting up her motor, she turned the wheel and headed the car towards the home of Dr. Helmuth Weirath.
CHAPTER X
"I'll see you later, dear Uncle Harold," Ernestine had cooed as she got behind the wheel.
"You'll be right back, won't you, dear?" he anxiously inquired.
"I've a little shopping to do in San Francisco, lover. I might go to the City of Paris, and then of course there's always that wonderful Cost Plus out on Taylor Street. A girl could wander there for days, it's so fascinating. You really ought to go there some day with me, such bargains and such wonderfully imaginative stuff. Well, I'll be seeing you when I do, won't I, Uncle Harold?"
The elderly man frowned, not exactly-liking the flippant tone of his niece's voice. He was thinking to himself that it was high time he introduced Ernestine to some of the more rigorous pleasures of voluptuous chastisement. It wouldn't do her any harm to be bent over the sofa, blindfolded, gagged and tied, dressed in a one-piece rubber body sheath with a specially contrived zipper at the nip which would allow the portion over the bottom to be opened, like a flap. Then about twenty slowly administered cuts with a whippy Malacca cane would really teach her to be a little more respectful of his years.
The prospect so delighted him that, cackling happily to himself, he went back to the kitchen and fortified himself with a six-egg omelet and half a pound of bacon. After coffee and Benedictine and a choice cigar, he felt like a new man. And in his mind's eye the figure of the silver-blonde beauty perhaps dancing in mid-air while she was hauled up by the thumbs till she was hanging about an inch off the floor, while he lifted the cane and made ready to stroke, made his prick harden, and then a nostalgic sorrow that there wasn't anyone around to satisfy his selfish and immediate urge . . .
Quite unaware of her uncle's change of mood towards her, the provocative young woman drove her car into the driveway beside the iron-grilled estate. The driveway was way at the back, and the garage, of red stone, had an apartment on the second floor, at the moment unoccupied. Dr. Helmuth Weirath had fired his chauffeur, Joseph Bronty, about a month and a half ago, when he had caught the man snooping around the house trying to discover the secret of the basement auditorium and the other singular apparatuses and accoutrements which were part of the ceremonials of "Les Masques."
Moreover, Joseph Bronty had made eyes at Jan Caldwell once too often. The man was thirty-eight, a rugged, black-haired Sicilian, and there was no doubt that he was disgustingly virile. His presence posed a threat to Dr. Weirath, particularly in wanting to enjoy without any rival the favors of his adoring secretary, who had just vouchsafed to him her desire to be not only his mistress and aide, but also his humble slave.
Of course, he'd paid the man off and given him two weeks' severance, and even a letter of recommendation. It wouldn't do to have this man disgruntled and maybe talk too freely to the authorities. Not that the police could readily find anything amiss, even if they made a cursory search. Ih had installed a super-sensitive electronic alarm system throughout the entire house and especially in the basement, and there were certain buttons set into the paneling in the basement the touching of which immediately slid pine-wood panels from one wall to the other and thus sectioned off in turn and hid the auditorium, the stage, and its punishment equipment. Then, again-ingeniously-his own idea-these buttons themselves could be concealed by pressing a certain indented spot in the wall which at once drew in the lower segment and rolled down a cleverly painted plastic substance so that the naked eye would see only blank wall and nothing more.
Joseph Bronty was presently working for a handsome widow of forty-two in Twin Peaks in San Francisco, and for the time being, his suspicions and rancor against his former employer were lulled because the widow had taken him to her bed and proved every bit as passionate as he had suspected she might be when he was interviewed by her. Yet there still lurked in his rather primitive mind a curiosity about why Dr. Weirath had been so upset that afternoon when, waiting to see him while the later was closeted with Jan Caldwell, he had simply walked down the hallway and decided to take a look at this tremendously spacious and lavishly decorated house. He had a vague curiosity to learn how the other half lived.
Where there was smoke, there was bound to be fire, he thought at the time and Josephs suspicions were one day to be matched against other inquires in Dr. Weirath's mysterious direction.. . . .
As soon as Ernestine's Impala began to drive down the long garage way, a signal bell rang in Dr. Weirath's study. He pressed a button that turned on the closed circuit TV set, and recognized at once the car and, what was more interesting to him, its lovely occupant. He had expected that Harold Buttridge would be bringing the redhead back, the girl who had called herself Vilma and who had so stubbornly persisted in the use of that name which he was definitely certain was not lawfully hers.
Ernestine Helms, well, well! He smiled and swiftly made preparations to receive her. There was a narrow passageway connecting the garage to the back of the house, and since he had recognized the car, he had only to press the button which would raise the garage door and permit her to enter. Watching through the TV to determine when she got out of the car, and this would slide up the narrow door which would permit her to go through the passageway and into his house.
Meanwhile, he was undressing with record speed and putting on an expensive and luxurious black silk dressing-gown and sandals. He was naked under the robe, because he had a feeling that this little nymphet had brought back the slave for a very particular reason all her own, for a motive which he had already anticipated. Her uncle was an extremely rich and dissipated man, in his private opinion as a psychiatrist, and also on the basis of general medical knowledge which as a practitioner he had had to acquire at the outset of his career. He would give Harold Buttridge another six months of life at the most. The man ate like a glutton, although he looked like a skeleton at times, drank like a fish and tried to keep up the fucking schedule of a twenty-year-old, in addition to which his perversities and his incestuous lust for Ernestine were sufficient in themselves to debauch and weaken him beyond the norm.
And so when Ernestine Helms made her way from the back of the house and rapped on his door, he was cordially ready to receive her.
"Why, what a pleasant surprise, Ernestine dear," he beamed benevolently, holding out both his hands. She took them, then giggled.
"I thought I'd surprise you dear Dr. Weirath."
"And you did, my dear one. I imagine you've brought back the merchandise?"
"Uh huh. In the trunk, darling-whoops! That just slipped out. Can you forgive a very naughty girl?"
"No," he said as he shook his head.
Her eyes widened with curiosity. "Oh my, have I been a bad girl?"
"Very much so. But what I mean is, Ernestine, I wouldn't have you any other way. And I'd like to have you, if you understand my meaning."
Her face burst into a happy smile and her eyes danced, as she pressed herself against him, her arms winding around his neck.
"You know, darling, you and I must have ESP," she purred, her lips a fascinating inch away from his. "I've been trying to get up enough courage to tell you that I'm just crazy about you, Helmuth-there, I've gone ahead and said it, and it sounds just wonderful!"
"I've never heard my name pronounced so beautifully, my dear," he told her huskily. His hands reached out to squeeze her jouncy bottom and his mouth sought hers. Ernestine Helm closed her eyes, parted her lips so his tongue could find the way, then waited in exquisite anticipation for his lovemaking.
But at that moment, Jan Caldwell, who occupied a luxurious bedroom on the second floor of this house and who had been told by her employer that he wouldn't need her until about two that afternoon, decided to come downstairs and ask him a question. She believed that having given him proof of her unswerving dedication and loyalty by letting him take her as a slave, she had established such an intimate relationship that there was no more need to stand on ceremony. As a consequence, she didn't knock on the study door, so when she entered it was to stop abruptly and gasp because she was watching her employer hoist up Ernestine Helms skirt and slip and thrust his artistically long, strong fingers under the gossamer sheer waistband of her white nylon panties to squeeze her voluptuous ass while the two of them stood there locked in a French-kissing embrace that would, a generation ago, have brought down the concerted ire of Will Hays and every other censor in the country.
"Well-I'm-I'm dreadfully sorry, Helmuth-I didn't know-" she blurted.
