Despite ERA's impact on the American nuclear family, financial security is still a foremost factor in marital happiness. In our materialistic age, it is tempting for a wife to judge her husband according to her father's accomplishments. If Daddy made $40,000 at age 45, then hubbie should gross double that at age
This fallaciously ignorant judgment of one's mate has ripped apart more marriages than infidelity. Infidelity can be discreetly arranged, but vocal chastising can only be displayed as obdurate nagging, chiseling away at a husband's masculinity and sex drive. The husband's neglect is then the first link in a chain reaction often leading to divorce.
The heroine of The Captive Runaway by Edward Mitchell presents a glaring example of this sociological truism. Combine the elements of a husband's intense dislike for his father-in-law savage sadism and masochism, and you have the makings of a sensual nightmare that became Sherrie Turner's reality.
In the quiescent north country, behind the walls of a chalet, Sherrie is held captive in the murderous clutches of a madman and his lesbian accomplice who mastermind the disappearance of hapless runaways such as our heroine. How is she freed and who was the behind-the-scenes criminal who abetted in this treachery?
Turn the page and find out.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
"I'm serious, Jack . . . either you haul yourself off that sofa and take out the garbage or I'll . . . I'll . . . Ungghh!" Sherrie balled up delicate fists so hard, red nail marks jabbed her palms. Glowering down at his handsome, unshaven face, she noted the reddened eyeballs. "You're drunk again . . . it's only four o'clock in the afternoon!" The auburn-haired housewife wailed in a soprano twang that made strange accompaniment to Howard Cossel's bass play-by-play.
From the television set behind her, the Dallas
Cowgirls theme song blasted from Texas stadium.
"Eh, move over . . . you're blockin' my sight.. . " Jack's blurred vision focused on the half-naked Dallas Cheerleaders, flopping pompoms and shimmying hips in goose- bumping costumes of bosom bulging cowgirl vests and mini-skirts slunk to the hips, drawing a fine line of decency between thigh and pubis. "Move over . . . I wanna see the Cowgirls."
Waving his wife aside, he wiggled his stockinged toes and let a lecherous grin mock his wife's domestic demands.
"I will not leave you alone!" Sherrie snatched the beer can from his lazy clutch and shot him a murderous look. Behind the nipple-popping jersey, her melonous breasts heaved with unspent emotion and boiling frustration. Her rosy upper lip curled with disgust, showing off pearly teeth. Blood shot to her apple cheeks, highlighting a pair of Siamese-green cat eyes that glared with predatory intensity now. Hissing between clenched teeth, she slammed the beer can down on the end table with an eardrum bursting clatter that shook Jack's glazed eyes off a swaying pair of Dallas Cowgirl buttocks.
Sherrie glowered down at her husband. "Just because Daddy fired you, that doesn't mean you can live like a pig in my house!" Look at this place . . . and to think Daddy paid the mortgage so we could have a roof over our heads . . . because you can't even take care of yourself!" Gesturing toward the heap of beer cans that had turned the living room into an aluminum recycling plant, she kicked an empty can and sent it flying against a potted plant. "Don't you care about me?"
She bent over to stare him level in the eye; she shook him by the shoulders until she thought she heard a filling loosen. "Admit it, we never make love anymore!"
Jack wiped his nose with the back of his hand, yawned and rolled over onto his side. Reaching for the beer can that wasn't there, he grumbled from liquor-lazed lips: "Don' be a nag, Sher . . . lemme watch TV."
It was time to plunge the knife. "You wanna watch sexy cheerleaders, is that it, Mr. Jack Thompkins Turner?" In a flitter of movement, she yanked her t-shirt over her head and let shoulder-length auburn curls swirl about her creamy shoulders. They dipped down to the crisp white lace of her brassiere, cupping 34-D breasts that were puffed with strawberry tipped nipples, hardening with frustration. The creamy mounds swelled with angered frustration and a thousand other emotions her drunken husband had not helped vent.
A whine of the zipper and she'd kicked off her snug levis. The line of her blue lace trimmed bikini panties hugged the soft bowl of her flawless belly, just below the jewel of her navel. Any healthy man would have fallen to his knees in adoration of such Gothic beauty, would have salivated over the artful tufts of strawberry fleece peeking around the elastic that was cupping her pouting mound of venus.
Sherrie's alabaster flesh goose-bumped with frustration, her nipples hardened to bumblebees, and a tight congestion centered in the pit of her too long empty stomach. Never lifting her eyes from his unshaven face, she plucked two pillows from under his head and using them for pom poms did a cheerless cheer for the defeat of a withering marriage. Scissoring her legs, she jabbed the pillows at the air; it her breasts jiggled and thrust out exaggeratedly. "Jackie Turner's job took U dip "Sher, quit makin' an ass o' yourself. . . . "
"Since then, he can't find his dick. . . . " A jump and dip.
"Sher, I said cut it out.. . . ! "The jab at his manhood was not kindly taken.
"Pricks and dicks, his wife screamed. . . . "
When Jack didn't rouse to his defense, Sherrie jabbed a pillow at his face.
"What must I do. . . . " (half splits, one to each side, pompoms snapping high above her head) ". . . to net his cream. . . . "
"But Jackie boy.. . . "
She didn't see it coming.
It was a reflex action and Jack was no wife beater, but the insults, the nagging, the bitching of late. Christ, wasn't it bad enough that her asshole father had fired him a month before Christmas, without having to suffer the bitching at home?
Sherrie's half naked body flew sideways; her long legs draped over the end table. With a whimper of pain, she righted herself, inspected her legs for bruises and glared at him. Hate and fear filled her green eyes and her jaw ached from his fierce blow. She knew she shouldn't have mocked his impotence and neglect, but she'd wanted to hurt him as he'd been hurting her with his drunkenness and salacious remarks about other women-when he couldn't even please his wife.
Sure, his pride had attracted him to her at the onset, his one hundred percent masculinity. Daddy had warned her about such men; their tender egos and nasty tempers. Today marked the first instance of breaking rule number one: never hit your wife. She bit her lip and held her hand to her mouth, studying fearfully the reddened eyeballs glowering at her murderously. Slowly an inkling of that wicked glint lighting his eyeballs struck home . . . and she didn't like it.
Jack stood in his stocking feet and beer-dribbled t-shirt, his muscular build foreboding. He balled his hands up into fists and pumped adrenalin into the baseball-sized lumps of his muscles. The voice whispered of contriteness.
"Didn't mean to hit you. . . . "
To an irate wife, a husband's apology is sometimes the worst offering. It cements his guilt and after having suffered his fist, he is twice proven wrong. Now Sherrie gloried in brandishing the upper hand.
"Stay away from me, you, you beast! I could stand there half naked and you'd never kiss me . . . but, but one look at those cheap Dallas Cowgirls and you, you almost.. . . " She buried her head in her hands and sobbed, her creamy breasts heaving pathetically.
"Ah shit. . . . " Jack mumbled to himself, interpreting her emotions as pure hatred. In his drunken state, he neglected to consider the unpredictability that marks female emotions: hate-filled screams echo loves' sweet cravings. In his blurred consciousness, the alabaster goose-bumped body rippled with pure disgust . . . and that kindled something cruel and implacable within him.
His deep-set eyes narrowed to slits and a dull angry flush added fever to his alcohol reddened cheeks. So she thought he was a beast, huh? Thought he didn't have it in him to shove his bloated cock up her crying belly and make her uptight cunt cream for joy!
"So you don't think I'm good enough to touch you, is that it? You forget it was your fucking sweet-assed daddy who fired my ass . . . the chicken-shit asshole. Just because I happened to find out how Daddy paid for this house and anything his baby girl wants, he gets her!" Infuriated beyond control, he grabbed his wife by the neck. "Is that the kind of man you respect . . . an old fart who belongs behind bars?"
He shook her by the neck until her face turned red. Only then did he drop his hands. "For two years I've listened to you bitch about Daddy this, Daddy that. I got news for you, besides being a felon, your Daddy fucks the secretary! IS THAT WHAT YOU RESPECT IN A MAN?"
Sherrie coughed and whimpered, burying her head in her palms. Tears refused to flow, damming up behind terrifying emotions.
"I got news for you, Sherrie. I can be just as big an asshole as your ol' man."
Sherrie's cats' eye marble eyes paled to a fearful, cold hue. "W-what are you talking about, Jack . . . ? Jack . . . no, I. . . . " The message glinted in his eye.
"I mean I'm gonna fuck you like Daddy fucks your momma, little girl . . . cause that's what you've been crying for!"
"No . . . don't touch me!"
"What?" His upper lip curled; he wrapped his fingers in the curls at the nape of her neck and got a painful grip.
"Oh, Jack . . . please, please don't say those things about Daddy. Ouch.. . that hurts!" Her voice died in a whimper.
"It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it will when I shove my prick up your belly."
"No!"
Suddenly, his hand shot out again to cut her off. He jerked her roughly to her feet by his grip on her hair wrapped around his knuckles. "Get that bra off and let me see your tits!"
"You're drunk, Jack!" she spat in a last attempt at defiance.
"I SAID GET NAKED!"
Shivering with fear of the stranger towering over her, the trembling housewife slipped her hands behind her slender back and unsnapped the hook of her brassiere. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked breasts to chill in the November air. Beside her Jack fell so strangely silent, it added to her fears. If he ranted and raved, she could defend herself, but the silent weapon of seething reticence was disarming.
Reading the message in his blue eyes, she hooked her thumbs in her blue bikini panties and peeled them off over the rich swells of her hips, baring the pouting mound of Venus fringed with auburn curls that kissed the slender sensitivity of Sherrie's inner thighs. Out of the corner of one green eye, she caught the evil stare in his eye. Her nipples puckered.
Sherrie shook her head while tears of rage streamed down her satiny apple cheeks. "No! I'm your wife," she pleaded futilely. "Don't treat me like a cheap tramp!"
"Cunt!" Jack's free hand shot out to grab the milky swell of one heaving breast. Evilly, he rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, making her wince.
"Stop, you're hurting me, Jack! JACK!"
"You wanna be treated like a slut, I'll treat you like a slut!" Suddenly he threw her face down on the sofa, amidst a crinkle of yesterday's newspapers and the rattle of knocked over empty beer cans. She landed on her stomach, her dimpled buttocks tensed and naked to his gaze. He slapped her hard across those perfect half moons, grinning salaciously to himself before ripping off his own pants.
"Aaauuurrrgggghhh . . . Jack, you're going crazy . . . please let me up." But one foot on the small of her back held her securely in place, giving his hands freedom to pump at the bloated girth of his penis.
Sherrie could hear the lascivious grunts emanating from her husband's heaving chest as he pumped his penis with lustful vengeance. Lying pinned to the sofa with his stockinged foot holding her captive, she'd never felt more humiliated and worthless as a woman; she waited with trepidation for his next move.
"Go ahead and rape me, you bastard!" she spat into the sofa. "Just get it over with!" Tears had dried, but her eyes still stung with emotion too hurtful to vent. Wide set green eyes were smudged with mascaraed clown-like circles, flanking a perky upturned nose, reddened with grief.
"I can tell your cunts on fire for me, Sherrie . . . but that's too bad, because that ain't where you're gettin' it!"
In one gruff gesture, he flipped her over and fell to his knees beside her, mashing his alcohol tasting lips to hers in a demanding, raping kiss. Sherrie struggled wildly, futilely hammering her fists against his chest . . . to no avail. "You don't think I'm man enough for you-I'll teach you!"
He flung her back on the sofa, face down, this time.
He'd been ripped to the core, his male ego shredded by her vile tongue, and now anger boiled white hot inside his drunken brain. Not since his father-in-law had caught him eavesdropping on a telephone conversation and been given the green light and a mouthful of abuse, had he been this angry.
The lissome female body beneath him racked with sobs. She shuddered and convulsed, her heart clawing in her chest like a rutting animal trying to escape. She'd do anything to recant her tauntings of his masculinity . . . and all because of those insipid Dallas Cowgirls! Because of spite, she would be spited . . . but this would be more than mental torture, she intuited. Maybe if she tried to placate him, make a joke of it all . . . tell him Daddy was a fool. But it wan too late! She'd made her bed, and now she must lie in it!
A rasp tore from her throat when she felt his cold, clawing hands mauling her body. He kneaded her flesh like bread dough, running his hands along the smooth curves of her waist, and dropping lower then to knead the rounded half-moons of her buttocks. Roughly, he pulled them apart as if they were a cold English muffin to cleave for toasting. She shivered as a cold finger buttered the crease with strands of his pre-cum.
With Sherrie's moans of fear and pain singing in his ears, Jack experienced a flicker of sadistic glee that banished all tenderness that might creep into his cold heart. A deep ache gnawed at his loins; his cock felt hot to the touch . . . hot and hard and very potent! Between his knees, his testicles dragged like cement weights. And she accused him of having no sex drive!
His brain flamed with lustful anger and white hot revenge. Lewdly, he ran his hand along the sleekness of her naked inner thigh, all the way to the fleecy forest of her wetly, shivering pussy, which once cried for need . . . now it cried for fear.
Her body convulsed and she pulled back from the touch of his fingers tightening harder on her quivering cuntal flesh. "Shut your goddamned mouth and take your medicine . . . " She felt his evil words bathe her ear in foul smelling threats.
like animals in heat, he climbed atop his wife's shuddering nudity and aimed the long hard pole of his cock between her thighs. Treacherously, he aimed it towards the target of her cringing ass cheeks. The mushroomed head was flushed purple with the blood of his vengeful desire, and he trailed it along the moist, secret crevice, sparking a chill of forbidden lust. Luridly, his middle finger encircled the crinkled hairless opening of his wife's virgin anus and his eyes bulged with perverted excitement as he stared at the tiny brown eye.
Tentatively, he prodded at it, sensing the elasticity; he jabbed harder.
Sherrie screamed at the indecency of it. "Jack . . . no, that's not right . . . please put it in th-the other place," she stammered and begged, hating to use four letter words even now. That was a private place he was toying with, running his fingers around, testing for an experiment she cared not be victim of.
Her pleading incited him-the carrot before the horse's nose. With a grunt, he rammed his middle finger into the elastic eye of her anus . . . right up to the palm of his hand.
Jack chuckled to himself as he screwed harder into the dark hole, tight and warm and ridged. It closed like a surgeon's glove around his raping finger. To dislodge the painful intruder, Sherrie wriggled her impaled buttocks, but her frantic movements only let him bore deeper into her forbidden depths. The humiliated wife's cheeks scorched with shame. He's gone insane . . . he might kill me! This wasn't Jack, not her tender, protective Jack. Oh, things haven't been all his fault, she reasoned tardily. Daddy can be an awful bear at times . . .
Christ, what a tight little asshole. Funny I never tried it out before, Jack chuckled to himself in salacious glee as he began to withdraw his raping finger from her sucking anal depths.
His cock was a veritable cudgel now, pounding heavily, the veiny surface purpled with blood. Little stabs of licentious pleasure pricked at his naked, febrile fantasies. He wanted to humiliate his wife the best way a man can a woman . . . make her realize a man's cock was made for more than pissing.
Sherrie's fevered body cringed into the sofa, the pain in her rectum fiery. Sodomy was a sick, heinous crime left over from the medieval days . . . something one inflicted upon hapless animals, not one's wife!
Don't think, just try to hang onto sanity, she told herself. Yet this was unforgivable. Never could she think of Jack as her protective life mate, the man who'd sworn to stay by her through thick and thin.
And the finger raping her anus was anything but thin!
CHAPTER TWO
Sherrie's blood red nails clawed at the tweed sofa, wadding up the rough fabric in the palms of her sweating hands. His hands crawled over her trembling buttocks, pulling them apart with a cruel, mauling force. But it was his evil, drunken snickering as he slaved to brutalize her body that hurt worst of all-a deep pain in her heart.
Jack smiled sadistically, his lips drawn taut across strong, gnashing teeth. "Hold on, honey . . . I've been waiting two fuckin' weeks for this!"
The blood surging in Sherrie's veins turned to ice. Wasn't it humiliating enough to have one's husband riding your back like a humping dog, prodding at the most private, sensitive part of a human's body?
"Ahhhhhggghhh.. . ! " Her auburn head rose from the sofa pillow like a dying man gasping for his last breath. The naked, warmly seeping tip of Jack's spongy cock head had nudged at the door of her bowels. She felt his hand slip determinedly between her thighs to guide the cudgel at the shivering hole.
Jack licked his dry lips as he positioned his swollen cock at the tiny, elastic pucker of his wife's anus. A perverse excitement bordering on hysteria rippled through his strong body as he craned his neck to watch the ultimate intrusion. How the hell do homos manage things, he wondered drunkenly. Am much bigger than the tip of my little finger! But trusting nature's miraculous ways, he tossed aside useless speculation and gathered his strength.
"Never saw your asshole before Sherrie," he hissed, bathing her naked back in foul liquor breath.
Sherrie reared up like a cobra. "No, god no, Jack.. . you're crazy . . . please. . . ! "
Jack snickered nonchalantly. He flexed his strong loins and thrust his hips in an exploratory jab that brought renewed mewls of agony from his whimpering, prostrate wife.
"No, Jack . . . please think about what you're doing.. . ! "
"I ain't thinkin' . . . my cock's thinkin'. . . "
Sherrie tried to roll over onto her back. "Please, we'll make love like we always do . . . okay, honey?" she cajoled coldly.
One strong hand pinned her shoulder to the sofa. Jack's eyes nearly popped out of his head with sadistic pleasure as he tightened his savage grip on his wife's hips and reared back. He thrust into her with all his pent-up anger.
"AAAUUURRGGGHHH . . . NNNNOOOOO!" Sherrie's scream cut through a hail of spectator cheers as Chicago scored a touchdown.
Jack raised his head momentarily to see the scoreboard flash a fresh statistic. "Here's one for Chicago," he grunted through the cries of blinding pain ricocheting around his wife's anus.
Desperately, Sherrie struggled to roll her pelvis downward and free of the beastial attack, but he had her pinned. Reduced to a slavish victim of her husband's sodomy, even Daddy couldn't save her this time! Piteously she sobbed into the rough sofa, feeling the friction chafe her cheek, reddened and dampened with tears of rage. He thrust into her, gouging into the tender ring of her sphincter muscle. A pain like nothing she'd ever believed human, tore through her shuddering body. She'd heard that pain could make a person faint, and she prayed for that blessing now . . . anything to stop the teeth-gnashing gouging into her nether region.
The breath snorted from Jack's nostrils, his face flushed from the unnatural exertions. Christ, could he ever drill into her tight virginal asshole? like a rampaging bull, he charged forward and rammed through the fleshy barricade. The mushroomed head of his penis bored into the clinging opening, hanging there like a sausage from the meat grinder.
"YOU'RE GOING TO KILL ME . . . YOU'RE
SPLITTING ME IN HALF . . . JACK!" She groaned and mumbled and clawed her nails into the sofa as she felt her rectum being cleaved by the penetration of Jack's lust-engorged cock.
"You wouldn't nag to your Daddy! You take his shit . . . I didn't hear no complaints from you when he fired me and made me look like the asshole of the year," he gasped between clenched teeth as he tried to jab more of his vengeance hardened cock into the warm, rubbery depths of her anus.
He still wondered how homosexuals did it without killing each other and, contenting himself with the knowledge that he was succeeding in hurting his wife, he grinned evilly to himself. This would pay her back for questioning his honesty. He just wished he was drilling it into his father-in-law's criminal ass!
Sherrie feared she could never use that part of her body again. A searing pain fired her loins and she imagined that tiny hole torn and bleeding. Physical pain, she discovered, was nothing compared to the emotional anguish paralyzing her mind. Shame and degradation clouded her senses. How could she possibly have the family over for Thanksgiving dinner, and she'd so planned to use the holiday to cement relations between son-in-law and father-in-law!
The man she'd loved was acting like some kind of perverted animal and deliberately killing the love between them. Yes, that's what hurt most-the conscious intention. The white hot prod poling up her anus was no excusable mistake!
"Get off of me," she wailed, her screams mingling with the cheerful yelps as Chicago scored another touchdown. She moaned aloud, tears streaming down her pink cheeks to dampen the sofa that buffeted blows to her head each time Jack thrust into her from behind.
Intoxicated by her whelps of self pity, he hammered inch by scorching inch into his crying wife's anus, until he'd managed to finagle the sausage-like tube right up to his bloated testicles. The bruised inner flesh gave way to his demanding cock, the way his wife always gave in to her father. Guess that proves he's an asshole. Jack guffawed inwardly.
He grunted and puffed as his sperm heavy testicles slapped against the satiny cheeks of her helplessly impaled buttocks. 'There," he rasped, "that one's for Daddy!"
Oh, how could he be so disrespectful after all her father had done for them! Paying the down payment on this house, giving Jack a job to set him up in the car dealership . . . and this is the thanks he gets! None of that mattered now . . . it would never matter again.
Resistance only frustrated her womanly powerlessness, and realizing nothing would stop this heinous attack, she gritted her teeth to endure the mortification he was heaping upon her.
Rhythmically, Jack held his lust-inflated cock inside his wife, then pulled it free, feeling victoriously excited by the sight of his wife's anus accommodating the demanding girth of his cock. First time she's given in for a while, he snickered to himself, watching the tender pink flesh pull in and pull out with each sawing stroke. She'll find out who's boss. He'd read somewhere that once your wife let you take her in the ass, you had the upper hand for life.
Armed with that superiority, he began to withdraw his long, hard cock, easing it slowly out of the dry passage while fresh moans of pain from his defenseless wife sang in his ears. With the lust-bloated naked tip of his cock peeking inside the sphincter ring, he rammed forward. To his amazement a pearl of inner secretions eased the chafing rhythm as he began to fuck in and out of her savagely impaled anus with devilish delight.
God, why did I make fun of him? I should have known he'd go crazy when I brought up Daddy's name!
He battered against her buttocks until they pinkened with friction and forced her legs so far apart she felt like a Thanksgiving turkey about to be devoured. The only way to be free of him was to make him cum, a shimmer of rationale dictated out of nowhere.
"Fuck me in the ass," she forced herself to say. "Cum in my ass!" The words stuck in her throat like bad meat-but it worked. "Split me open with your fat cock!"
Was this his wife spitting out filth? In the end it didn't matter. Jack felt anger and passion and lust focus in one vortex of power. His eyeballs roamed in his head, and a strange singing wailed in his ears. He reared back giving himself room to slap his wife a few stinging blows on her buttocks. "Move that ass . . . you whore!" He pounded and hammered into her in a fierce battle of cock against anus.
It shot-high and deep!
The hot sticky fluid, once nectar to her loving, married vagina, shot high into the forbidden depths of her anus. She felt his penis jerk and erupt in a scalding geyser in the raw, seared depths of her helplessly flooded rectum. It felt like fire as the salty liquid Beeped into the torn membranes of her ravaged backside and bathed her bowels in lust. The final insult closed the curtain of marriage and she clenched shut her eyes and wept. The sickening reality could never be erased, never amended.
And yet he pumped into her with labored, grunting breathing as he pumped a pint of his lust into her forever defiled rectum. To forgive this animal riding her back like a humping dog was unthinkable. Then, with a sigh of relief, she realized his raping penis had stilled and was slipping down the cum-slickened channel of her rectum.
Outside the window, autumn leaves chased in whirling circles over the frost bitten ground. The cheerful cries of football fans and the winning side, and weeping of losers had given way to the seven o'clock national news on television.
Sherrie raised her head leadenly from the sofa pillow, little wads of tweed released from her palms as she levered up. A rectangular light flooded the room, splashing over her naked body. Only when she felt the heavy weight pinning her to the sofa, did the sourness of reality return. Jack's snores rattled hideously in her ears, echoing the gloom that filled her heart.
Wiggling out from under his body so as not to awaken the sleeping monster, she slipped to the bathroom down the hallway and flicked on the light only when she'd locked the door after her. The monster . . . what twist of the mind had caused him to act so brutally? The thought caused elephantine tears to squeeze out of her wide set eyes. She didn't know the man . . . never wanted to again.
Despite the pain in her rectum, her mind felt purged, emptied of emotion. Walking from the living room to the bathroom didn't hurt as badly as she'd feared and encouraged, she bent over the tub and turned on the faucet. The stretched movement caused a dull ache to stab up the ravaged tube of her bowels. She sucked in her breath, tears blinding her, and decided against taking a bath; a quick wash with the cloth would do.
One glance in the bathroom mirror set the tears flowing anew. Was that really Sherrie Turner . . . or the ghost of the person she once was. Mascara had smudged to clown-like circles under her wide eyes and black rivers of makeup dribbled down her swollen cheek. One turn to the side revealed black bruises where Jack had grabbed her around the neck. Lips, red and swollen, refused to smile.
Numbly she grabbed the nearest washcloth-the white one with HIS embroidered in brown-and turned on the cold water faucet. She rubbed the moistened cloth over her face, under her eyes and dabbed at the welts on her neck. The anal assault left her feeling dirty and the cold washcloth found its way to the swollen pussy mound. For a moment she held it there, expecting to sop up the blood. The coolness soothed the fiery pain somewhat.
Wincing, she lifted one foot to rest on the toilet seat and, bending her head, examined herself. No blood. That surprised her. She considered a visit to the hospital emergency room, but the thought of her father hearing of this travesty was unthinkable. I'm a big girl.. . I have to handle this alone.
Convinced that Jack's raping fingers must have torn something, she used her fingers to separate the swollen lips of her pussy. The cooling washcloth mentholated her genitals, dulling the horror and awakening something within Sherrie's mind, despite her bruised body, wished to plunge forever into the depths of sub consciousness.
Jack's anal attack had a strangely thrilling effect-lingering and diabolical. With doctor-like skill, her lingers probed gently the swollen petals. Gently rubbing motions, much like a mother stroking a crying baby's back, eased the discomfort. In fact, it anesthetized the pain. She stroked the lips in slow circles, using the pad of her forefinger. The friction relieved the itchy feeling, so she increased the movements so as to not ignore the oily marble of her clitoris. Her knees started to tremble and buckle, and her pelvis started grinding like the Dallas Cowgirls' in the heat of a cheer. The nipples of her swollen breasts tightened into little studs. Sherrie shivered and goose-bumped.
Why couldn't Jack have made love to me there? It's been so long and I needed it sooo badly! Oh, it feels good.. .I.. .I can't stop! She sucked in her breath and threw back her head. Splatters of light flickered before her fluttering eyelids. I'm going to cum . . . oh, Jesus. She cupped the tingling mound of her pussy with the softness of her palm and rubbed, wanting to delay her orgasm as long as sense would allow.
She moved her buttocks in a rocking motion, tilting her pelvis to meet the thrust of her two middle fingers sliding wetly up into the heart of her womb. It burst
. . . a dam of sweet smelling love juice. A wailing hiss spat through clenched teeth; head thrown back, eyes flickering blindly, mouth gaping open, she stroked in and out of her crying womb while tears flooded her cheeks. Faster and faster until the beautiful pain of orgasm left her crumpled and goose-bumped on the bathroom rug. A sucking wet noise filled the room, save for the dripping faucet, as she pulled her sticky fingers free.
Then guilt set in. Thoughts fled to her husband's terrorizing assault, and now this self-inflicted humiliation. Sherrie's doe-like eyes flicked about the room. Claustrophobia set in. She had to get out of this house, away from everything!
CHAPTER THREE
Sherrie raked the hairbrush over her scalp in biting drags, dabbed clean the black circles under her eyes and made herself as respectable as a sodomized wife can. Unsteady flickers lighted the living room off the hallway; a comedy series droned on, peppered with dubbed laughter.
Sherrie's sickened heart felt as if she'd never laugh again as stealthily she crept along the wall opening onto the bedroom, slipped inside and flicked on the light switch. Her eyes fell to the bed where she and
Jack had shared many a loving night, and beneath her breath she cursed and vowed to kill memory.
Hastily she slipped into wool slacks, turtleneck sweater and knee-high boots. Outside the bedroom window the lonely wind howled threateningly. From the closet she yanked out an overnight case initialed with ST in gold letters and stuffed extra panties, a nightgown and toiletries inside.
Money. . . Rummaging through her pocketbook, she counted thirty-four dollars and eighty-two cents. Sherrie's shoulders drooped with added chagrin. That was hardly enough to start a new life. A light bulb flashed in her brain; she snapped her fingers and dashed for the bureau drawer where travelers checks from last summer's Hawaii vacation had been tucked away for an emergency. Emergency . . . she snickered bitterly to herself . . . more like life and death! It seemed a pathetic accumulation of necessities that filled her overnight bag. Just goes to show how little of life is material, she thought philosophically, clamping her pearly teeth over a trembling lower lip.