Dr. Weirath, his face flushed, shot her a ferocious glance. "Goddamn you, Jan Caldwell!" he growled. "Weren't you brought up to knock at the door. Now you get out of here and I don't want to see you until two o'clock. Do you understand me?"
"Yes-yes, D-Doctor, I-I'm terribly sorry-how do you do, Miss Helms." Bursting into tears, Jan Caldwell turned and dashed back to her room.
She didn't know it, but at that moment she had just been sold for fifty thousand dollars to Jason Barnes.
"Excuse me a moment while I close and lock the door, darling," he murmured to the silver-blonde nymph.
"That was bitchy of her, wasn't it?" Ernestine giggled.
"She'll pay for it, don't you worry, lover," the gray-haired psychiatrist, having bolted the door, now unbelted his robe and let Ernestine feast her glittering eyes on the virility of his prick.
Ernestine Helms lost no time. Tugging up slip and dress, she lowered her panties and stood there in garter belt, hose and pumps, and she pressed against him. His hands again found their way to her saucy buttocks, which he kneaded vigorously. Their tongues entwined, and his prick sank to the depths of her torrid cunt. With a little moan of happiness, Ernestine snuggled her chin on his shoulder and enjoyed her long-awaited fucking from the founder of "Les Masques."
CHAPTER XI
Jan Caldwell went back to her office and dabbed at her eyes with a perfumed handkerchief, an expensive box of which (with her own initials monogrammed on them) her fickle and perverse employer had given her six months ago. When the crisis had stopped, she examined the handkerchief, then wadded it into a ball and furiously flung it into the wastebasket with a grimace of jealous rage.
The old axiom, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," was beginning to work in Jan Caldwell's psyche. Coming in on Ernestine Helms and Dr. Weirath as she had, and seeing the utterly passionate way in which the silver-blonde nymph had been flinging herself at her employer-lover without any rejection on his part (indeed, quite the opposite!) had begun to plant the shadow of doubt in Jan's quick if passion-obsessed mind.
For the first time since she had come to work for him three years ago, she began to examine a little more critically the entire operation of which she had become such an integral part. She had endangered her own reputation for him, by becoming involved in the illegal abductions and seductions of attractive women and girls who ultimately wound up on the stage of "Les Masques," for the amusement of all the jaded and dissolute men and women who were Dr. Weirath's associates and from whom he so unscrupulously profited. And this knowledge, coupled as it was with her discovery that the suave gray-haired psychiatrist could reject her and take the sexual favors of a young slut, for that was precisely what she considered Ernestine Helms to be infuriated Jan almost irrationally.
Finally she gained control of her nerves, and remembered that he had told her to make a phone call to a certain Jason Barnes in Houston, Texas. What she didn't know was that this was the very man for whom her voluptuous body was destined about a week hence, for Dr. Weirath had impulsively decided to eliminate the one source of danger to him in his entire operation and at the same time be rid of a jealous mistress at an enormous profit while accepting in her stead the abandoned and uninhibited favors of Ernestine Helms.
And while she was making that phone call whose purpose it was to invite the multimillionaire up to the doctor's mansion for a special festivity of "Les Masques," the man who was going to be her Judas was at this moment having seconds with silver-blonde Ernestine.
Ernestine had gone down on her knees to French him, to restore his vigor for this return engagement. Insatiable as she was, she was now even more infatuated by him than Jan had been at the outset of her employment three years ago. In the first place, Ernestine was bored to death with her uncle, Harold Buttridge, who, it seemed, could be aroused only after he had witnessed or was witnessing a scene of torture. While Ernestine enjoyed this, there were many times when she was alone with him when she was in the mood for being fucked or for performing one of the many variations on that theme. But of late her uncle had not been able to respond quite so much as she desired. To her delight she discovered now that Dr. Helmuth Weirath, though almost as old as her uncle, was enormously more virile. She had had a furious climax during that first fuck, and she was deliriously happy. Of her own accord therefore, she knelt down and began to French him, her hands rubbing the backs of his hairy legs, her eyes swimming with the misty languor of insatiable passion.
And when she had drawn his prick to a new hardness, she rose and led him to the wide leather-padded couch beside the wall, whispering, "Oh you have to do me again, darling, you just have to! That little bitch in the trunk of the car can wait, I'm so hot for you I can't stand it!"
"What an impulsive and lovable child you are, my dear," he chuckled hoarsely. He was thinking of something else besides Ernestine Helms' enticing body and her willingness to fuck at the drop of a hat (or the drop of a fly). He was thinking of her enormous wealth, and the fact that her uncle was a very bad insurance risk at his age. If anything should happen to Harold Buttridge, Ernestine Helms, being his only next of kin, would stand to inherit a great deal of money and a very beautiful house. This was a kind of dowry which would make the silver-blonde heiress even more irresistible than she was now.
And that was why he flattered and sought to prove himself a veritable Casanova so as to leave the impression in her scatterbrained mind that he was the real man for her, not her uncle.
He came willingly with her to the couch, his hands on her titties, and then he pressed her back down. He had already gamahuched her to her ecstatic delight, for this was something that her Uncle Harold rarely if ever did. Harold Buttridge was a selfish kind of satyr, and preferred to be worked upon rather than to create and show imaginative wooing.
But this time, to her even greater delight, though he didn't gamahuch her, he suddenly rolled her over onto her belly, then put his hands to the sides of her hips and hoisted her up onto her knees, with her face still buried against the pillow. "What-what are you doing, Helmuth dear?" she panted huskily.
"I'm going to love you in a different way, my darling," he murmured thickly. His fingers stroked her quivering bottom-cheeks, and then suddenly and delicately gaped them apart to expose the pink cleft of her dainty asshole.
"Oohhh, Helmuth!" she squealed, "you're too big for me, you'll hurt me, oh no, not there, please, darling-fuck me again instead, oh please!"
"You're wrong, and it will be very pleasant for you, mark my words," he gasped. He delicately prodded the furtive crevice and then, with his right thumb and forefinger succeeding in keeping the cheeks of her behind separated enough for his organ to attain the inlet, he applied his left forefinger to her soft moist cunt and began to frig her lingeringly.
Ernestine's protests began to change to cooing murmurs of ecstasy and delight. Her bottom also began to wriggle, her knees to bend, so that her satiny nether globes rubbed against his belly in the most stimulating manner. Now his forefinger attacked her clit, and Ernestine Helms was beside herself with joy: "Aaahh-oh you darling-oh there's nobody like you-you're driving me crazy, you sweet darling-mmmm, do it if you want to, put it into me, only please don't hurt your little Ernestine!"
"Of course I won't, my darling," he said, his voice trembling with rut. Gently he prodded the tip of his cock against the flinching petals of her anus, and then just inserted himself, enough to tell her what pleasure there could be from this lascivious distension.
At the same time, he speeded up the tempo of frigging her love button, and Ernestine lifted her flushed, contorted face from the pillow, her eyes glazed and widened as new sensations thrilled her beyond words.
Convulsively her hips jerked, and as she executed this backward maneuver, she succeeded in impaling herself; at least two inches of his stiff ramrod pressed beyond the sphincter muscles, and Ernestine Helms uttered a raucous, "Aaahrroohhh!! ! ! Oh, Helmuth, Helmuth, I can't stand it, it's so wonderful, oh you're going to kill me with it, oh I love it, oh Helmuth!"
If at this moment Ernestine Helms had been told that she could save her uncle only by leaving Dr. Helmuth Weirath's study and going back home and fucking Harold Buttridge, she would have told the emissary, "Let the old fool die." For Ernestine Helms was a creature of sensation and hedonism, living for that alone. And at this moment, she had never been so thrilled.