Feeling like a thief in her own house, she slunk down the hallway past the living room where Jack's rumbling snore chorused with dubbed laughter from a Saturday night comedy series. A shivering feeling rippled along her spine. Had she ever known that man lying naked on the sofa? Sherrie's eyes fixed on the flaccid tube of his penis and the wronged wife declared then and there that never again would she allow a man to defile her. Sensual pleasure would never be hers again. Never!
With a final whimper of submission to fate's cruel blow, she slunk into the garage off the kitchen and tossing her paltry possessions into the front seat, backed out and away from Jack Turner.
The situation was so ridiculously horrible, she couldn't cry. Hysteria choked in her throat. Where am I going to got Flickers of Little Orphan Annie comic strips rippled through her mind's eye. How uncanny that childhood entertainment should develop into adult tragedy.
Be practical, she reprimanded herself, and quit feeling sorry for yourself. Leave the car at the airport and fly to Milwaukee, maybe? No, flights were too expensive.
A cold November drizzle ten degrees from snowflakes misted the dusky night as the Datsun nosed toward the freeway entrance, the driver with no destination in mind. Through the haze, the headlights splashed upon a billboard which read: "Go Greyhound And Lea re the Driving To Us." Sherrie's shoulders heaved with relief. Yes, she could leave the car in the lot and using her maiden name on the ticket, Jack would never find her!
The bus depot's setting created a colorless montage of dreary, graffiti splattered walls and drearier faces queued up in the ticket lines. An air of depression shivered through Sherrie; she pulled up the collar of her coat and gripped the handle of her night case tighter.
God, I need a drink. I'm freezing! A strange physical sensation gripped her; an unexplainable kinetic energy, driving in force yet unsettled in nature. She needed to think and sort out her life.
Down the hallway, a neon sign splashed the pink message: "Dew Drop Inn." The fluorescent hallway lights faded into a dim parlor heavy with stale cigarette smoke. The leggy auburn paused at the door to survey the bar where two off-duty bus drivers sat shooting craps for drinks, while the television set rattled unheeded above the mirrored bar.
Beneath their gray uniform hats, two heads turned in her direction, grins leering her way. Her hands clasped at the throat of her collar. A small table with an unlit candle sat in the corner of the room and that's where Sherrie headed. She ordered a shot of brandy and was sipping it slowly when her eyes fell upon a newspaper on the adjacent table.
Hastily she folded back the Want Ad section and perused the possibilities for Sherrie Turner's new life. The choice was to stay in Chicago and get an apartment someplace on the east side, or leave the state. As soon an Daddy hears I've left Jack, he'll have the police looking for me!
An ad struck her eye. "Needed: Hostesses and waitresses for high-class Northern Wisconsin game hunting resort. Weekly pay plus board and tips," an address and phone number followed.
Sherrie's rosy lips bubbled with relief and something close to a smile broke over her pale face. The warming brandy had lightened her spirits, and the hope of something decent happening to her quickened her step to the ticket line.
A pimply faced ticket salesman leered through the iron bars of the ticket booth onto the sophisticated features of the auburn-haired woman who, for some godforsaken reason, had requested a one-way ticket to a dot on the map. "That'll be sixty-two dollars and fifty nine cents. Miss." His eyes fell on the sparkle dotting her left hand.
I'll pawn my wedding ring as soon as I reach Wisconsin. Wonder if Daddy paid for that, too! I've got to get this job . . . I just have to! She tore the ring off her finger and stuffed it in her slacks' pocket.
Sherrie pressed her nose to the cold bus window and blinked into the misty night; the warm exhalations clouded the window and she wiped it clean with gloved fingertips for one last glance at Chicago.
Exhausted, she stretched her long legs under the bus seat ahead of her, rolled her head to the side and prepared for the long journey to Wisconsin. Six hours the ticket man had said. The hiss of air brakes and drone of acceleration as the Greyhound Bus pulled out into the freeway, lulled Sherrie into a more secure state of being. With Chicago and a rapist husband behind her, a new lifestyle ahead, the weary woman cradled herself in the warmth of her cashmere coat and slumbered.
Time and distance can play clever games with the human mind. The sensation of moving forward, of traveling into a time warp, shot Sherrie to instant alertness. Two green eyes snapped open into the dusty dawn light, thick and hazy with snowflakes clinging possessively to towering green pines so high she had to crane her neck to see the statuesque tops pointing to a depth less heaven.
A weary sigh broke from her chest. Her muscles had cramped in the immobility of sleep; her stomach, long deprived of nourishment, growled in complaint. Along with awakening, crept fear. She felt hurtled into the unknown, into a vast space called future for which she was ill prepared. Yet anything was better than suffering the disgrace of Jack's ignoble behavior!
Even these dull, small towns, she asked herself, clamping pearly teeth over a trembling lower lip, chapped from self-abuse and cheerless November skies. A handful of passengers rode north through the small towns which seemed to draw a direct correlation between distance due north and population.
As the bus driver pulled off to a small cafe at an unmarked intersection, Sherrie grasped the small bag containing her pittance of possessions, and hustled to the front of the bus.
The bus driver turned a cheerful face to her. He pushed back the bill of his cap and nodded. "How ya doin', lady? Get some rest?"
Sherrie was in no mood for talking. Nor did she care for the inquisitive eyes raking over her leggy lean body. "Where are we?" She squinted at the paint-chipped cafe whose sign depicted a cup of steaming coffee and a cheeseburger whose California touch had faded with inclimacy to a formless flap of green lettuce and an anemic pink tomato.
"Your stop lady. Say, you got relatives in Hurly?"
"Y-yes, I do. . . . " Sherrie's green eyes took in the three hundred and sixty degree circumference of nothing but trees, and asked in a small voice: "Where's the town?"
"Hope ya got somebody to pick ya up, miss. Hurly's oh. . . . " and here he scratched his five o'clock shadow,". . . 'bout five miles up the road. I suggest you call somebody from the cafe. Harvey's are nice folks and you look like you could use a cup of coffee."
The cafe smelled richly of freshly perked coffee and bakery donuts staring at Sherrie through a plastic eased cover. Counter service was the only choice.
A gray-haired man, with a grumpy set to his square chin and a tattooed arrow with "Sharon" printed across a broken heart, wiped his hands on an egg-stained apron and glowered down at his new customer. "Can I help ya, miss?"
"A cup of coffee . . . and that donut. . . the one with the cherries in the middle."
Out of the corner of his eye, shadowed by caterpillar eyebrows that knit and brushed together as he squinted at the stranger seated delicately at his counter, the cafe owner drew some tight conclusions.
No local, this one, dressed in a city coat instead of the usual down jacket that puffed women all up like they had no shape underneath. The hairstyle, too, echoed of city, and the perfume wafting over the sweet cherry filled donut he slapped onto the plate.
"You got relatives here?" he queried, splashing steaming coffee into the cup at Sherrie's elbow.
"Y-yes," she forced a smile and measured out a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee which she stirred with nervous flicks of the wrist.
It was then he caught the gold watch studded with diamonds draped about her delicate wrist. "What's their name. . . . ? "
"Who. . . . ? "
"Your relatives. . . . "He cocked his head, turning his better ear to catch the silvery peal of Sherrie's tiny voice.
"Oh, ah, Jefferson . . . Jack Jefferson." A corner of her pretty rose bud lip curled with a confidence she didn't feel. Sherrie had never been good at lying.
"Hum . . . never heard of the guy. Been living here all my life, too. . . . " He turned his back to Sherrie then and broke a few eggs into a frying pan to make his own breakfast.
Over the divider stacked high with heavy platters and coffee cups minus matching saucers, he eyed the sophisticated citification that marked Sherrie Turner as one beautiful woman. The gleam to her auburn hair shimmering with henna highlights under the glaring naked light bulb, the high cheekbones and aristocratic set to the chin. Even the way she sipped her coffee. Most folks in that part of the country braced their elbows on the counter top and slurped away . . . not this one.
Timidly, Sherrie nibbled at her donut and finished her coffee while the cafe owner drenched hashed browns with ketchup and slurped eggs over very easy from a fork. Calculating the bill at one dollar, she left that plus fifty-cents and reached for the want ad clipping from her coin purse.
"Excuse me, please . . . could you tell me if you've heard of this place?" she asked with a gaiety she didn't feel.
The cafe owner grabbed the newspaper clipping and pouffed out his lips, eyes crawling back and forth from the clipping to Sherrie's. He wiped the egg from his mouth with the back of his hand. "You headed for the Cracker box, miss?"
Sherrie smiled and nodded her head enthusiastically. Her enthusiasm faded, and the coffee gurgled in the pit of her stomach, bad company to Sherrie filled donuts when he muttered:
"Hmmmmph . . . just what Hurly needs. Another whore to slut up the town!"
Sherrie gulped and stared incredulously into the man's unshaven face.
"Don't count on nobody givin' ya a ride up there, Miss. And don't count on comin' back to my cafe . . . cause I don't serve whores here." He braced his hands on the counter top and hissed the words down into her face. This stranger might have been his sister twenty years ago, he thought sadly, pushing aside sad memories.
As the door tinkled shut behind her, she heard him say: "It's up the road quarter of a mile."
The snow crunched under Sherrie's high heeled boots like strong jaws munching down peanuts as with a cold numbed hand clutching at the collar of her cashmere coat and the other clamped white-knuckled to the overnight case, she headed down the road, puzzling over the cafe owner's rancorous attitude.
The newspaper ad was legitimate, and any, what choice had she now but to investigate? Was all of northern Wisconsin like this, she wondered icily, trying to forget the ache of exhaustion that weakened her from the tension taut sinews in her swan-like neck cramped from the long bus ride-down to her tiny toes. Oh, for a warm meal and a soft bed and hot bath, thought the estranged wife, approaching a fork in the two land road.
Through the low hanging bows of a snow-laden pine tree, she squinted at a curl of chimney smoke bluing the crisp morning air. Sherrie's step quickened. At last-warmth! A little sigh of relief tore from her throat as a sign reading "The Crackerbox" came into view. Freshly painted, it sported a ripe-bodied female huntress dressed in silly red long-legged underwear and, with one elbow rested on the butt end of a gun, she crooked a finger at the viewer. "Come Hunt With Me," it read.
The impression reminded Sherrie of the corny New Year calendars Mom and Pop grocery stores give out at Christmas. Hardly salacious or serious, was it?
Down the road a few yards, Sherrie caught sight of the Crackerbox. A respectable establishment, she quickly assessed, raking her eyes delightedly over the Swiss Chalet building painted in deep red with white trim about the balcony and windows.
Facing her fate, Sherrie struggled over the ice-slickened sidewalk and clung tightly to the banister as she climbed the slippery steps to the porch and raised her knuckles to announce herself.
On the second knock a door cracked open, and the butterflies in Sherrie's stomach began to stampede.. . up to her swan-like throat.
The cafe owner's insults echoed in her ears.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Chicago skies turned thick with forecasts come true. White powdery flakes danced from darkened skies, skipping freely to earth in celebration of the first covering of the frost-bitten ground. Porch lights flicked on from house to house. Children whooped with joy, and some burned a log or two and snuggled up with lovers in expectation of a love-filled winter.
One man did not.
Jack Turner rolled over on the cold sofa and yanked the afghan to cover his chilled body. A dull throb above his right temple warned him precaution against one climactic hangover must be taken.
Wearily, he rose to his feet and padded nakedly toward the bathroom. Strange none of the lights were on in the house; Sherrie was a great one for running up the electrical bill.
Throwing down a couple of ten grain aspirin, he nudged his curly head between the basin and faucet and choked down the bitter tablets with a lap of the tongue. He raked his fingers through the mop of brown curls and closing the medicine cabinet, stared at himself in the mirror for an uncomfortable moment. Craning his neck, he examined the worry lines etched recently from the gouges of ill luck. Jack scratched his genitals, belched a bubble of beer and flicked off the light.
No emotions, no thoughts littered his mind. He felt nothing, remembered nothing. Negation: the best defense against self-denigration. It worked for a while.
A strange sense of foreboding struck him the instant his fingers touched the light switch; the threatening sensation of intrusion upon one's private domain made his heart quicken.
His eyes flashed about the bedroom, his psyche searching for the missing element. The bureau drawer had been carelessly left open with half its contents draped over the edge. So, too, the closet doors, yanked open wide to the end where Sherrie stored the luggage.
The luggage!
"Oh, shit. . . " He groaned and dashed toward the kitchen.
The cement step leading to the garage was freezing under his bare feet, but Jack didn't feel it. He flicked on the light. No car.
Jack collapsed on the closest kitchen chair to collect his thoughts. A vague memory of fighting with his wife sluiced through the clouds of his mind . . . and some ugliness.
"Oh, Christ!" he mumbled, slapping himself on the forehead. I raped her in the ass! My own wife.
Ah, hell, he reasoned, shooing away guilt and a thousand other negatives he hadn't the mental stamina to deal with.
Sherrie doesn't have the strength to go it on her own, he rationalized, slipping between the cold, empty sheets and reaching toward the lamp switch. She's probably bawling on her fucking father's shoulder about what an asshole she married. Wait until she learns the truth about her daddy dear, she'll find out who she should have trusted!
"Come in before you let in all the cold."
Sherrie heard the voice before she saw the woman it belonged to. The woman who greeted her at the door of the Crackerbox was hardly properly attired for a Sunday morning in God's country. Blood-red fingertips thrust shut the door behind the shivering stranger who, turning defensively at the finalizing bang, swung around to stare into dark, liquid eyes. A rakish, accusative glance took in the classic elegance of Sherrie Turner.
Hennaed hair the color of burnished autumn leaves was pulled back severely from a heart-shaped face. A coal black satin gown draped her mature buxom body; a tie belt accentuated the rich swell of her hips and waist. Thick smears of cherry red lipstick drew tight lines about her taut lips and something diabolical, almost mystical, sparked in her depthless eyes.
"I didn't hear your car drive up," she queried under arched eyebrows. "What can I help you with?" She stood firmly in front of Sherrie, as if deliberately blocking off views of the rustically decorated rooms beyond.
A cheek burning warmth from the stone fireplace visible over the black shimmer of the other's shoulder, should have warned Sherrie, and yet a biting chill centered at the nape of her neck lingered.
"I . . . I took the bus," answered Sherrie in a small voice.