Now that he was inside her, he could use his right hand, and he did so by reaching forward to grab one of her bubbies and to massage it lovingly. His thumb and forefinger found the nipple and caressed it till it grew hard and dark with erogenous desire. Her whimpering little cries and plaints were music to his ears, as he now foraged another inch deeper into the tight canal of her asshole.
The clenching spasms of her rectal walls around his organ thrilled him in his turn, with a kind of maddening Tantalus. But since he had already burst his first bubbling jet into her quaking cunthole, he was manly proof against the danger. Once a man's edge had been removed, he can keep up coital activity a great deal longer the second time without finding a sudden desperate need to ejaculate. He knew this, and it was true for him as he knew it would be.
By the time he had thrust his prick to the very hilt and his belly was grinding against her satiny warm ass-cheeks, Ernestine Helms had almost collapsed with ecstasy, for his finger had driven her to no fewer than two passionate spends.
She crumpled after the second one, lying flat, and he followed her. Weighing down over her, his prick bladed to the very balls, he could luxuriate and feel the convulsive clippings and grippings and nipping of her bumhole walls, while his forefinger continued to ply her clit with delicate caresses and his other hand to fondle her heaving tittie . . .
* * *
It was fully half an hour before Ernestine recovered from the almost delirious crisis which his furious lovemaking had evoked, and then both of them, dressing, languidly began to think of the captive redhead locked up in the trunk of the Chevrolet. The two of them went into the garage through the secret passageway, opened the trunk, and carried the girl who called herself "Vilma" back into the mansion and down the stairs to the cellar. At one end of it, there were several wooden storage cells which would serve very nicely as dungeons. Indeed, the door had been changed from a full wooden planking to one which had several iron bars in a kind of window-grille, through which the amateur would be purchasers of slaves could view their prospective merchandise at their leisure and also in which either recalcitrant and rebellious captives or newly abducted slaves could be locked up safely.
The naked redhead, still blindfolded and gagged and bound, was put into one of these storage cells, which was then padlocked, and Dr. Weirath and Ernestine Helms went back up to the living room. There, placid now and only glancing at each other form time to time with a smile that exchanged the silent knowledge of the pleasure they had had of each other, Ernestine and Dr. Weirath chatted about the forthcoming spectacle to be held in that basement to which they had just brought the unfortunate young girl who had been "rented" by Ernestine and her elderly uncle.
"You know, dear Helmuth," Ernestine murmured as she sat close to him and put her arm around his waist, "I think I like best to watch a slave who fights and who doesn't want to give in. Somebody who doesn't suspect she's going to be a slave-you know what I mean? That's why watching that little bitch who calls herself Vilma was so exciting, and why both Uncle Harold and I bid for her."
"I follow your meaning, my dear," he said. His left hand was around her, and now it rose slyly to cup her left tittie. She turned her face to him with a giggle, and he promptly kissed her. Their tongues met, and she began again to squirm because passion was always seething between her thighs.
"Let's talk sensibly, my dear," he said huskily, for he had to admit to himself that she was a very potent temptation, being so close beside him. "I too believe that for the sadist and the voluptuary, the most thrilling sight of all is the coercion of someone who detests and loathes exactly what is being done to her."
"That's exactly my feeling, Helmuth! Oh, you and I have so many things in common! If only-"
Suddenly she looked down at her lap, and folded her hands and then frowned.
"If only what, my darling?" he pursued.
"Well, I really shouldn't say it, it does sound so ungrateful. But if anything should ever happen to Uncle Harold, well, I think I could do what I wanted to. And you know what I'd like best to do, don't you?"
"I can't guess, my darling."
"Be with you all the time," she whispered. And then her tongue flicked into his ear, making his prick throb again with longing.
He also had had the same idea, but now that she had come out with it and it lay between them as a naked and tangible thing, the ingenious mind of Dr. Helmuth Weirath was already racing ahead to work out some way whereby this lovely silver-blonde nymph with all her money and her house could become his permanently and Harold Buttridge would exist no more as a deterrent to his niece's change of lovers.
CHAPTER XII
Henry Wadsworth had begun to do some checking in the immediate area of the Weirath mansion. A private eye has to be something of a student of human nature and at least an amateur psychologist, and Henry Wadsworth more than qualified. If it had not been for his alert mind on the night he visited Rose Marks just to get his ashes hauled, he could easily have been much farther away from solving the case of Sally's disappearing sister than he now was.
It was his theory that anyone as rich as Dr. Weirath certainly couldn't live like a hermit without someone's keeping some kind of tabs on him, even if it was only the newspaper boy or the milkman or the policeman on the beat or the neighborhood laundry. So, the very day that Weirath was changing fucking partners in favor of Ernestine Helms and to the disregard of his trusting private secretary Jan, Sally Durmont's handsome new boss was pounding the pavements within a radius of two miles of the Weirath estate.
He put out a few dollars here and there as bribes, and at the end of the day, foot weary and aching and in need of a good bath, a steak and a drink, though not necessarily in that order, he had gleaned an assortment of facts. Put together, they made an even more interesting pattern.
Dr. Weirath used a neighborhood laundry, and sent it out regularly every week, but there were certain weeks when the laundry seemed to be two or three times as heavy, and then there would be a period of maybe a month when it was minimal. So much for that.
The bald, bespectacled and rather grumpy newsstand vendor on the corner two blocks away from the Weirath house, after a two-dollar tip, relinquished the information that a very pretty red-haired young woman came out several times a week and bought up the various editions of the San Francisco and Oakland papers, and sometimes the Wall Street Journal. The vendor smirked and winked as he mentioned the beauty of the girl, indicating that he wouldn't mind a piece of that "nifty, high-priced twat."
The nearest super mart also reported that the same attractive red-haired woman did the marketing for Dr. Weirath. The manager beamed when he spoke the name, almost with reverence. Oh yes, Dr. Weirath was an excellent customer, the very best. Always paid cash, often left a tip for the butcher or for the bagger in helping the young lady-his secretary, of course-get the packages out to the car. Bought only the finest brands, and had a lot of parties.
"Parties?" Henry Wadsworth repeated. "Well, I suppose he has a lot of friends."
The store manager had beamed again and nodded: "I should say so. Only the finest meat and brands in canned goods for Dr. Weirath and his friends. Why, only the other day, I got a call from the Doctor himself and he talked to my meat man, Leon. He's having a friend up from Texas, a real wealthy gentleman, and he wants to show this man we've got pretty good beef here too, you know. We'll have a standing rib roast for Dr. Weirath next week, and I'm going out of my way to tell Leon to ask the supply house to give us some prime stuff for a change-you know, the sort they have at the big restaurants here and in Frisco. Nothing but the best for Dr. Weirath."
All these facts, when totaled up, indicated perhaps nothing except that he had a pretty red-haired secretary whom he was probably fucking, and that he had a lot of wealthy friends whom he entertained in a lavish manner. And yet, beneath the surface, having already backed his hunch that maybe white slavery or even something worse was involved, Henry Wadsworth was just about sure that something was going on in that house when all those imagine people got together. It was a perfect setup. Oh sure, he could be quiet and respectable and buy his way around the neighborhood and win goodwill from the merchants, but who was to say what took place, maybe even in the basement of that big house? Henry had been reading a lot of lurid magazines and books lately, partly because his mind was on pussy ever since Sally Durmont had walked into his office. There were lots of kooky clubs around, and there were plenty in California. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility at all that possibly Dr. Weirath, the upstanding pillar of the community, was staging a few little private orgies for the amusement of himself and his well-heeled friends. It was an angle worth looking into.
There was still one more angle he wanted to check. It was too late on this particular day to go to the Hall of Justice in San Francisco and check with the Bureau of Missing Persons, but he was going to make a point of doing it tomorrow morning early.
He walked over to a public phone booth, dialed his office, and Sally's lovely voice responded, "Wadsworth Detective Agency, Miss Durmont speaking."
"Hi, Sally honey. It's me, Henry."
"Oh, Henry, is everything all right?"
"Just fine, honey. Now don't get your hopes up too high. I'm working on something and I don't even want to tell you about it, cause there's no use upsetting you till I get the facts. But I'm on to some guy who spends a lot of dough and has a lot of out-of-town friends and has a red-haired secretary that's a doll."
"Maybe that's Laura!" Sally excitedly came back at him from the other end of the phone.
"Nope. Sorry, honey. I took your sister's snapshots around with me today and showed them to everybody I talked to. It's not the same girl at all. I suppose he's got another redhead on the string, and they're probably palsy-walsies besides her working for him, is my guess. Why don't you call it a day and go home now? By the way, any messages?"
"Yes. Mr. Driner called and wondered if you had anything to report."
"That's great," he groaned. "I've already given him one report that his tramp of a wife was shacked up in a motel out in San Raphael with some guy young enough to be her son, but he still wants more evidence. What did you tell him?"
"That you weren't expected back until tomorrow."
"Good girl! And the first thing in the morning, right from my apartment, I'm going to the Hall of Justice. You just keep up the front, honey. Oh, that reminds me-give Mrs. Porter a call and tell her that I think I've got a lead on the brooch and Swiss watch that somebody stole during a party she was giving. A fence I know says he saw a brooch like that offered to him by some brown-haired gal, and as I recall, Mrs. Porter fired a maid who answers to that description a couple of days after she reported the theft. I wouldn't be surprised if that maid had hooked the stuff and was trying to peddle it. Translate that into English baby. Goodnight."
He smiled, and after he had hung up, he made the sign of a kiss with his lips. If he didn't feel so tired, he would have propositioned her for dinner and maybe a nightcap at his place. But it wasn't the time now. Maybe if he found Laura, she'd fall into his arms. Just thinking about her made his cock stand to attention, but he had already learned there was pleasure in prolongation and waiting. And if ever he did get Sally alone on a bed with no holds barred and the door locked behind them, neither of them was ever going to forget it.. . . .
When Henry Wadsworth visited the Hall of Justice the following morning, he spent three arduous and rather dusty hours going over stacks of reports on missing persons. Happily, he had a photographic eye and was able to wade through and discard most of the files. He'd done a favor for old Sergeant MacGrindrow a couple of years back, and the promise of a bottle of Haig and Haig Pinchbottle did the trick and gave him access to much more than the ordinary private eye would have been allowed to see.
At the end of three hours, he had two names, and the circumstances of the disappearance of both of these two girls, both extremely lovely, plus a curious feeling up and down his spine. The feeling was part of his hunch. One of the girls was named Ella Crandon. She'd come from Omaha about a year and a half ago, sent her aunt and uncle a couple of postcards from a sleazy rooming house on O'Farrell Street, and then there'd been nothing at all. Her aunt had been confined to the hospital and had finally died, and the uncle had continued to look around for Ella, with no success at all. The only thing that had given the uncle any clue was that Ella had written him on the last postcard about thinking she might have a chance at a job with a doctor, a retired doctor who was going to write a book about human nature. Ella had been a pretty good typist back in Omaha, she was twenty-two, dark-brown-haired, and had a very trusting disposition, the uncle had mournfully told the Missing Persons Bureau.
Too trusting, Henry Wadsworth thought to himself as he made some quick notes on a pad he'd brought along. That bit about the doctor made his Extrasensory Perception start working overtime. Dr. Weirath was listed both as a doctor of medicine and as a psychiatrist. Now, a psychiatrist might know a lot about human nature, and he might write a book about it. He might also hire a very pretty small-town girl who would be overjoyed about her job and who had only an aunt and uncle, and now only an uncle left. Once she got the job, there would be ways of getting rid of Ella, particularly since she hadn't revealed the name of the doctor whom she thought was going to be her boss.
The second case was just as intriguing. It concerned a girl by the name of Mavis Young, age twenty-one, from Abilene, Kansas, Mavis was tall, black-haired, had had two years of business school and an excellent record in high school. Her mother had remarried about a year before Mavis left home, and apparently Mavis didn't get along any too well with her stepfather. So one day she picked up and left, and the stepfather had found that he was about a thousand dollars short. One night Mavis had called her mother long-distance, after having made two previous attempts at calling station-to-station, when her stepfather had answered the phone both times, on both of which occasions she had hung up at once. But that one call had been completed and had left her mother reasonably sure that Mavis was calling from San Francisco. She had urged her mother not to worry because she was going to get a job as a private secretary to a fascinating man who had retired and who wanted to write his memoirs. He had lived in Europe for a time, Mavis had told her mother, and he spoke several languages, and was ever so considerate. She would write later on as soon as the job was hers. She had also pleaded with her mother to get rid of the stepfather and join her in San Francisco.
After that nothing. Both Mavis and Ella had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed them up. And here again the linking pattern was that from what little biographical information Henry Wadsworth had been able to find, according to the medical records Dr. Weirath had practiced in Vienna; a cultured Viennese was sure to speak a couple of languages.
They could just be coincidences, but the more he thought about those two cases, the more he got that tingling feeling up and down his spine that told him he was right. But you couldn't walk into Homicide or Vice and tell the hardboiled cops in charge that you were positive that a certain Dr. Weirath had made away with Ella and Mavis just on the strength of what he had picked up yesterday and what he had found wading through all these files of disappearances of attractive girls. And you couldn't get a warrant on such flimsy evidence, and still less could you go before a grand jury. No, he was going to have to have to catch Dr. Weirath with the goods, or maybe with his pants down literally . . .
* * *
Ernestine Helms had asked her wonderful new lover what he planned on doing with the red-haired girl who persisted in calling herself "Vilma." He had patted her on the bottom, winked, and said, "I'm going to see if a certain very wealthy friend of mine from Houston is interested in redheads, my dear. Don't you worry your pretty head about her. And then there's a certain owner of half a dozen dress shops in Dallas, who's just dying to buy a well-trained little slave, because she hates men worse than poison."
"Silly woman," Ernestine Helms had giggled, and then she pressed her body against his and gave him a long Frenchkiss.
After she had driven herself back home, Dr. Weirath went up to his bedroom to take a nap. Jan, biting her nails and pacing the floor, had waited for him to summon her to his study to continue giving dictation and discuss the plans for the forthcoming spectacle at which Jason Barnes would be an honored spectator. But he hadn't. Half a dozen times she was on the verge of impetuously bursting in on him and demanding to know just how much Ernestine meant to him, and just as many times she told herself she was acting like a little jealous fool, like a high school girl with her first crush. Finally, she was able to convince herself that perhaps, after all, he being such a sophisticated and much-traveled man, he was inclined to want a little variety now and then. Well, that was understandable. She would have to play her cards right and get him to marry her. Then she could dictate with whom he would do any fucking. She would see to it that such a girl was a slave, captive, forced to fuck under the lash and torture, not doing it of her own volition, not posing any threat to her, Jan Caldwell.
When he awoke refreshed from his nap, Dr. Weirath put on his robe and sandals, after having taken a quick shower and shaved himself. Then he telephoned his beautiful red-haired secretary on one of the intercom house phones, there being at least a dozen extensions throughout the house. He soothed her, told her that he would take her out to dinner at Fleur de Lys at about eight o'clock and that she could telephone for reservations. Jan Caldwell's suspicions were mollified, and at the end of the conversation she was whispering to him, "Oh darling, I've been so upset all day, you know-but maybe after tonight, we can be together more than we are? I said I was your slave, don't you remember?"