Eyebrows on the powdered, roughed face arched higher. 'The bus. . . ? "
"Yes, from Chicago. . . that's where I saw your ad in the newspaper." Sherrie shrugged her shoulders, forcing a relaxed pose. "You do still have work available, I hope?" Beneath her heaving breasts, Sherrie's heart pattered anxiously. "Gosh. . . " and here green eyes rolled over the A-frame beamed ceiling. "This looks like a great place to work . . . I love the quiet of the countryside after living in Chicago."
A warm hand slipped into Sherrie's cold one. "We always have work for the right people, my dear." Myra noted the travel weary lines about the wide green eyes; instantly her own fell to the stranger's hand to look for the ominous sparkle that too often brought trouble.
"Have you eaten. . . ? " She paused, bit the fleshiness of her painted bottom lip, and cracked a rouged grin. "How rude of me, my name is Myra and I help Mr. Southworth take care of the establishment. He'll be along shortly to interview you, but until then . . . how about resting in a private room for a bit. A hot bath maybe, and breakfast?" She spread her ring-laden hands expensively, spreading the placket of her satin wrap-around gown. Sherrie's eyes could not help but settle on the Grand Canyon cleavage inches away.
"That would be lovely. I am a bit tired."
"Good. I'll have Anna send you up breakfast on a tray . . . and please, take a hot bath to ward away a chill. These northern woods can be terribly unfriendly if one's prone to pneumonia."
Sherrie sensed a cryptic message behind the tone of voice, but travel weary, famished and anxious to rest alone in a bed, she tripped after the blossoming hips swaggering up the steps. Myra's ring-heavy hand slipped along the banister until, at the landing which opened onto an L-shaped hallway, she plucked a key chain from the wall.
"Your room will be at the end of the hall," she announced with a finality that startled Sherrie.
What about the interview. . . ? And where were the guests?
The key slipped easily into the lock and with a quick twist, the door creaked open. The empty smell of dampness stung Sherrie's nostrils and the room wore the abandoned appearance of a never-used wedding dress: a dismal, depressive aura of disappointment.
"I hope you will be comfortable here." Myra clasped her hands in a sacrilegious prayer-like pose and swung the key chain from her little finger. Her depthless eyes studied intently the expression of the other's placid features. "Anna will bring up your breakfast shortly.
Drink the tea, it will be good for you. We don't want you getting ill first thing, now do we?"
Wearily, Sherrie set her overnight case on the bed and thanking the woman for her kindness, collapsed on the bed for a moment and stared up at the ceiling. Many miles and many hours had separated her from Jack Turner. She cared not to think about that and contented herself with counting the cobwebs on the A-frame beams overhead. Then, with a groaning sigh, she pulled herself off the bed and prepared a warm, sudsy bath.
Not until she lay supine in the bathtub with suds lapping at her dimpled chin, did Sherrie's thoughts make a quick U-turn for Chicago. And it hurt.
A flood of tears squeezed out of the corners of her tired eyes. A stabbing pain jabbed at her heart, pain not for herself, but for her father. Imagine how he'll feel when he finds out I've run away from Jack. . . . Dimpled chin trembled, creating sad little waves in the water. Jack's always tried to pit me against my fit her, always tried to belittle Daddy's generosity. . . just because he feels inferior to father. That's it, he's insecure about money, about his job, about his masculinity which is why he. . .
Abruptly, Sherrie shot upward in the tub, the melonous swells of her breasts floating like water balloons. Cocking her head to the side, she preened her ears for a strange noise emanating from the other side of the wall. A shrill cry like that of a hungry baby . . . or a woman crying? Occasional yelps peppered the hapless chorus of unhappiness. Now who could that be-and why were they crying?
Crawling noiselessly out of the bathtub, Sherrie wrapped herself in a long white towel and pressed her ear to the wall. Was her brain playing games with her weary senses, or was there a second voice? By the time Anna knocked on the door, she was standing in a puddle of soapy water.
Hardly decent, was it, to answer the door in a towel? Frantically, Sherrie fumbled through her overnight case in search of a robe to cover her creamy nudity. Fruitless. Padding barefoot to the door, she apologized through the wooden plank:
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but I don't have a robe to put on. Give me time to crawl under the covers, okay?"
A grumbled affirmative sounded through the door and by the time Sherrie had dashed for the bed and yanked the chilling sheet up to her dimpled chin, shivering with cold, the door opened onto a peasant-looking woman with graying hair pulled back into a tight pug. A lifeless pallor, ghost-like and indicative of weariness with life, stared her in the face.
"H-hello. I'm sorry to greet you like this," giggled the naked woman nervously, filling the uncomfortable silence. ". . .I forgot to bring a robe. Stupid of me."
A corner of Anna's taut mouth twitched. Low heeled shoes scuffed across the worn carpet to the bedstand; Sherrie noticed the limp in the woman's walk. Without a glance at the shivering, dimpled nudity offering gummy thanks for the flap jacks, bacon, eggs and tea, the veritable image of gloom turned on her heel, closed the door and locked it.
Locked it!
The tea cup rattled in Sherrie's hand. Her eyes flew to the door. Gulping down the mouthful of tea, she dashed nakedly for the door and rattled the knob. Locked! Now why would anybody want to lock her inside? There had to be another key. There has to! Of course. Her heart stilled. In the dresser.. .
She darted to the single dresser sitting flush to the wall. Trembling hands rattled open each warped, empty drawer and nervous fingers explored the dusty depths for the metallic feel to freedom. With a yelp of desperation, Sherrie's fist flew to her mouth.
No key!
Heart thundering in her chest, she threw herself in bed and cupping the warming teacup in shaking palms, forced herself to sip the herbal concoction. At least I won't get sick if I drink this bitter stuff, she rationalized.
Outside the window the howling winds whipped white powder accumulating on the frozen earth. Sherrie's fluttering eyelids rested mesmerically on the flurry of whiteness until numbness crept from the fingertips curled about the warm tea cup, down to the polished pink of her toes. With a languid sigh, she set the cup on the untouched tray and curled under the covers and fell into shadeless depths of sleep.
A languid sigh bubbled from Sherrie's lax, drug-numbed lips, as slowly a fog shrouded her mind, allowing wisps of memory to shine through. She was at home in Chicago, snuggled up in bed on a cold November eve. Outside the wind howled; she snuggled deeper into the bed and rolled the luscious curves of her naked body over onto her back. One lithe leg pulled up, opening the forested vee of her loins.
Almost imperceptibly, the doorknob turned and, safely slipping the key back into her pocket, Myra stole stealthily into the chilling room at the end of the hall. The morning sun, blotted out by sheets of snow, struggled to burst through the window. A pale, timeless light gave the room neither shadow nor sunshine.
Myra's eyes fastened on the dimpled face, child-like lying in the four poster bed. What dollish features, she has. What porcelain perfection! Swirls of auburn hair spilled over the pillow slip. Apple cheeks dotted the alabaster cream of Sherrie's skin. Rosy lips had parted laxly, submissively.
Myra felt a tight congestion in the pit of her stomach. Fighting down the temptation to investigate further the luscious creaminess of drugged female flesh, she tiptoed over the worn carpet and snatched up Sherries handbag. Deft fingers examined every slip of paper: driver's license, credit cards, address book. Satisfied, she stuck the contents back into the alligator handbag and sifted through the contents of Sherrie Turner's overnight case. Besides an extra pair of panties, scented delicately and a lacey brassiere, nothing of incriminating importance was stuck in the zipped flaps.
Last year a policewoman decoy had tried to play cute and, like this doll, had answered the ad in the paper. After a cup of Anna's special 'Sleepy Time Tea', the little bitch, as Myra recalled vividly now, tried to take photographs. Ah, but they'd found the camera-but the police department never found Barbara Collins!
A tight smirk creased Myra's mature features. Satisfied with her investigation, she straightened, thrust back her shoulders and drew a deep breath.
Fingertips delicately plucked the blanket's corner and slowly, pulling it back, unveiled the perfection that was Sherrie Turner.
Ahhh. . . ! Myra's struggled to control herself from devouring the luscious feast. Her eyes lingered on the milky mounds of naked breasts, their puffy nipples peeking out from the still damp towel immodestly wrapped about her belly. A soft belly, bowled and cratered with the dimple of her navel, winked salaciously up at Myra. She licked her lips as her eyes traveled southward to the fleeced nest of Sherrie's juicy cunt.
AHHHH. . . ! Myra could not stifle a sigh of pleasure. Hovering over her prey, the older women bent her head and fastened her soft lips to one puffy nipple. Gently, babyishly, as only a woman can san, she sucked the strawberry tip to hardness, laving the succulent, milky flesh with the underside of her tongue.
"Ummm. . . . " Sherrie stirred in her drugged sleep and humming deep within her swan-like throat, moved her arm up over her head and arched her back. The melonous mound of female flesh mashed against the voracious mouth. Jack . . . Jack is sucking my breast. . . "Yes, yes, baby. . . " she muttered and rolled her head to the side in a spray of henna waves that swirled over her apple cheeks. The length of her curly eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings, and for a frightened moment, Myra released her lesbian sucking, awaiting deepened sleep to overcome her victim.
And it did. . .
Sherrie's sleek body heaved with deep slumber.
Myra unpeeled the damp towel from the luscious curves and positioned her head above the sweet-smelling forest of Sherrie's naked loins. For a long moment, the woman studied the swollen folds, her nostrils wafting with the aphrodisiac scent of another female's genitals. Blood-red fingertips, trembling with incipient joy, parted the pink petals of Sherrie's pussy.
"Unnngghhh. . . ! " Sherrie sucked in her breath. It felt cold down between her thighs . . . cold and hot at the same time. Her heart pounded in her bosomy chest and languidly, her slender thighs fell apart of their own volition. She arched her back, tilting her pelvis.
Ah, yon sweet beauty, Myra cogitated wickedly. You are a precious jewel! The perfume of Sherrie's pussy filled her with lust. How she longed to fasten her sucking lips to Sherrie's pussy and drink the nectar of her womb . . . but not yet.. . no not yet. I will have my turn with you , my sweet . . . don't you worry.
The congestion in the empty pit of Myra's belly cried for fulfillment and, hissing between clenched teeth, she silently fell to her knees beside the sleeping form. With her nose and lips a tongue's reach lay away from Sherrie's nubby clitoris, Myra slipped her free hand under the hem of her black satin gown to the hairy patch of her seeping naked loins and thrust two fingers into the warm fissure. With slow, sluicing noises, she fingered herself, cupping the pouting mound of her pussy with the heel of her hand. With rubbing motions, she stroked the oily nub of her clitoris until gorged with blood, she fucked her fingers higher and deeper up into her cunt. Faster, faster.. .
She closed her eyes and fought back moans of delight. Languidly opening her eyes again, she drew a deep breath, filling her senses with captive female flesh and envisioned the blood-red tips of her fingers dripping and oozing with sticky cuntal juices. Her womb cried for relief . . . and soon it came.
I'LL torrents. Myra rocked on her haunches, fucking her fingers like a man's cock into her belly while the delicious feast of slumbering female flesh slept on.
In her hazy state of consciousness, Sherrie experienced only a vague disappointment. Jack's face faded into mistiness and the coldness between her thighs warmed.
The key turned in the latch, a click as ominous as the cock of a gun. Somewhere in Sherrie's mind it registered, for she woke with a start and bolted for the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
"I'm telling you, Southworth, there was no diamond on her finger. And she did take the bus; I found a ticket stub stamped Chicago." Myra drew feverishly on an ironically slender cigarette. The milky swells clad immodestly in black satin shone from each tight inhalation. "I say we keep her. She's lovely, a piece of excellence." Myra kissed her fingers in an expansive gesture.
She winked conspiratorially at the nimble-minded man who, despite a certain lethargy in physical appearance, was very thorough in his business. "She's just right for you."
All five feet eight inches of Southworth, local business entrepreneur grew with the luscious details to follow. "I've never seen a lovelier creature in these hick woods," continued Myra sardonically. "In Germany the women are delectable . . . here they're cows."
"And this one's udders?" grunted Southworth, stroking a square, naked chin with a hand that had corruptively dipped into the pocket of every successful businessman in the county . . . and helped pad a few in points south.
Together he and Myra, with out of state backing, operated a prostitute ring in an intricately woven, well-plotted fashion that spread its crooked fingers throughout the northern vacation land where wealthy Chicago businessmen ventured for weeks of bought pleasure. Politicians, corporate executives-people who had the money to throw away on vice and the need for secrecy. A tight, powerful ring of local politicians with state influence shrouded him from nosey local inquisitives who knew better than to open their mouths. The rest of the quiet community didn't care; they stayed cautiously astray.
"We need another girl for the Hunters Point Inn," Myra reminded him tersely. "The last one seems to have made a mess of her future."
South worth's eyes snapped upward. "Nothing too messy, I hope. . . . "
"It washed down the drain easily enough . . . blood always does." Myra pulled easily on her cigarette. "Hamilton took care of the body . . . but that leaves us one girl short. Now are you ready to test our little
Chicago dumpling?" She shivered her shoulders, showing off a creamy cleavage and licked her lips. "I've tasted her-she's sublime!"
Southworth pulled a deep breath. "You judge them best, Myra." Deep-set, piggish eyees rolled up to study Myra's snappy dark ones. He trusted this woman; they thought a-like. She was the daughter of a wealthy lumberman, and he, the son of a state senator. Together their tight-fisted control allowed for no mistakes. Anna was proof of that.
"Tomorrow morning we put her on the machine and test her."
By Monday morning, Chicago's snow flurries had thickened to drifting winds. The elation after a season's first snowfall, like the exploding climax of sensual bliss, fades quickly. A glum mood sets in, hovering like pregnant, stormy skies. So it was with Jack Turner.
Indecision boxed him in. Slumped on the living room sofa with elbows braced on his knees, hands supporting his head, he struggled to piece his life together. Right now he had enough evidence to put his father-in-law's ugly face behind bars. "Sherrie.. . " He muttered her name aloud, no more than a whisper. "Shit!" One foot shot out to kick the television set in the face.
Jack jumped to his feet, startled by his violent behavior. To confess to Kurt Bailey that his daughter had run away, probably to the nearest courthouse to seek divorce, was utterly castrating.
Yet, ironically, he must prove to Sherrie what a lousy scum of the earth bastard her Daddy was, in order to earn her respect. Jack raked strong fingers through brown tousled curls, two days uncombed. Daddy this, Daddy that . . . if she only knew how Daddy dear paid for their house and the cheap bevy of women he hid from his family, she'd whistle another tune.