"Yes, did, my darling. I haven't forgotten that. I'm going to make your wish come true," he had replied. And after she had hung up, he chuckled to himself and lit a cigar. Oh yes, Jan Caldwell was going to be a slave all right. But only until he could get legal title transferred to a certain Houston multimillionaire.
He was in the cellar now, unlocking the store room in which the naked red-haired "Vilma" had been incarcerated. He lifted her up in his arms, and then carried her into the partitioned-off section of the huge cellar in which the loge seats and the stage and the paraphernalia of torture and whipping devices were located. Quickly he tied her wrists to the peak of a metal isosceles triangle, then squatted down and fixed her ankles to the widely-spread legs of the apparatus. She was thus spread-eagled, stretched tautly, her magnificent body shuddering, and as he removed the blindfold and then the gag, he murmured, "Now then, you stubborn little bitch, you're going to tell me more about yourself. You know, when you came here applying for the job as secretary, you told me a cock-and-bull story about your background. I didn't believe it for a minute. All you said was that you're from Los Angeles, but you didn't give your rightful name, and you didn't tell me who your parents are. Now you're going to tell me all these things, my dear, or I'm going to have to be very severe with you. You've had a taste of what can be done with you already, I think. Now then, in about nine days we're going to have quite a gala celebration here. A very select party of my particular friends. And if you don't tell me what I want to know now, I'm going to put you up on a stage, this very one you're on now, and you're going to be punished. Then you're going to be auctioned off and sold. Just the way they did in Europe and the Orient centuries ago. A slave who has to do whatever her master and mistress tells her, or else be whipped and tortured. Now then, my dear, let's start all over again. What's your name?"
"You can kill me, but I won't tell you anything," the coppery-haired, weary young woman gasped. She hadn't been fed since breakfast and she was thirsty, as well as weak from the tortures which Harold Buttridge and his niece Ernestine had inflicted upon her during that hellish weekend following her presentation on Dr. Weirath's stage. But she was still courageous and defiant.
"I'm sorry you persist in such stupidity, my dear. I know your name isn't Vilma. I'm much older than you, and I have a pretty good memory. I'm sure you picked up the name from that silent-screen actress who was with John Gilbert, didn't you? Vilma Banky. Very ingenious, my dear, but now the time for all this pretense is over."
Flinging off his robe, standing there naked, his prick beginning to harden at the sight of her voluptuous beauty, even though he had paid several tributes to Ernestine's insatiable cunt, Dr. Weirath now strode to a low teakwood table on which lay several instruments of flagellation. He stood there scrutinizing them carefully, then reached out his hand and picked up a long-handled bath-brush with extremely hard bristles, and gloatingly showed it to the shuddering young woman, then approached her and patted it lightly over her titties. The girl closed her eyes and stiffened herself, catching her breath.
Very carefully he began to pat each of her nipples, first the left, then the right, alternating in a monotonously regular pattern of horrid pain. The stiff bristles picked the dainty buds till they became dark and swollen with the afflux of blood. In about four minutes the naked young woman was groaning aloud, her fingers clawing the air and the metal peak of the triangle, and sweat rivuleted down her body from her armpits.
"Still stubborn? Well, I'm not tired at all, and you've such a lovely body and it's such a joy to punish it." His voice was husky and throbbing with rut now. He put the brush to her navel and began to pat it, with quicker and harsher blows. Soon the captive could not suppress her cries, and her face twisted restlessly from side to side, her eyes glassy and hugely dilated, her nostrils flaring and shrinking.
Pausing a moment, he lit a cigarette and considered her. To him, a woman's body was most beautiful when it was under the duress of a whipping or torure. To dominate and conquer, to subjugate and brutalize a sensitive and intelligent female, above all else, thrilled him as nothing else could. In his early practice, he had been fawning and servile, and many a wealthy woman had snubbed him and sneered at him, treated him like a servant even though he had had the title of "Arzt" (Doctor). Now things were different. Now they grovelled at his feet, pleaded with him, swore they would do anything in the world, endure the most ingenious torments he could devise for them. Just as he would punish Jan Caldwell for spying on him, thinking that just because he had given her the privilege of lending her cunt to his strong prick, she was his equal. Bah! She was a bitch like all the others.
Crushing out his cigarette under his heel, he now resumed the torture of the shuddering, groaning naked redhead. He began to spank the inside of her thighs from the knee to the crotch and back again with the bristled side of the brush. Sometimes the blows were quick, sometimes he paused interminably before applying the next one, and sometimes they were hard, with full force. Five minutes more of this, and the captive was shrieking aloud, twisting and jerking and writhing, all her nerves in flux, exacerbated and agonized.
"Well now, my dear, so far I've been rather lenient with you. I appreciate that dear Ernestine and her stupid uncle were a bit harsh with you, and that's why I spared you so far." His face hardened. "But unless you tell me what I really want to know, I'm going to have to hurt you. It won't mar your beauty, don't worry about that, but you'll feel real pain. It won't be the whip-you've had enough of that, I think. Have you ever heard of what the French did with their Algerian female prisoners when they wouldn't tell them what they wanted to know? Especially when it was about where the guerrilla forces were hidden. No? Well, my dear, I'm going to supplement your knowledge of history, then, shall we say?"
Chuckling to himself, he lifted the brush and gave her a last bang on her right tittie, right over the nipple and the aureole, and the victim shrieked and lunged, twisting her body in the most salacious way imaginable. Then, casting the brush aside, Dr. Weirath went to the back of the stage and brought back what looked like an electrician's toolkit. Opening it, he took out a small black box with several dials and levers, set it up at the back of the wall and taking its cords, plugged the prongs of the connecting fixture into a light socket at the base of the stage wall. This done, he delved into the kit again and came out with pair of metal clamps with tiny spiked jaws, attached to green-covered wires about ten feet long, which ended in jack plugs. These plugs he at once thrust into two receptacle holes in the black box, and then straightened and came towards the trembling, moaning naked redhead tethered to the triangle.
'These, my dear, are electrodes," he explained as if he were a professor lecturing back in the University of Vienna. "They can be fastened to any portion of the anatomy desired, as you see. One or both. That black box is a regulator of electricity. I set an indicator to a certain voltage, pull a switch, and after another dial has been set to regulate how long the duration of the shock will last, the person to whom these electrodes are fixed will suffer unspeakable pain. It isn't fatal, unless you've got a bad heart, and I've determined that you have not."
"Oh, you monster!" the girl groaned. "You horrible, unspeakable insane monster!"
His lips tightened, and his eyes blazed with savage fury. "You're going to apologize for those words, my dear. The name of Doctor Weirath is still highly thought of back in Vienna. My book on the law of the emotional synapses is still referred to by young students in the field of psychiatry, believe me. Oh yes, you're going to regret those words. Let's see now, where shall we place those electrodes. Oh yes, and there's another feature of the box. I set still another dial, and you won't know whether you'll be infused with electricity from one or both or none of the electrodes. It makes it something of a game, don't you think?"
He raised his right hand and applied the electrode's jaws, opening them wide, towards the young woman's left nipple. With a shriek she tried to throw herself backward, and failing to do so, twisted and writhed, while he cackled with joy. But she could not escape, tethered as she was, and at last the electrode clamped its vicious biting kiss against the already darkly swollen, bruised and pain-wracked nipple bud. A wild cry indicated the pain of that preparation.
"Now the other. Let me see. An even more sensitive place, of course. I have it-right here!" his left hand forced the jaws of the horrid metal clamp toward the soft pouting, delicately gaping lips of the captive's defenseless cunthole!
"Owwawwaahrrreeeeoyeowwww!! ! " The red-haired victim's shriek was clamorous, prolonged, till her throat choked with it, as she stared down at the long green wire extending to the black box beyond, and arched and squirmed, for the biting of the tiny spikes in the electrode clamp were probing the tender flesh of one of the labia minora.
"Your last chance, my dear," he chuckled as he straightened, his prick monstrously erect now, a blue vein throbbing in his left temple. "No? Well, you've only yourself to blame. I'm going to start it for five seconds. I'll tell you this now, and it will be the only time. After that, you'll have to guess, and whether I use both of them or just one. If that doesn't work, we can try putting both the electrodes in that dainty little brown hole of yours, my dear."
He walked back to the box, and the young woman shuddered, making mewling little sounds that were hardly human. Her mouth gaped, her eyes bulged, and they were glazed from all the merciless torment she had already endured and from this new horror which was almost too much for her mind to cope with.
He squatted down beside the box, glanced back at her with a mocking little smile, then moved the dial to the time-five seconds of current. A strong, healthy bitch like this could take up to about seventy-five watts before it became really serious. One girl-what was her name, oh yes, Ella something-had taken as many as a hundred in two ten-second bursts. He had to give her adrenalin, injected into the vein nearest the heart, before she'd come around. Well, she'd died anyway, after what she'd been through with that retired hunter and fisherman who'd had a little ranch in Doranda and who had bought her to work in the fields by day and to be fucked and whipped by night.
He thought he would begin on this little slut who called herself Vilma with just one of the electrodes, the one biting her nipple would do very nicely. He touched the switch and a low hum was heard. Instantly the young woman stiffened, her head flung back, and then with all her might she tried to jerk at her bound wrists high above her head and a thin, strident scream was torn from her, a scream that did not end until the current was turned off. Her body was bathed in sweat, and by now Dr. Weirath's prick was nigh unto bursting.
"I'll give you about a minute of rest, my dear, then we'll begin our little game. See if you can guess how long it's going to be next time and which, or both or none of the electrodes is going to carry the juice to you." Then he laughed bawdily. "I imagine you'll prefer the juice of a man's cock to this kind, you slut. But you've brought it on yourself, you know. And you've insulted me, a master in the psychiatric field, whose genius hasn't yet been recognized as it deserves by the world."
Grinding his teeth with fury in reminiscence over the thoughts his last words caused him, Dr. Weirath went back to the box and reset the dials. This time it would be ten seconds, and in her cunt, but only twenty-five watts. He touched the switch, and once again the purring, softly whirring sound was heard. And this time the naked redhead lunged like a dervish, swinging, twisting, tossing her hips, her eyes showing the whites as they rolled back, her nostrils shrinking and expanding hugely, her mouth gaping until it seemed as if the lips themselves must crack, while a raucous yell, bestial and inhuman, was torn from her. Her thighs made very effort to clench, as if by so doing they could shake away the spiked jaws of the electrode pinching her tender cunt lip. And then the whirring sound stopped and she sagged in her bonds, her bubbies rising and falling in a violent turbulence.
He came towards her slowly, lighting another cigarette from the pack lying on the table with all the whips. He raised the lighted tip towards her, and with his left hand raised her chin until her head was erect. Slowly, listlessly, her vacant, maddened gaze crystallized and fixed on him. Then she uttered a shriek and tried to lunge back. The smell of her sweat and of her urine came to his nostrils now. He chuckled again: "A very interesting reaction, my dear. Yes, that was just one, and it was less current, too. The next time it's going to be both, I promise you that, and I'll give you sixty watts through each electrode. You'll have it for ten seconds, and it won't be pleasant for you."
"Oh God, No! I can't-I can't bear it-it's too much-have pity-kill me no please-don't-not anymore-" her voice was faint now, panting, sometimes unintelligible.
He put the cigarette to her navel, just for a moment, and this time she jerked away, shrieking shrilly.
"Your reactions are just fine. You're a healthy bitch, and you'll bring a healthy price at the auction. It's this next Friday week," Dr. Weirath smiled. "Well, I'm going back to the box and reset the dials, my dear."
"Oh no-I'll talk-I'll tell you-oh my God, what a fool I've been-just because I ran awa-yand from him-he couldn't ever be so cruel-no matter what he was-as you-oh, you horrid insane beast-I'll tell-I'll tell!"
"Then do so without these insults of yours, you slut, or I'll let you have the current just the same," he hissed. He put his cigarette to the pulse-hollow of her throat, just enough to singe the soft, warm skin. Once again she cried out, and then she babbled.
"My name is Laura-Laura-and I ran away-from-my-from my stepfather in Los Angeles and you can kill me-but I don't want to hurt her-oh my poor sister-how could I do it to her-"
'That's enough for now, my dear. I'll let you rest a little. And I'll give you some food and wine. Later on, perhaps we'll go back to this. Just a stepfather and a sister, eh? Well, I'm patient. But first, you know, I really must have a little payment for all the trouble I've taken with you. You've really been very stubborn."
He crushed the cigarette under his heel again, then seized her by the titties and with a shout of overpowering rut, thrust his prick against her tortured cunt. She moaned and closed her eyes, whimpering, as Dr. Weirath forced himself into her to the hilt, then fucked her brutally.
CHAPTER XIII
Henry Wadsworth had decided to talk over his problem with Lieutenant Tom Meaghen, who this year was in charge of the Vice Squad and who last year had been head of the bunko detail. Meaghen was an able cop, cynical and efficient, who had few illusions about the motives of criminals and would-be criminals. He'd had dinner at Original Joe's with Meaghen a couple of times and had understood the lieutenant's philosophy of life. A tough, practical cop who didn't go in for hunches too often, just once in a while in the absence of other, more tangible corroborative evidence, he might just listen.
Listen Meaghen did at lunch on the Wednesday afternoon before the momentous Friday night which was to lure the multimillionaire Jason
Barnes from Houston to Oakland. He made the obvious answers, and Henry Wadsworth had expected them.
"Look Wadsworth, what have you got? A flimsy deck of cards that's going to topple the minute you stand them up on the table in front of the grand jury. Two missing and unaccounted for, both attractive, trying to find work here in San Francisco, and not a trace left today. One of them claiming she's going to help some fellow write his memoirs, the other one says she's going to be a private secretary to a man who knows a lot about human nature. Great! Nothing sinister there. San Francisco has over six hundred thousand citizens, most "of them industriously trying to mind their own business, and trying to make ends meet. You can't start a houe-to-house canvass for a potential murderer or a white-slaver. And then you've got the hearsay testimony of a call girl-and I don't want to know her name because officially I'd have to run her in if I did, and I don't want to violate your confidence. So she heard a couple of guys talking about a kook who runs orgies. Well, that could be just whore-talk, Wadsworth."
"I know all that. Lieutenant," Henry Wadsworth patiently explained. "All I'm asking is that maybe you have one of your plainclothes men snoop around this Dr. Weirath's place. There's a weekend coming up, and don't forget the big order for the standing rib roast for a man coming in from out of town with imagine tastes, nothing but the best."
"I'd like to help you, Wadsworth. You're an honest private eye, and you don't take shakedowns.
Tell you what-you've got me interested now. It wouldn't do any harm to put Joe Blanton on duty tomorrow night, just to case the neighborhood and see what's going on. Maybe Saturday, too. But that's all I'm going to promise you."
"You're an okay guy, Lieutenant Meaghen."