He started for the kitchen to snatch a beer from the refrigerator, but caught himself in time. No . . . he'd been substituting the bottle for balls too long. Decisively, he turned on his heel and grabbed the telephone, strangling it in a clammy fist and wishing it were Kurt Bailey's neck. The dial groaned metallically from the iron pull of his fingers.
"I want to speak to Bailey."
A cold blast of air shivered over Sherrie's supine naked flesh. Struggling up on a weak elbow, her puffy eyes focused on Myra's tight-lipped face glowering down at her from the doorway.
"Well, my sweet, I hope you had a good night's sleep."
"Wh-I . . . " Sherrie's head flew around in a desperate search for remembrance. Where was she? What was she doing laying naked on the floor? In a flood of hysteria, the damned walls burst.
like a cat, she sprang to her feet. The goose-bumped curves of her luscious nudity attacked the grinning vixen blocking the door.
"Why did you lock me in?" she cried. "What do you want with met" Swirls of auburn hair fell about her creamy shoulders, sweeping over the swells of her breasts heaving with terror and trepidation. Liquidy chartreuse eyes blurred with tears, her chin trembled and long polished nails dug into the palms of her balled up fists.
The other remained seductively calm, a crooked grin creasing her face. "Don't you worry, my sweet. Climb back into bed and Anna will bring you more tea."
"I don't want any tea! I want to get out of here!" yelled Sherrie, her screams filling the empty hallways. With adrenalized force, she charged the large woman blocking the door, but Myra caught the lithe arms in the strength of her fists and held her captive immobile.
"Behave yourself," she spat between clenched teeth. "I'm warning you! Make it easy on yourself."
With a force that surprised Sherrie, the older woman pinned the naked girl's arms behind her back and shoved her face down on the bed. Sherrie landed in a heap of crying, goose-bumped, quivering flesh. "Oh, dear God, let me out of here. . . . ! " she sobbed into the cold sheets.
If only she could think straight! Why, why had they locked her in? Why had she come here? Jack, da m n you . . . I hope you die for this! She sobbed the harder, recalling the obscenities the man she'd loved had heaped upon her . . . and now this. It was his fault she'd come here. Why hadn't she stayed at her father's house, instead of running away like a teenager?
Slowly, the sobs softened to painful moans of terror-stricken despair and trapped, without the will or strength to move, Sherrie fell into a dreamless sleep.
She neither heard the voices whispering about the room, nor felt the hands mauling at her body. But when she awoke, fresh nightmares hardened into razored reality.
A sickening sensation weighted Anna's heart. With the burden of her limping foot slowing her, she ascended the stairs in time to see Southworth and his evilly grinning lesbian accomplice, dragging the sheet wrapped body of the new arrival to the locked 'chamber' next door. Anna stiffened. All too well she knew the meaning, could hear the screams and cries echoing in the dulled recesses of her mind.
I low could it happen, she wondered, heading toward the bathroom with her mop and pail, that human beings could contrive to hurt others, hold others captive against their will? Worst still, the thought gnawed at her heart that she, by virtue of being in their wicked surrounds, was accomplice to the crimes perpetrated within the walls of the chalet. With gnarled fingers, she unlocked the bathroom door and set down the pail weighted with cleaning utensils. The metal handle clanged against the side of the pail. She winced and stroked a strand of graying hair that had escaped her pug, back behind her ear.
The first scream echoed in a muffled cry from the chamber. That might have been herself years back. Emotionlessly, she powdered the sink with cleanser.
Sherrie awoke with a start. Reality broke through fuzzed consciousness at the feel of something tight constricting her body. She tried to stretch, but she couldn't move. The thorazine had dulled her vision, but the faces leering down at her were hellishly crisp and terrifying.
One wild sweep of the eye took in the windowless walls strewn with paraphernalia she could not name. A shiver rippled up and down her naked spine. She was strapped on her back in some kind of chair! Straining her neck, a scream died in her throat. To her right a man she'd never seen before-short, bald headed, with piggish eyes and bulbous nose-was slaving over a machine, turning knobs and buttons.
Their eyes met. "Ah ha, glad to see you woke up," he said with obvious lack of sincerity.
Sherrie wriggled and stretched. White hot terror tore through her goose-bumped frame, as she listened to the demon beside her talking to himself, swearing over the uncooperative machine.
A click and a whirr buzzed in Sherrie's ears and she felt her head rising. A cushiony support on the back of her head was bending her neck so that she could see every inch of her naked body-strapped! Dear God, what did these maniacs want with her?
She was captive in a chair, black straps, flecked with raisin dots of-dried blood! "NooooooooH Her scream died, rattled unspent from her captive body as Myra's hand stung across her burning cheek.
Black straps crisscrossed over her body, with two foam rubber cups supporting her bare buttocks. Another single strap tightened about her tiny waist and her slender legs were trapped in some special supports at thigh and calf. Her lithe arms were stretched out in a crucifix-like position and held tight in soft foam guttered, strapped and buckled at the wrists.
The shock of finding herself naked was nothing compared to the gut wrenching fear. The walls held her focus; walls decorated with whips and shackles, belts and chains-things one used on animals for training! Terrified, she turned her head. To the far right sat a table, a gurney much like those used in hospitals, except this one was splattered with dried blood. Buckles attached to heavy leather straps hung lifelessly from where arms and legs had been tied down.
What were these maniacs going to do to her? "Oh, God, let me out of here!" she wailed in a tight voice that might have shattered glass.
"Hush . . . be quiet!" warned Myra, holding up a threatening hand. "We don't want to hurt you. . . "Her eyes were glazed with madness. "We give all our pretty girls a taste of bliss before we set you to work," she explained simply, as if reciting a recipe to a neighbor.
That cold precision frightened Sherrie, more than the threat of slaps and blood. Myra's fingers worked at the straps, tightening them at Sherrie's thighs and calves until she let out a yelp of pain. The captive's green eyes shot up to glare into her tormentor's face, hoping to find a thread of decency in the cold-hearted woman who'd lured her into this heinous trap. Myra licked her lips seductively and, bending her head, leaned over to kiss her captive on the forehead. The perfumey softness of Myra's milky breasts mashed against Sherrie's face, nearly suffocating her.
She flinched, shivering from the feel of another woman's indecent closeness. Myra read her captive's disgust and taunted: "Do not be so frightened of a woman . . . " And here she cocked an arched brow. "I've already tasted you, my sweet." Her lipstick smeared lips twitched like swollen flanges about to orgasm. Sherrie's stomach knotted and for a moment she thought she might be sick!
Then her mouth went dry and her eyes ripped from the devouring glare of her captors to stare into space. Two liquidy green eyes squeezed shut, and hot pearly tears dribbled down her burning cheeks. "Don't . . . please . . . " she whimpered in a tiny voice. She jolted then from the coldness of the cups positioned over the strawberry-hued nipples.
Maybe humoring them would help. Maybe this was all a practical joke.
A hysterical giggle tore from her lungs. "What is all this about? You're teasing me, aren't you? You're like Jack, always teasing me.. . . "
Southworth turned to her and arched an eyebrow. Piggish eyes boring into her pleadingly blinking ones, he remained tight-lipped as he wildly turned knobs.
Sherrie wiggled a painted toenail, the only part of her body not strapped down. "Come on, let's quit playing games . . . it's cold in here."
Southworth didn't reply and Sherrie hadn't the strength of emotion to look at the buxom female whose perfume made her dizzy with fear. Perhaps the female in her found it easier to cope with man. Hadn't she always managed to get her way with Daddy above her mother? Yes, better she concentrate on the bald headed creature to her right.
Southworth didn't reply. His expressionless face, mask-like, glared coolly at her. Women had responded to his tortures as many things-but never as a joke. Then a thin, cold smile spread over his tight lips and his right hand found the working combination. A switch buzzed on, sending a tingling sensation and a jerking snapping through her breasts.
"Wh-what.. . oh God . . . ! " she cried in alarm.
With a snicker of lust, Southworth tripped another switch and the pulsating cups settled down to a slow squeezing and tugging rhythm. A strange warmth centered in her nipples, making them grow into puckery diamond chips. In a deep corner of her libido, something flicked a switch of pleasure her conscious mind could not accept.
Southworth folded his arms over his burly chest and stepped back cocking his bald head to take in all of his fresh captive's shivering, goose-bumped, naked form. He spoke to Myra as if Sherrie were not there:
"How much do you think she can take? Five, ten minutes . . . ? " His voice was cold as a knife's blade.
Myra, wrapping her red fingertips in Sherrie's auburn waves, pursed her lips and gave her wrist a tug. "My sweet darling would willingly die of pleasure!"
Die . . . the word sizzled in Sherrie's mind. "Please . . . no. . . let me up.. . " Auburn hair flailing from side to side, the screams tore from Sherrie's fear tightened throat.
CHAPTER SIX
"Save your breath, Sherrie. You'll be saying please plenty in the next hour or so.. . "
He spoke for the first time, and Sherrie had to roll her tear-wetted eyes to see his face. Southworth had opened his mouth in a wicked, glinting grin . . . unusual for a man who seldom smiled.
"You will beg, you will plead, but Myra and I have discovered there is a certain kind of animal-female animal-who will die for pleasure . . . either giving it or receiving. Pain and pleasure ride a fine line, as you will soon discover. Unfortunately, we've lost many girls because of their sensual greed, no matter how thoroughly we've trained them."
Shock cut through terror. These people were insane! Sherrie struggled to free herself of the straps, but managed only to get wrist burns from the biting leather straps. "I'm not an animal! I'm a human being, and I don't know what training you're talking about . . . and I will not beg!"
Southworth smiled sardonically. He enjoyed feisty women, because in a sense, they were more difficult to break. He was a master at breaking women.
"I'll scream until somebody hears me!" Sherrie didn't recognize her own babyish wail.
A churlish grin spread Southworth's lips. "Scream . . . scream your bloody head off. Nobody can hear you in these woods, and no one would come to your rescue. Anyway, Myra and I like screaming.. . "
Sherrie felt her heart batter at her chest. Why had she come to this horrible place? Why had false pride prevented her from seeking solace from her father? Damn you, Jack.. . I hope they find my dead body and suffer you the agony of claiming it!
The captive wet her lips with the tip of her parched tongue. 'This is sick.. . " Her head was postured at an angle giving her a birds' eye view of her melonous breasts with the suction cups disgustingly clamped over her hardened nipples. The gentle tingling and babyish sucking motion of the soft, warm cups was strangely soothing . . . and, in different circumstances, exciting. "Please," tears squeezed out in burning droplets.
Myra's hissing breathing, and Southworth's deep inhalations could be heard above the buzzing sound.
Eyes squeezed shut, Sherrie broke her vow to silence again. "What are you going to do with me?" Fear and the first hint of forbidden sensual excitation crept in unwelcomed. The soft, warm core of something sweet, hot, and undeniable was bubbling deep in her womb-not un-like the strangely arousing masochistic desire when Jack had taken her anally and afterwards she had-No, she couldn't think filthy thoughts . . . not with the cups rubbing over her hardened nipples the way Jack used to roll them between his fingers. One was pleasure one was pain, mingling in strange sensations of time and place and memory.
"You will learn, Sherrie," began Myra as if reading her captive's thoughts, "that every female is part animal." Her voice was hard and decisive as a whack of a cleaver. "Give it to her, Southworth!"
Sherrie's green eyes popped to the side to see her male tormentor press another button, staring off a click and buzz and then a hum of well-oiled machinery. The chair moved slowly, tilting her backwards this time, so that her legs slid apart slowly . . . stretching out wider, wider, wider until. . .
A painful whimper tore from Sherrie's lungs. She felt as if she were being twirled and whirled in outer space! Drawn backwards, her buttocks rose obscenely and her thighs were pulled so wide apart that muscle cramps started to set in.
Helplessly strapped, she lay staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering how many other women before he had suffered this torture. Where were they? Dead? Buried under the drifting snow?
Now the gentle, insistent sucking charged with a tingling electric impulse, intensified. The perfidious grin on Myra's powdered face told her the torture had just begun. Right she was.
Reaching over her prize, the elder woman turned knobs until mirrors appeared from below the chair angled at the heart of Sherrie's vagina. "Give her hell," she grunted at Southworth.
Another button pressed and this time Sherrie's naked buttocks split wider apart, until aghast, she glanced down to see the swollen lips of her vagina swelling with blood of arousal!
A cold, clammy feel like that of a snake crawling along her spine rippled through the terrorized captive. The horror of her obscene posture was humiliating, but the sight of her own wicked arousal was soulfully damning! She blinked back hot tears as the vision of her disapproving father hovered above. "Nnnooo-oo. . . ! " she shrilled, straining against the straps.
"Our sweetheart is feeling the first tingle of pleasure," mewled Myra. "I could tell from those green eves she was half cat-in heat!"
Sherrie clenched shut her fluttering eyelids and thrashed her auburn curls from left to right. Beads of perspiration sheened the milky mounds of her breasts and her teeth clenched in horror against the naked truth.
Her green eyes stole a glance down into the mirrors, steamed from the heat of her cuntal arousal. Her traitorous pussy lips had swollen into reddened petals of shame and guilt.
Kurt Baily was in no mood for interruptions. A snow plow driver with a few warming brandies under the belt, had smashed into the rear end of his new Lincoln this morning. Irritation number two: nobody bought cars in the dead of winter. He slumped, ruminating over these grievances of fate, and drummed his fingers on the polished desk top. Good thing, (here a smirk grew over his mustached face), he had written his own insurance policy against inflation.
Outside the plate-glass window, a sheet of powder whitened the Auto Fair parking lot, making his lineup of '80 Caddies and Lincolns look like frosted tinker toys. The red sale signs had cracked in the storm and flew from skinny poles in shredded red ribbons.
Now the telephone call from his son-in-law.
"Tell the bastard to pick up his unemployment check at the welfare office," he grumbled at his secretary over the intercom.
"He says it's urgent," came the mewling voice. "S-something about his wife.. . ? "
"Sherrie?" Kurt stiffened. He loved his daughter. The only good thing his wife ever gave him.
A clicking sound, a pause, and Jack's voice crackled over the snow laden wires.
"Listen, you dumb shit, if you beat my daughter, I'll see you in court!"
"Cut the crap, Bailey," bawled Jack so loud Bailey held the phone a respectable distance from his ear drum. "Sherrie's gone-left. Where the hell is she?"
Kurt Bailey hadn't wormed his way up the ladder of corruption without tact. He used it now, knowing what Turner knew. "If there's anything I can do-" he said in a tempered voice.
"Listen, Bailey, you help me find my wife, or I'm going to the cops. You catch my drift?"