"No bullshit, please. All I'll do is let you pay for the lunch."
"Fair enough," Henry Wadsworth chuckled as he walked toward the cashier, paid the tab for both of them, and bought himself a good cigar, and one for his luncheon companion . . .
It was Friday evening, six-thirty, to be exact. The beautifully furnished and spacious dining room in the home of Dr. Helmuth Weirath was ablaze with lights from the chandelier. The suave retired psychiatrist sat at the head of the table. To his right was Jason Barnes, a gangling, white-haired, sharp-faced man of about medium height, will dull eyes and a bony nose and angular jaws. Ernestine Helms sat across the table from the multimillionaire, and beside her was her uncle, Harold Buttridge. Seated at Barnes' right was buxom, auburn-haired Mrs. Claudia Raymer, a perverse forty-year-old divorcee, wealthy in her own right and the recipient of a huge cash settlement from her polo-playing industrialist husband. In the four years which had succeeded her divorce, she had swung to the dyke side of bed, and she had often "rented" slave girls from Dr. Helmuth Weirath. Tonight she proposed to acquire one permanently, as she maintained a lovely hacienda in the province of Guadalajara.
There were just two other guests, a married couple from Los Angeles, Mr. and Mrs. Perry Evander. Perry Evander was fifty, bald, with enormous bifocals and a little goatee which he kept stroking as he eyes watched Ernestine throughout the dinner. His wife, who sat at his right, was Joanne Evander. Her brown, two-toned hair styled in a formal chignon gleamed in the light, and she wore a silver lame evening gown cut so low that practically half of her cantaloupe-like closely set bubbies were exposed in all their pink-sheened splendor. Perry was the owner of a very profitable heavy-equipment manufacturing plant in West Los Angeles, and a sadistic lecher whose favorite sport was whipping girls, preferably between the ages of thirteen to sixteen. His wife shared his penchant, though occasionally she would enjoy a session with a boy no older whom she would first severely thrash and then seduce while her husband watched, his girl-slave crouching between his thighs and furling her tongue against his almost impotent cock.
It had been difficult to procure juveniles to satisfy the debased desires of this enormously wealthy and strangely contrasting couple. So, barring that, Dr. Weirath had sometimes arranged for the "rental" of a girl slave in her early twenties or eighteen or nineteen, who would be dressed in a little-girl costume of rompers, pinafore or tunic, bobby socks, sandals, her hair plaited into a thick braid and decorated with a ribbon bow, no makeup, and in every way the illusion of a child just out of puberty. It was Dr. Weirath's intention tonight to sell the redhead Laura to the Evanders, and he had already discussed with Perry Evander the proposition in his study before dinner was announced. Two more torture sessions with the stubborn and courageous girl had failed to elicit anything from her further than her original avowal that her name was Laura, that she came from Los Angeles, and that she had run away to escape the nastiness of a detested stepfather.
Finally, at the same table, at the other end opposite Dr. Weirath was Jan, magnificently arrayed in a filmy green chiffon dress with form-fitting black slip-bra combination sewn in. The gauzy transparency of the chiffon gown allowed the provocative black lingerie to be seen quite plainly, emphasizing the magnificence of her hips and loins. She wore smoke-colored nylons, the tabs from a narrow black satin-elastic garter belt hooking to the tops, and black high heeled pumps. Dr. Weirath had cajoled her into being the guest of honor, intimating that tonight she would take her rightful place with him. Ecstatic and completely oblivious to the scene she had walked in on the other day with Ernestine Helms, Jan Caldwell firmly believed that her adored employer-lover would announce their engagement and forthcoming marriage-as he had guilefully led her to believe. She could not know that she was on display in that most enticing costume for the eyes alone of Jason Barnes, who hid his feelings and remained expressionless throughout the dinner, though not without several covert glances at this prize whom he was to acquire for the staggering sum of $50,000 (after much haggling with Dr. Weirath).
After the superb beef roast, green beans with almonds in butter, prefaced by a cream of mushroom soup with sherry, a ripe Casaba melon, enhanced with an incomparable salad and ended with a Grand Marnier souffle and expresso coffee, then liqueurs, Dr. Weirath cleared his throat, glanced at the eager faces around him, and then declared, "This is a special meeting of Les Masques. At your leisure, ladies and gentlemen, we shall meet downstairs and begin the festival of servitude and domination."
In about half an hour, everyone, including Jan, was seated in the loge seats, while Dr. Weirath, who had put on a black rubber one-piece body-sheath, sandals, and a black Venetian facemask, took the center of the stage.
"First, I offer you the spectacle of domination by the whip and miscegenation," he announced. He moved to the side of the stage as a massive bald Negro wearing a tiger skin emerged amid applause. He had found this roustabout on the Oakland docks, promised him a fabulous premium for serving as a trainer and stud, and the Negro had eagerly accepted. He picked up a long carriage whip made of silk with a pointed tip to which several strands of wire had been sewn, and he had already practiced for a week on mannequins to develop his dexterity with this insidious instrument. He was able to strip naked a girl from the distance of the lash, which was some fifteen feet. Now a hushed silence of expectation fell over the select group of spectators, and then two matrons, clad exactly as prison matrons might be, fat, dowdy and sadistic women whom Dr. Weirath had recruited from a brothel in Oakland, pushed out onto the stage from the other side a blindfolded, black-haired young woman, her hair tumbling nearly to her waist, clad only in a red cotton dress and slip, bra and panties, her bare feet thrust into sandals. She was nineteen and had been transported from New Orleans to this brothel, guilefully duped by a suave pimp who had proposed marriage, only to reveal to her what his true status was to be. She had revolted and refused to take a customer, so Dr. Weirath had arranged with the owner of the brothel to have her punished and then sold to the spectator with the highest bid, for a weekend . . . just as the redhead Laura had been disposed of to Ernestine Helms and her corrupt, elderly uncle.
Dr. Weirath now addressed the trembling, blindfolded girl: "Nothing will happen to you if you obey, Fern. No, don't try to take off the blindfold, or you'll be severely punished. "Now I'm going to give you your first order-take off your dress."
"I won't-I want to go back home. You haven't got any right to keep me here like this, I'm not a bad girl, I'm not," Fern sobbed in a delicious Southern accent which stamped her origin.
Dr. Weirath made a sign to the Negro who drew back the whip, then cast it out as one casts out a fishing line. The girl let out a shriek and recoiled, for the wire-tipped end of the lash had struck with unerring aim against the modest bodice of her dress and ripped it down to her waist.
"Tom is going to rip your clothes off you, Fern, if you don't take them off yourself," Dr. Weirath resumed. "Your last chance now. Obey!"
"I won't!" In desperate rebellion, the Louisiana brunette reached behind her and frantically tore off the black bandanna covering her eyes, and then turned and tried to run. But Tom's whip snaked out again, coiling around her waist, and the shirring tear of fabric told once again his remarkable accuracy with thisingenious whip. With a scream of pain the girl clutched at her belly, and again the whip was drawn back, coiled in the air and swung out towards her. This time it ripped the back of her dress at the neck straight down to the waist, and an angry red line was seen on the creamy pallor of her naked skin. The spectators applauded thunderously.