Bailey stiffened, nostrils flaring with rage. "So you win this round, Turner . . . but don't push me. I can have you more than fired."
The Swiss chalet sat pristinely in the pine forest. Drifting snows crawled up the blood red walls in silent fingers, stretching to reach the room where screams died.
Southworth went mad. He turned switches and pressed buttons, experimenting with his victim. The idea of machinery fascinated him, the concept of a handful of inanimate nuts and bolts doing to a human what another human failed to do . . . finding their libidinous weakness.
And so it was with Sherrie as the sucking and tingling of the foam cups intensified to the point of pain. Along with it came pleasure, ebbing and flowing in rhythm. Pleasure coming from all directions. Sherrie whimpered, feeling dew drops of perspiration trickle between the milky mounds of her breasts. Against her will, her hips began to undulate and the lips of her pussy gushed with blood and separated like the petals of a blossoming rose. The glistening red slit of her vagina opened acceptingly. Beneath, the softly rounded cheeks of her buttocks bunched and spread as if a baker's kneading hands were working at soft bread dough. She cried then, a wail dying in her throat at the sight of her tiny puckered anus so recently ravaged, working like a sucking mouth.
Her breath caught in her throat as a stainless steel shaft rose like a snake's head between her legs. Beside her, Southworth was wildly screwing something inJ,o place; he fastened a plastic surgical hose to it.
"Ah, Southworth," she heard Myra gleam beside her. "You are such a genius. We'll find out if this one is oral, anal or vaginal. It's my bet she's the oral type."
"Find out soon enough," grunted Southworth, stepping back. "I'd rather find out the bitch was anal. There is a rare breed." Standing in front of his captive's strapped down body, he hardly regarded her nude sensuality. Precise as a scientist and with an expression to match, he smirked up at Myra. "I'm sure you would rather she were oral. You haven't really had one to please you for a while."
Myra's soft hands reached up to cup her breasts. A ludicrously salacious grin separated her lips. "No, you're right. If things get any more arid, you'll have to put me in the machine!"
Sherrie listened to their salacious banter, one green eye kept warily peeled on what appeared to be a red tongue, horrifyingly obscene. Southworth flicked another switch and by some magical means the tongue filled, ballooning and bloating. Click, whirr . . . the tongue slipped forward, tilting, lapping toward her cunt.
"Ahhhhhh!" Sherrie defied her oath once more, as she felt the warm, moist touch of the plastic tongue. "Noooo!" she pleaded as the rubbery head touched, then pressed against her moistened vaginal lips. In rotating circles, the tongue worked at the swollen flanges, spreading them with vengeful ease.
She couldn't see him, but she could sense his presence. To her left, Myra's shallow breathing and the rustle of satin told her the woman was masturbating furiously. She might have concentrated on that horror, but the mirror emplanted in front of her face, and the wicked, bloated tongue began to vibrate in teasing circles, back and forth as it slid up and down the petals of her pussy in lubricated ease. Gently it spread her lips and dipped into the moistened warmth of her cunt; then it retreated, smearing the insides of her thighs with her own sex juices. Tantalizingly, it wormed its way down between her softly trembling buttocks to nudge at the brown button of her anus.
Sherrie stiffened and forced back her head, arching her back to ward off the ticklish sensation. It was gone then, heading north for the oily hub of her clitoris where it stopped and paid ticklish homage in a swirling caress.
Sherrie's face contorted teeth clenched, head thrown back. Pearls of perspiration beaded her forehead. "Nooooooo!" Maddening sweet, more gentle than her own husband's touch! Dear God, when would this torture end? Had anyone ever died of too much pleasure?
Those thoughts lifted as the chair suddenly tilted, raising her hips far above her head and spreading her legs wider still. Between them, working assiduously at the heart of her being, the tongue plunged down, spreading her seething cunt wide enough for the bloated digit to thrust in and out. Sherrie screamed out her rage.
She sucked in her breath hissingly, as the chair rocked back and forth. Her buttocks were trapped in the twin cups, swaying back and forth as the mechanical tongue fucked in and out, back and forth, vibrating. Eyes tightly clenched, her hips did a dance of their own, as the tongue dashed down to lick and probe at the brown eye of her anus. The captive's thoughts fled to Jack, deepening the humiliation. Fear and desire melded into one long groan.
Beside her, Myra's hands cupped her own breasts, while one ringed hand yanked at the hem of her dress, allowing her fingers to stroke the hairy nest of her cunt. "Ohhh, that tongue . . . to have that tongue licking me, sucking me . . . sucking me . . . sucking me.. . " she mewled, watching the naked captive's fear slowly melt into pleasure-which later would know pain. "Y-you see. . . Southworth," Myra struggled in a breathy voice, "She is oral . . . she would love to suck cock and cunt. . . w-would fit s-so well at Hunter's.. . " Her voice died in a groan of obscene pleasure, as bonding her knees and supporting herself with one hand braced against Sherrie's chair, she stroked and rubbed and mewled and cried with joy.
Sherrie's eyes popped open; but not from Myra's obscene gyrations. The tongue had stopped, retracted. "W-what. . . please . . . let me . . . gooo!"
"Never." Southworth was coming to life now. "You liked that too much." He glanced over at Myra. "We know she's oral. . . but we haven't tried the rest." Then down at the squirming, wiggling captive whose wide green eyes stared up into his dark beady ones with pleading intensity. "Don't worry . . . you'll have plenty of pleasure."
His eyes swept over the walls decorated with whips and chains and straps and objects Sherrie had never seen before. Then down at his captive. "We can offer you any pleasure you want here."
Sherrie shivered. Every nerve in her naked body cried for pleasure . . . anything to stop this ticklish sensation charging through her libido-controlled body. From the tips of her auburn curls, to the polished pink toenails curling under, Sherrie's captive body was a mass of jingling ganglia, fiery with the need for relief that could come in only one way orgasm. The thought shuddered through her body that she could want pleasure from these despicable creatures!
A click and a whirr and her head tilted back, so far back she was staring at the ceiling, as if in a dentist's chair. The rustle of Myra's satin dress chorused another sound-this time the metallic whine of a zipper. Sherrie's head flew to the side and she gasped aloud as his hands unzipped his pants and hauled out the pathetic, wormian tube of his flaccid penis.
"Suck it until I cum in your mouth," he said with neither passion or malice. "I want to see what you can do with your mouth!"
Sherrie spat at him: "Never!"
"You're saying no to me?" he snarled.
Sherrie's head flew to the side; a red welt streaked across her cheek bone.
"Okay," hissed Southworth. Keeping an eye on his victim, he turned a knob and her head righted so that her eyes leveled on the damning mirrors, steamed with hot cuntal secretions.
Beside her Southworth worked with scientific precision, unscrewing the bloated tongue and replacing it with a dildo of elephantine proportions. "There, is that big enough for you?" he snickered sardonically.
Dear God! A sob tore from Sherrie's fear constricted throat. It had to have been at least a foot long and five inches in girth. Crystals of dried cuntal juices flaked from the tip. A bubble of nausea welled in her stomach. Hysterically, she squirmed in the chair, judging his intent-correctly!
"Nnnnoooo . . . ! " That hunk of plastic would rip her to shreds. It would kill her! Not even a female cow could take a cock like that! Mouth going bone dry, she watched terrified as the mushroom headed cock with other women's dried juices and streaks of blood, whirred toward her vagina at a militaristic pace. She closed her eyes, feeling the cold plastic rub at the door of her tender pussy.
It crashed forward with shark speed, spreading the tender lips of her pussy, spreading them in a wide and tight oval around the mushroom head. Without caress or love, it plundered into her, raping her, spreading the lips wide mercilessly. It then slipped in with an ease she wouldn't have expected . . . because of her own anal secretions! Elastically, her lips spread wider, wider still.. . until a shriek of pure agony pierced the moans of Myra's fingered pleasure.
With the sound of a cork popping, the cock head slid between the swollen lips of her cunt; her pussy stretched taut and white. Mercifully, it retreated; she felt her buttocks and hips being ripped from their cups and, one glance in the mirror reflected her vaginal lips rolling out, giving up the massive head reluctantly!
Sherrie's body rippled with pain . . . worse than losing virginity on her marriage bed. Stars flickered before her eyes and Myra's lewd grunts echoed as if from a point far out in space.
"I would judge her depth at eight inches,"
Southworth reported to an unhearing Myra, who, sluicing her fingers in and out of her seething cunt, was hell-bent for an orgasm. "But just to make sure. . . . "
"Noooonoooo . . . please!" wailed Sherrie, watching the plastic cock prepare for a second attack. It plowed into her, drilled and gored, then slowly then slowly withdrew. "Oh, God, stop that thinggggg!" she begged. ' With a wicked snicker, Southworth screwed up the depth and tempo control and the tingling and sucking on her nipples too. Sherrie's body rippled with electrified sensations, centering wickedly in the heart of her raped womb. The devilish fingers of pleasure drummed at fear, corroding her will to fight the hellish sensations.
The dildo went berserk, crashing into her pussy like a gladiator charging his foe. It banged against her tender cervix. Sherrie yelped. Flickers of light danced before her flickering eyelids, and blinking her fear widened eyes, she saw the giant cock glistening with moist sex juices from her traitorous cunt! It pulled free with an obscene sucking sound, peeling her vaginal lips out to roll them back in. A second attack rolled the ends of her pubic hair into the nest of her vagina! Each ramming lunge knocked the breath from Sherrie's burning lungs.
With strength and resistance eating away, Sherrie's hips fought the straps and moved in tempo to the dildo goring in and out of her vagina. Damn you, Jack . . . Her chartreuse eyes rolled back in her head, and curly eyelashes fluttered deliriously. Why did yon treat me so shamelessly! This is your fault. . . !
Armed with defiance and stripped of pride, the captive gritted her teeth and caught the moan of submission about to bubble from her laxly parted lips. The tip of her pink tongue wetted the cracked line of her fear-dried lips as the great cock plundered home. Her captive body tensed, muscles fighting to capture the elusive orgasm that would forever shatter pride and defense. She didn't want to think, only feel that animalish thing fucking into her crying womb.
A sob tore from her throat and tears smarted in her wet eyes. Southworth turned the knob to high and the surrogate penis pinned her tighter against the straps.
"Aaaaggghhhhh!" She felt herself slip into a state of mindless animal lust.
"Tell me, sweetheart," Myra whispered hotly in her ear. "Did you ever feel anything so sweet in your life?" Lewdly, the older woman smeared the sticky juices of her own orgasm over the captive's lips. 'There's nothing," she hissed, "like the cum of a woman tingling on your tongue."
Dear Lord! Jack.. . help me.. . Daddy, please! Yet the humiliation of being strapped in the chair with a lesbian smearing her wicked juices tauntingly over her lips were reminders of the debasement of her marriage. She was alone in the world. Alone. Nothing to live for . . . except for the burning need of relief!
Every inch of her goose-bumped body twitched and jerked and trembled as the rapacious plastic penis thundered violently into the shamefully swollen, seeping hole of her womb.
Damn you, Jack . . . you wouldn't have me . . . you wouldn't please me . . . ! To cum . . . to cum . . .
It exploded within her. She pulled against her straps like a racehorse biting at the reins. Fingers, ten cold fingers, numbed as every drop of blood within her lithe, naked body drained to the lips of her cunt to swell. She felt it burst within her . . . a pain jabbed at her spongy cervix. Wetness dribbled between her thighs, while stars sprinkled in heavens above. Then all went black.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Anna pressed her ear to the night cold door. Sobs seeped through the plank as if they were being torn from her own heart. Abruptly, her cautious eyes swept down the shadowed streak of the hallway. Steam hissing from the radiator added a lonely dimension to the night's soliloquy.
She had witnessed them carry the fainted body out of the chamber and dump the naked, abused flesh onto the bed where she lay now, whimpering into her pillow. A seething hatred pounded in Anna's chest.
Defiantly, she stiffened. The ugliness of the chamber's torture could rip apart a woman's soul, forever tainting it. Anna knew; she'd been there.
Outside the chalet the winds slashed against frosted window panes and the German Shepherd, starved for the raw meat he was fed daily, howled at the thumbnail moon slivered with storm clouds.
Eight o'clock. Southworth and Myra would be in the dining room filling their licentious gullets and sipping brandy. Time to take action, time to avenge a lost soul.
Dragging her limping foot, she scuffed down the hallway to the landing to find the ring of keys hidden behind a picture frame with its placid country scene of stoic pine encircled lake and heady sunshine. With eyes peeled on the stairway for approaching shadows and ears preened for the creak of footsteps, she cradled the heavy metallic ring in her palm and stole down the hallway.
Pausing at her room next to the bathroom where the captive girls were escorted four times a day, she scribbled a note on a pad, tore it off, quartered it and slipped it into her pocket.
Work gnarled hands turned the knob to Sherrie's room. The key slipped easily into the latch.
The sobbing had stilled. A fugitive beam of moonlight splashed across the alabaster features of Sherrie's porcelain face. A red welt swelled on her left cheekbone; the auburn curls matted to her fevered forehead.
Drawing a deep breath and shooting a cautious glance over her shoulder, the maid pried open the sleeping woman's tense fingers and slipped the note into the warm palm. She closed the fingers and scuffed out the door,. . . but not before she'd shaken the robe shoulders to alertness.
Sherrie felt the presence, even in deep sleep. Ahh . . . ! " A scream died in her throat as a cold hand clamped over her gaping mouth.
"Shhhh . . . no . . . you must go . . . turn!"
"Wh-what? I . . . " Sherrie tried to shake herself alert. The intruder had to have been a nightmare vision. Struggling up to one elbow, she blinked her puffy eyes.
Who was she? Where was she? Terrified, her eye fled over the room. This was not Chicago . . . this was not her bed . . . and where was Jack?
The dull throbbing between her satiny thighs re leased the gates of memory. The ugliness of the chamber flooded back in sickening waves. A tiny trembling hand reached up to touch the reddened welt
Whiteness, like a flitting butterfly, fluttered from her hand. Puzzled, she grasped at it and unfolded the handwritten note. A long white hospital robe dragged over the floor as she darted in bare feet to the window and squinted in the moonlight to read:
"You must leave here immediately. Leave tonight Your door is unlocked. Go to the cafe at the corner and ask for Harvey. He will help you."
Fear clawed at her delicate throat. Who left the message? Someone had stolen into her room while she was asleep. Who? Why? Was this another trick to abuse her?