The two matrons stood there with folded arms, blocking her exit, and she turned back in frantic terror, sobbing, pleading to be spared. But only the whip answered her. Again and again Tom swung out the lash, and now the brassiere was slashed in two and fell away, exposing high set, beautifully rounded firm titties with dark-coral wide aureole and saucy nipple buds. Frantically Fern tried to cover them with her arms. Now the snake-whip coiled out once more, and now it demolished her already tattered dress, and it fell to the floor, festooning her ankles. The slip came under attack next, and a single shoulder-strap was deftly cut away. A tiny tickle of blood was seen on the dimpled white shoulder, and a piercing screech of pain rose in tribute to this expertly wielded whip.
like one driven by a demon around the stage, running to this side and that, screaming and praying for mercy, Fern tried to escape Tom's lash, but she could not. Five minutes later she was reduced to only her panties, and even these had been cut at the back of the waistband, diagonally down her left buttock which bore an angry, darkening welt. Exhausted, agonized, she sank down on one knee and the whip lashed out again to rip the right side of the panties and the hip, and once more blood was drawn. She clutched at the wound and tried to rise, but once more Tom cast out the hellish lash and tore away her panties entirely, amid wild applause. The thick black bush was almost obscene against the white dream of her round, full thighs.
Now, sobbing plaintively, one hand clasped over her pussy, the other hand over her panting titties, Fern crouched there in a pose not un-like that of "September Morn."
"Now then, you bitch," Dr. Weirath snarled, "get down on your knees and crawl over to Tom and let him fuck you. If you don't, he'll flay you alive with the whip, strip off every inch of skin you've got. And you can be sure no decent man will want you. I'm going to count five-one-two-thre-"
The whip rose in the air, and Fern clasped her hands in prayer. "Oh Gawd, don't-okay, I'll do it-I can't stand anymore-oh, have pity!"
"Then do what you were told to do, you bitch," the leader of "Les Masques" demanded.
Whimpering, crawling forward on her knees, her bubbies and bottom-cheeks swaying, the naked young virgin moved toward the Negro. He in turn deftly unfastened the safety-pins which held the tiger skin together and let it drop, revealing his monstrously swollen prick. At the sight of it, Fern recoiled, putting a hand to her mouth, her eyes bulging with terror and loathing. But it was too late. Nor did the Negro wait for her capitulation: Instead, seizing her by the armpits, he dragged her over to a low, flat whipping bench, flung her down upon it, and a despairing shriek rang out as he forced himself between her struggling thighs, and with a massive lunge tore through her cherry and unvirgined her.
There were gasps and sighs and murmurs of erotic arousal from the witnesses as the massive roustabout humped the naked girl.
And when it was over, the two matrons dragged the whimpering, bleeding, violated captive off the stage, while Dr. Weirath auctioned her off to the Evanders, for a weekend to be enjoyed here in his own mansion, in his most luxurious bedroom, for a price of a thousand dollars.
Now it was time for the presentation of Laura, who would be offered for sale to the mature Lesbian as well as to the Evanders. She had been dressed in little-girl costume, her long hair drawn into a pony tail with a ribbon bow, a tiny sleeveless blouse, yellow rompers, yellow bobby socks and open-toed sandals. Her wrists were tied behind her back, and she was blindfolded. The same two matrons who had handled Fern dragged her out and strapped her to a whipping stool with her bottom towards the audience. Perry Evander slyly opened his fly and began to masturbate, while his other hand thrust under his young wife's gown and, finding her furry cunt (for she wore no panties), he began to frig her as part of the realization of his lust-fantasy.
Twenty-five strokes of the paddle were laid on by the Negro who had used the whip on Fern, and Laura shrieked and twisted in her bonds, pleading helplessly for mercy. Perry Evander hoarsely called out, "If I can buy this bitch outright, how much do you want for her?"
"Fifteen thousand dollars."
"Done! I'll have a check for you and we'll leave with her Monday. Thanks, Helmuth. You're a prince."
"It's my pleasure to serve the members of Les Masques" Dr. Weirath hypocritically beamed. "And now, I have a special treat for our honored guest, the distinguished industrialist and capitalist, Jason Barnes."
There was polite applause, in which Jan Caldwell joined. Then, at Dr. Weirath's sign, the two matrons descended from the stage, came toward the loge seats where Jan Caldwell was sitting. Without warning, they seized her and dragged her up onto the stage.
"Helmuth-what in God's name are you doing-no, take your hands off me, you filthy bitches-Helmuth-Helmuth-you owe me an explanation-is this your idea of a practical joke?" Jan cried.
"Hardly, my dear. You've become a little too possessive, and also jealous. I don't permit that in any woman. You said before, you remember, that you wanted to be my slave. Well, I have accepted that. And as your master, I have every right to transfer that possession of your servitude over to anyone whom I choose. Mr. Barnes, shall
I proceed?"
"Please do," the white-haired man gasped, licking his lips and lighting a cigar, trembling with anticipation.
Jan Caldwell fought as one possessed as the two matrons calmly stripped her naked, except for her stockings and garter belt. Then she began to curse loudly as they fixed her to the triangle, facing toward the audience.
Now the Negro advanced, grinning from ear to ear, naked as the day he was born, his prick once more massive. In his hand he held a three-thonged leather whip. Slashing her across the titties, he drew a scream of agony from her.
"Don't spoil the bitch too much," Jason Barnes called impatiently.
"I shan't. Don't draw blood or mark her permanently, Tom," Dr. Weirath called. The big Negro grinned and nodded.
A dozen lashes over her bottom made Jan Caldwell lunge and twist in the most salacious way imaginable. Finally she begged for mercy and began to entreat Helmuth Weirath how loyal she had been, how she had given herself to him un-questioningly.
The Negro halted now and seized a pair of tweezers. Crouching, he began to yank out her pussy curls, while she shrieked and lunged about like one demented.. . . .
The disgruntled chauffeur, Joseph Bronty, had just been fired by his wealthy widow-mistress, because she had tried to summon him to her bed and found that he was a rather inept lover after all. Fuming with anger, out of a job and deprived of the money he had intended to make from her-partly by theft of her jewels-Bronty decided to get back at the man who had caused him to be in this awkward situation, Dr. Helmuth Weirath. He had gone to the Hall of Justice Friday morning, and before a stenographer who took shorthand, he rambled on about the mysteries of the cellar, Dr. Weirath's long-distance phone calls, the curious relationship between Jan Caldwell and the psychiatrist. The information was given to Lieutenant Meaghen, and besides the one plainclothes man who was to be on duty tonight in front of the Weirath mansion, a squad was sent . . .
By the time Jan Caldwell's pussy curls had been pulled out, she was almost fainting, and she was mumbling and babbling unintelligible pleas for mercy. Now the Negro approached her, his hands fondling her welted titties, his prick nuzzling her chafed pink cunt. At that moment the electronic alarm rang. Dr. Weirath uttered a cry of consternation: "My God, what's that?"
He turned to the wall and pushed a switch, and a closed circuit TV set immediately showed the group of police officers at the door. There was wild confusion now among the members of "Les Masques." Jan Caldwell managed to get loose in the melee, for the Negro had untied her and was about to carry her off to the same whipping bench he had used for Fern, when this raid occurred. Naked in her hose and garter belt, she scrambled out of the basement and up the stairs, opened the door and admitted the police. Then, overcome by pain, she collapsed unconscious . . .
It was a week later, and Henry Wadsworth was happily fucking Sally Durmont. They were going to be married in two weeks, and they were sampling the joys of married life in advance. Sally and her sister Laura had been ecstatically reunited, and after she had convalesced for a few days, Laura had promised that she would find a good job, with Henry Wadsworth's aid, and forget the nightmare. Dr. Weirath and his accomplices were being indicted and would face long terms in prison. The irony of it was that Jan Caldwell, who had been a victim at the end, would also be indicted for her complicity . . . But as Henry Wadsworth's prick dug back and forth in Sally's sheath, the only torture either of them wanted was the exquisite agony of prolongation until both of them should shudderingly burst into rapturous fulfillment.