With a cry of alarm, her cold, bare feet fled across the scratchy carpet to the door. Apprehensively, he delicate hands closed over the cold knob and turned, was open.
Indecision tore at her heart. What awaited her on the other side? Where were her tormentors?
Rummaging in the darkness, she found her wool slacks. Someone had folded them neatly and tucked them into her night case. Lifting her aching arms, she winced and pulled her sweater over the tingling mounds of her breasts. The nubby wool scratched at her chafed nipples, reddened and swollen from the diabolical machine's tauntings. Every muscle in her legs and back ached from being strapped and pulled taut. With a grunt of discomfort, she reached for her hoots under the bed.
Indecision was melting fast. Whoever these maniacs pre, she had to get away before they murdered her with their diabolical mechanical contraptions!
The frantic captive fled to the window and pressed her perky nose against the frosted glass. Her warm breath steamed the pane, the cooling touch soothing to her bruised cheek. A trembling hand shaded her eyes against the moonlight's eerie glow. "A blanket of white . . . " she muttered to herself, staring at the pristine purity of endless snow. The snowflakes fluttered freely in windblown wisps.
To be free . . . again. Feeling strangely alienated from the world, free will frozen somewhere within her tortured soul, she struggled out of fear's grasp. Watching the snowflakes play and dance in the still night air stilled the clawing terror. To survive was her only hope. Freezing to death in the drifting snow, she decided, could be no worse than suffering the tortures of the stout maniac and his lesbian accomplice! She shivered, but not from the cold.
Tiptoeing, boots in hand, she crept toward the door and peered into the hallway's eerie shadows. Only the radiator hissed. Flinging a swirl of auburn curls over her shoulder, teeth clamped over the chafed line of her rosy lips, Sherrie stole down the hallway. The walls seemed to pulsate, breathe with threats. Step by step . . . so far so good. Stair by stair.
Then her foot froze in mid-air. She sucked in her breath, melonous breasts rising in gut wrenching terror. The step had creaked beneath the weight of her lissome body. Eyes bugged wildly, she waited.
Anna pressed her body against the cold hallway wall, watching the captive make her getaway. Go now . . . hit re faith . . . you must . . . the door is open . . . " Still Sherrie halted. The older woman pressed her bony weight against the wall, clenched her eyes shut and concentrated: "Go . . . THE DOOR IS OPEN'
Auburn curls swung in mid-air. Sherrie's green eyes shot up over the landing toward the hallway. A force, a strangely goading force, was pushing her out the door.
Her hand froze on the banister. One step more, another . . . another . . . another. Now she stood at the foot of the stairway, adrenalin pounding in her ears. Ten feet away a wooden plank stood between nightmares and freedom. Wildly she glanced around. A smoldering fire was dying in the hearth, the deer's head hanging above it grinning lecherously at her.
Frantically, her trembling hands grasped the cold metal knob and twisted. She grimaced, winced, blood singing in her ears. It turned. Slowly, she opened it, stepped into the frozen night. She ran until exhausted, collapsing in the snow.
From the upstairs window, a dark shadow watched her escape. Then, stealing down the hallway, paused to pluck something from the carpet, and disappeared.
Chicago's police station can be a most entertaining nightspot, if one possesses a sadistic sense of humor.
Jack Turner came to that decision as he slumped in a straight backed wooden chair, torturing the Styrofoam coffee cup whose contents gurgled in his stomach. To his right, a handcuffed, toothless Cuban refugee sat muttering damning epitaphs about American freedom; and to his left, a weeping mother blew her nose and fingered a photograph of her runaway daughter.
Jack drew a depressive breath and bracing his elbows on his knees, shot to his feet the second a paunch-bellied policeman called his name and beckoned him with a crooked finger to the desk at the far back. The officer was in charge of missing persons . . . his desk littered with everything from Woolworth photo booth pictures to mug shots and hand drawn sketches, attested to that.
A form was thrust in Jack's face. Jack glowered at it. "I don't want to fill out any forms, Goddam it. I want to find my wife!"
The policeman belched enchilada breath and cupping his hand to his mouth, grumbled apathetically at the distraught young husband. "Look. . . "He shuffled a deck of written reports before Jack's unblinking eyes.". . . we need a report. One hundred and fifty-two people are reported missing in Chicago every day . . . I don't know your wife," he mocked leaning on his elbows, fat fingers entwined and shaking jowled cheeks. He leaned back in his creaking chair and pushed back the bill of his hat.
Humanity . . . was a mess, he recanted, on second thought. It was too easy to become a hard ass in this occupation. His heart softened. "Alright, let's have a description . . . maybe we have a coroner's report. . . . "
Coroner's report! Jack's eyes bugged wildly; he craved a drink. Sherrie . . . dead? Suicide? Would she dare? No, not Sherrie. She couldn't take an aspirin without throwing up!
"Listen . . . " Jack's voice tingled with conspiracy. He leaned over the policeman's desk and braced his elbow on the stack of reports. "You help me find my wife, and I'll help you put a criminal behind bars."
The officer's upper lip curled in amusement. "Dillinger died in a shootout in Wisconsin, and Capone died of syphilis. We don't need no help," he belched.
"What about Kurt Bailey? You got anything on him?"
The officer rolled his eyes at the ceiling and scratched his neck. "Jesus, kid, let's be realistic." He spread his hands expressively. "This city is crawling with vice.. . " He poked his finger at a photograph of a three year-old girl who's bruised, bloodied body had been found in a closet by an inquisitive neighbor. "Kids are being murdered by their parents, men are shooting their wives, wives are knifing their husbands . . . ! " He surveyed the wild eyed man as being one more kook wasting his time. "Evidence.. . " Another poke at the incriminating photograph. "Evidence.. . . "
Jack scraped back his chair, slammed his hand on the desk and jumped to his feet. "You want evidence?" He drew in a breath that added three inches to his height. "I'll swear I'll get that sonofabitch locked behind bars . . . and then I'll get my wife back. You understand? You get one and you lose one, that's the way life works."
Jack's jaws were so tight, a crowbar couldn't have wedged them open as he threw himself behind the wheel of his rented car, revved the motor and skidded out of the parking space of the police department parking lot. A scuffle between paddy wagon police and a handcuffed black man erupted, but his attention couldn't be rattled.
I am going to find Sherrie and she's going to understand for once and for all what an asshole tier father is. She'll find out he fired me for what I knew, not for being a goddamned lousy used car salesman!
Tires spinning and burning, he slid down the ice slickened street toward his house, screeched to a halt before 1897 Garfield, and ran into his garage.
Grabbing tools from his workbench like a frugal housewife at a department store sale, he loaded up his arms and threw himself back behind the wheel. Paying no heed to traffic cops, stop signs, or precarious pedestrians, he sped toward the Auto Fair.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Drifting snow blew over Sherrie's collapsed body, but she felt no cold. For a stricken moment, she lay panting and weeping. Forcing herself to her feet, she stood statuesque under the thumbnail moon. In a state of near shock, she put one foot in front of the other before realizing she still clutched her boots in her hands. I lustily, shi' slipped into them and ran into the night.
The snows had abated, leaving a crisp layer of ice that crunched under the high heels of her boots. She ran until her lungs burned from icy inhalations and only then, at the fork of the road, did she stop to peek through the snow-laden boughs at the blood-red Swiss chalet. Above her the Crackerbox sign with the blonde in red hunter's underwear crooked a mocking finger at her. "Come Hunt With Me. . . "
"Hunt for flesh and blood," Sherrie muttered and pressed onward. To the cafe . . . the note. . . Harvey, whoever he was.
One foot in front of the other, she ran, slipping, tumbling into the snow drifts. She pulled herself up and wind milling her arms for balance, plunged on. Behind her, the munching sound of tires on fresh snow stung her ears, it was them . . . coming for her!
Paralyzed with fear, terrorized they might be after her, she jumped headlong into the ditch and waited for the splash of red brake lights to pass.
The next quarter of a mile might have been ten thousand. Darkness shrouded her, playing tricks on her sight and senses. Her mouth went bone dry, teeth chattering, though a heat suffused her shivering body. Then her legs stiffened, knees refused to bend. She stopped, grabbed her stomach, heaving for breath.
I hare to keep moving . . . or I'LL die . . . I have to. . .
The temptation to lie in the snow and give way to sleep nearly overwhelmed her. Squinting through strands of hair beaded in icy fingers to her forehead, she caught sight of the white building. The cafe! Eyes shot wildly over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the night. She was almost there. The cafe sign with its steaming cup of coffee, barely visible in the sparse moonlight, warmed her senses. Freedom. . . home.. . Chicago.
She stole around the corner to the small apartment where Harvey, whoever that was, must live. Frozen knuckles rose to hammer on the frosted glass.
Movement behind her sent her head flying. A scream died in her throat.
The door jimmied open so easily Jack swore the crafty old bastard was probably on the other side of it waiting to trap him. That suspicion proved false, Jack snickered to himself and fell to his hands and knees. He slipped his screwdriver back into his Levi's pocket and crawled hand over knee with the flashlight tight in his gloved fist.
Outside the white lumps of the Auto Fair parking lot with its unsold four million dollar inventory, the traffic had nearly stopped. Road reports warned travelers to stay home. For once in his life, Jack blessed the cursed snow.
Crawling past Bailey's mahogany desk with its swivel chair, Jack levered up onto the cushion and rested his elbows. Fleeting curiosity made him wonder how many times Bailey's plump assed little secretary had knelt on her knees in this very spot, sucking off the old fart. Reaching down, he felt knee spots in the carpet. Bustard. . . .
It was an arm's reach away; the metallic shape shining from the reflection of the parking lots' pole lights. When he'd first started work as underling used car salesman, Jack had surreptitiously watched his father-in-law playing with the safe. The man appeared to have a fascination for turning the combination, and the numbers were imprinted in Jack's brain. No money was kept inside the box; checks and cash were taken to the bank religiously, Bailey saw to that.
With sure fingers, fired with adrenalized revenge, Jack screwed to the right once, stopping at 18, to the left twice pausing at 0, back to 18 . . . and slip, His throat went dry as the heavy metal door creaked open. Flashlight clamped in his teeth, he used both leather gloved hands and rifled through the stocks and bonds and accumulation of business papers. At last, at the bottom, he found the accordion pleated brown file that he'd caught Bailey stuffing papers into day after day when he was alone in his office. He slipped these into his coat pocket and muttered to himself:
"Now you got your evidence, officer. . . "
Sherrie's scream sliced the crisp night air. Her tiny fist few to her mouth.
A snarling German shepherd had trapped her to the wall! Its white fangs, dripped with saliva under a murderously rippled upper lip. Its sleek, sinewy, dark body was preened to spring: legs rigid, ears pinned back, eyes glaring into its victim's fear-dilated pupils. A death threat rumbled from deep in its throat.
Above Sherrie's left shoulder, a light flicked on in the cafe apartment. The shadow of a man pressing his nose to the window reflected on the frozen ground.
Oh, please . . . she prayed, daring not to speak, call the police. . . Help meeee! She tried to scream, but it died in her throat.
Fear killed hopes and part of Sherrie Turner as Harvey, pressing his nose to the glass, recognized the terrifying killer beast from the Crackerbox pinning a runaway to his wall. He wanted no part of that action.
like his ignorant, bullheaded sister, this one deserved to die a dirty prostitute. Probably the name city butch who came looking for the place a couple of days ago, he thought to himself.
With a gruff snicker, Harvey flicked off the light switch and crawled back into bed. He heard the voices a minute later . . . a woman screaming in pain and the commanding bellow of an irate man. With his head buried under the pillow to muffle the violence, he prayed Southworth would not suspect him of abetting one of his runaways. This hick town might be dull, but he wasn't ready to become a statistic.
He punched at his pillow, folded it over and tried to relax into sleep; yet the lingering image of his lovely black-haired sister barely turned eighteen stuck in his mind. A young girl packing her suitcase and running away from a drunken, abusive stepfather . . . only to become involved with a man far more volatile, haunted him 'til morn. By then the screams and pleadings for help had died in the snow. Maybe by morning, he thought glumly, he'd find a half eaten female carcass on his delivery doorstep.
He hoped not-for his sake.
Home in Chicago in her warm bed, sleeping late into the morning. . . what joy! Sherrie decided to roll over onto her side and cuddle her arms under her pillow, and lay like two spoons next to her sleeping husband.
"Mmmmm.. . " She lifted her arm. It refused to move. Again she pulled.
"Don't hurt yourself," a raspy female voice warned. "You'll need your strength for later."
Myra stared down at her rope-tied victim for a long assiduous moment. "Wake up, baby, and see what Myra has for you!"
The voice steamed of violence, awakening the captured escapee with a start. Sherrie's fear reached the point of tears as she gawked breathlessly up at her tormentor's firm legs and thighs and naked, heavy breasts, the glistening milky mounds goose-bumped with excitation. Sherrie had never seen a naked woman from this angle before. The older woman's thickly furred pussy was a sniff away; she could see the cuntal lips moist and pink and pouting for attention.
A low moan sounded from the other side of the wall. Myra cocked her head in that direction. "That's your friend Anna.. . in the chamber. That's the reward she gets for letting my precious go. Ah, but our dog has a nose for cunt just as I do. I'll bet my sweet was surprised to wake up in her bed."
Sherrie wanted to die. So it was Anna who'd let her go. Why? Why had she risked the horrors of the chamber to help a stranger go free? But those questions were hardly meaningful in the face of Myra's naked nudity hovering over her. A quiver of mutinous curiosity shivered in Sherrie's brain; an inkling of Myra's hedonistic demands crept into the numbed recesses of her libido.
"No, please.. . no, I won't.. . I swear.. . you can kill me, but I won't. . . " Sherrie shook her head violently, struggling to flip onto her back. Wiggling like a stuck worm, her tied ankles and wrists, still chafed from the chamber chair, ached numbly. She thrashed her head at what seemed to her the ultimate perversion. Being forced into having sex with a rapist husband and a mechanical chair was mortifying enough, but being forced into sucking and licking another woman's genitals was enough to make her sick.
Chills of repulsion crawled up the captive's spine. This perverted creature would not stop until she'd had her fill of another woman's flesh. That was sick and ugly.. .
The breath hissed from her lungs. The buxomy woman crawled upon the bed, and with one foot on either side of Sherrie's naked rib cage, straddled her victim. The fleshiness of Myra's buttocks flattened on Sherrie's breasts and the nearness of the woman's steaming genitals a tongue's lap away, made her turn her head in disgust.
"Come on angel baby, eat Myra's pussy . . . in nice little laps . . . pretend you're a mother cat and Myra's cunt is your pussy. Clean it baby," she cajoled in a silvery voice which, in other circumstances, might have been intoxicating. Sherrie refused to flutter an eyelid. "I might let you go if you're good to Myra.. . "
The straining young captive frozen when Myra slid her creamy nakedness forward until her black-fuzzed pussy hovered a few threatening inches over Sherrie's fear-gaping mouth. For a few tantalizing moments, Myra's steaming cunt wafted over Sherrie's wide pink lips and the alarmed girl eyed the fleshy thighs above her with shivering dread, defiantly pressing her lips together. She steeled her resistance by telling herself if she allowed herself to feel a crumb of eagerness in this degrading perversion, as she had on the machine, she would be forever tainted and plunged to Myra's animal level of morality. She might be forced to commit his sinful act, but she couldn't be forced into enjoying it.
And yet Sherrie could not fight a finger-wagging undercurrent of curiosity in her adrenalin-powered body as she gazed up at Myra's swollen pussy lips, the wet flanges opening like a fish's mouth at feeding as they lowered inch by quarter inch toward the target of Sherrie's helpless mouth.
In that terrifying infinitesimal fraction in time, it didn't seem possible to the runaway wife that the obscenities assaulting her could be real. A few days ago she had been a normal housewife, picking up beer cans after her husband and nagging about the overflowing garbage can. As the fearful wife strained nakedly at her bonds, the stunning reality of her defenselessness struck her with the force of an H bomb.
The sun streaking through the balcony window splashed golden shadows over the creamy mounds of Myra's ripe flesh. Her ripely curved ass cheeks hovered like a Greek statuette, and the woman's passion soaked pussy slit, a nose length away, filled her nostrils with the heady scent of naked lust. She swore if she could see straight through to this woman's soul, it would be hellish black.
"Ahhhhh!" Myra's squirming hot cunt rested on Sherrie's pouting lips and the startling contact of wet, burning cuntal flesh against her parched lips was like a kiss of lust that left the shivering woman dazed and gasping for breath. She tightened the line of her lips, resisting, sobbing at her utter humiliation, aware that the dark-haired woman had wetted the pad of her finger and was rubbing salaciously at the puckered ring of her anus.
"Suck my cunt, precious!" hissed Myra angrily above her, grinding her raw pussy flesh savagely over Sherrie's resisting, soft lips.
"Never!"
"I said suck my cunt, precious," the threat rang in Sherrie's ears, "or Anna is going to die in the chair. That would hardly be showing appreciation, now wouldn't it?"
Indeed, the low moans of agony had sharpened to razored shrieks on the other side of the wall. Something about good Samaritans flitted through Sherrie's miasmaed mind as tentatively, she wormed her tongue into the slippery depths of her tormentor's hot, swollen vagina. Self disgust crawled over her body like baby snakes as she lapped at the older woman's perfumed flesh, struggling against the strangely bizarre excitation rising in the pit of her empty belly as Myra's vaginal juices seeped into her dry mouth like sweet fire.
Sherrie feared she had reached Myra's sewer level of morality when the older woman grunted out her pleasure and scraped the kinky pubic curls foresting her dripping pussy back and forth over the horrified girl's mouth, as though that were a male stalk of meaty flesh between her thighs instead of her victim's reluctantly flicking tongue!
Sherrie Turner. . . if yon let yourself. . . like yon did in the chair.. . oh, no, something about these people gets to me. . . What magic did she possess, this pre-menopausal bitch, wondered Sherrie, thinking thoughts she'd never dared until happening into these people's clutches. The infectious excitation goose-bumping Myra's naked body, combined with the soft, babyish rubbing of her puckered anus, spurred Sherrie onto soaring heights of consciousness as the heady perfume of her rapist's hotly clasping cunt began to smother her face like a forbidden aphrodisiac. In a feverish moment, the trapped wife realized with crimson shame that she, too, had joined the chorus of moans and groans. Three women, caught in a web of blind-faced lust and shame, screaming out their masochistic yearnings.
The warmly seeping cuntal flesh piqued her taste buds in a febrile kiss of passion, heightened by the milky trickle oozing into her gaping mouth. What's happening to me? thought Sherrie, hell-bent for hysteria as Myra's probing finger worked ravenously at her sore but sensitive anal ring. I'm having sex with another woman and thinking jealously of the tortured woman next door who's getting the lapping tongue and want cock ramming up her belly. I want to be in the chamber chair, I want this woman's oozing juices. I'm sick!
Sherrie's mind reeled in desperate shame and utter confusion while her vulnerable body shuddered with chilling spasms of newly awakened desire. Desperately, she crushed her nostrils to Myra's pussy curls and lapped her tongue in churning circles into the woman's quivering cuntal hole, her velvety pink tongue snaking up into the milky slit, her mouth craving more of the sweet nectar seeping onto her coated lips and into her mouth.
Grunting sounds rumbling from her swan-like throat, Sherrie tugged at the thick ropes binding her wrists and ankles only to free her hands so she could squeeze Myra's voluptuously tanned buttocks and cram the bewitching woman's swollen pussy flesh more tightly to her hungry mouth, aware that of the chorus of obscene grunts and groans, hers were the loudest.-Beads of perspiration dotted her satiny forehead, her breasts, her stomach in a thin layer of dampness; and as she thrashed against the woman's probing finger, she felt a ruthless new hunger growing deep inside her body.
Her succulent lips encircled the oily nub of Myra's blood-swollen clitoris, sucking the lust inflamed button and wriggling her nose with ecstasy against Myra's scented cuntal fur. Mind and body split in that second of lustful greed, so that she watched objectively her rope-tied body squirming, listened to the febrile moans of sucking. And the ache in the pit of her belly grew like mushrooms on a rainy morn.
"Oh, my sweet precious angel," rasped Myra appreciatively, her liquid eyes rolling around in her head. "I.. . I knew you were oral. . . and Southworth wants to send you to Comstock Inn wh-where they do n-nothing but ass fucking.. . no.. . not for m-my precious angel mouth.. . . " Myra ground her soft, creamy hips in rising frenzy over Sherrie's puckered, milk-coated lips. "Ohhh . . . you suck like a baby . . . I'm . . . going to cummm . . . ohhhh! Eat me, Sherrie. EAT ME! Oh, Christ," she hissed. "Your mouth is . . . un-nggghhhaaaa . . . so hot.. . so wild . . . suck harder, angel, lap it. . .unnnnngg gghhhhhh! AGGGGG HH-HHHHHH!"
Her chiseled features contorted with lustful bliss, as Myra dug the fingers of her right hand into her milky breasts and tweaked the nipples into diamond chips. With her finger, she probed the sphincter muscle of her captives' anus, never hurting, only taunting deliciously. Her exploding cunt locked in spasmic joy to the captive's savagely licking tongue. The black-haired lesbian's head lolled languidly, her intense eyes burning into Sherrie's chartreuse ones. The captive's long eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings over high, flushed cheeks while she obediently lapped and sucked at the older woman's juices with babyish sucking of her puckered lips.
"Sweet baby, angel.. . oh your mouth!" Myra sang in a silvery peal of appreciation. Only a lesbian-virgin could give her this kind of spine-tingling orgasm, only an adorable young victim who'd unknowingly appeared at the Crackerbox door in need of work and a place to stay.
Now the hissing woman ground her quivering pussy flesh in wild, convulsive circles around Sherrie's deep fucking tongue, wishing she had a man's cock to shove between the sleek, satiny thighs clamped around her hand and fingers drubbing at the door of Sherrie's nether parts. Bending her head, she sank her teeth into Sherrie's soft, sweating palm as the smoldering climax fired in her loins. It erupted in violent surges and raced from the tips of her curled under toes to her bee-stung nipples, tearing a lustful groan from her throat.
Her heart beating in her chest, Sherrie darted her tongue into Myra's seeping vagina and licked with frenzied hunger the copious juices flooding into her mouth. The hot pungent moisture sparked a feverish desire in Sherrie's cum soaked mouth. She couldn't get enough of it, no matter how she nibbled and sucked and swallowed and licked. The torrents of Myra's raging orgasm rippled through her roped down body in electric bolts of naked bliss, and something so sweetly forbidden and wickedly wonderful about the commanding older woman's milky thighs thrashing against her face and soaking her cheeks with sweet pussy juice made the girl coo with guilt and lust.
Ohhh . . . Ahhhh . . . Next door Anna's grunts and moans of long denied pleasure hotly approaching the line of pure pain, echoed Sherrie's masochistic chorus.
Stabs of liquid fire from Myra's hot tongue searing through Sherrie's thrill racked anus made her shudder. Oh, to cum . . . to cum and put an end to the hellish, ticklish itch festering in her untouched pussy! Why wouldn't Myra venture her finger up a quarter of an inch and plunge her raping digit into the steaming depths of her burning cunt and offer her fulfillment? Grunting against the ropes, the helpless captive yearned to grasp her rapist's hand and plunge her fingers deep into the seething hole of her cunt.
Panicked with lust, Myra's hotly gushing cunt shuddered more softly against her victim's cum soaked mouth, and a few moments later Myra sighed with relief before prying her thighs free of the sobbing captive's cum-glistening face and rolling over onto the mattress beside Sherrie.
"You eat me so beautifully," mewled Myra, stroking her victim's face with the finger that had just probed into Sherrie's tender anus. "I haven't been eaten out like that for years." Her honeyed praise did nothing to quell the tickle in the pit of Sherrie's womb . . . or for her ailing self respect.
"Just think, my precious, you and I could spend a lifetime together licking and sucking each other, making love . . . and no one will ever know.
"Never" spat Sherrie. So what if she'd succumbed to the chamber's mechanical contraptions and watched her own pussy lips swell, watched the cum trickle down her thighs from the raping dildo. So what if she'd nearly drowned in another woman's sexual juices. She still had her pride, a little bit of Bailey in her, even if the Turner had no backbone. Yes, she decided instantly. It was the Turner that had succumbed to indecency . . . not the Bailey.
Staring into Myra's wildly glinted eyes, she knew that even if she promised this woman a lifetime of lesbian joy, Myra would not untie her.
"You're sick," sobbed Sherrie in a raspy voice. "You'll never break me. . . not you or that ugly man or your stupid machine. You can torture my body, you filthy sex maniac . . . but never, never will you taint my soul!" Scalding tears of hysteria tumbled down her bruised cheeks.
"Oh, am I?" the sultry brunette's lips puckered into a tight smirk; she inspected her blood-red fingertips "Deep inside that puritanical soul, you're one hot cunt . . . one of the hottest who's walked through our door. You're afraid of your own sexuality, angel mouth . . . but once you get over that fear there would be no stopping you."
Sherrie's gasp caught in mid-breath. She clamped her teeth over cum-encrusted lips. As demoralized and humiliated as she'd been in the past few days, she had cum from the buzzing whirr of mechanical sex toys, and swallowed a woman's cum. The pressure of a finger on her soft flesh shot electrical charges through her nerve-racked, bruised body, Centering in the empty pit of her womb.
Of all the pain and fear she'd suffered at the hands of the diabolical pair, none was greater than the fear that Myra's judgment was correct. Why didn't they just kill her . . . and stop forcing her to face the depthless wonders of Sherrie Turner's repressed sensuality?
"Excuse me, darling, I have to go unplug the machine before our traitorous Anna bleeds to death." The naked woman lifted from the bed.
In the chamber, Anna's strapped down naked body was sheened with perspiration. Myra sucked in her breath as she opened the door, surprised perhaps, that her maid's firm, modelesque body had lost none of its lusciousness in these years of captivity.
Black strands of hair wisped about her high cheekbones, dappled with satiation. The firm mounds of her breasts rose and fell with deep inhalations. A strange tilt to her full upper lip hinted at something diabolical and unspoken.
Myra read the cryptic message. "You've lost none of your animal instincts over the years, Anna."
Anna's dark eyes fell shamefully. In the steamed mirrors, the swollen blood-fed folds of her cuntal lips attested to that animal urge. Could it be she had freed the captive because secretly she craved the masochistic perversions of the chamber? The thought cut through to her soul. Had these years of abstinence driven her to self destruction?
CHAPTER NINE
Kurt Bailey's mood curdled. His upper lip twitched under the hairy line of his moustache. Armpits dampened. On hands and knees, he rummaged through the papers deep in the corner of his safe. The brown packet was missing!
"Sonofabitch!" he growled, jumping to his feet and hanging shut the heavy safe door with a swift kick. He threw himself into his chair, buried his head in his hands, and made a quick decision.
A second later steely fingers punched out a telephone number he'd sworn he'd never resort to using. "Meet me in the McDonalds parking lot," he instructed conspiratorially. "And bring your buddy. I'll have the cash on me."
Bailey's trembling hand replaced the receiver. Bailey had never believed in God, but he prayed to him now. If his pansy-assed son-in-law had been making idle threats about playing detective, Sherrie would be damned irate about being a widow at age twenty-five.
I hope the stupid shit has life insurance. Sherrie . . . wish she'd quit being dramatic and get her ass home before she gets mine in a wringer!
Locking the door, he went to the safe and counted out the bills which he stuffed in his suit pocket. He draped his overcoat over his arm and stomped past his secretary.
"I'm going out for lunch," he called over his shoulder, feeling none of the titillating charge which was his which was his appetizer when his eyes fell on her tight buttocks and swelling hips. A bubble of acid indigestion curdled in his stomach.
Mavis blinked butterfly eyelashes at her employer and studiously filed her berry red nails, pooching out rosy red lips. A deep sigh swelled her bosom as she eyed her employer pulling out of the parking lot. She couldn't think of the word to describe his moody actions, but Kurt hadn't been his normal self lately.
"Oh well," she sighed relentingly, and flicked on the small screened television set at the corner of her desk to watch the afternoon soap operas.
Jack fingered the pile of official looking papers and neatly replaced them into the accordion pleated brown envelope.
He could taste revenge. His movements were sure, even and methodical, his brain honed and keen. He felt like Sam Spade in chapter twelve. Last night's adrenalin flow had simmered down to cool alertness-almost like being high.
The day burst with yellow sunlight, blinding on the white crusty snow crunching under his boots. The tires gripped the snow slickened pavement as he headed down the neighborhood street lined with lofty elm and oak trees. He was ruminating over the wisdom of choosing to live in an older section of town and Sherrie's remarks about it being a great place to raise kids. . . when the first bullet cracked his back window.
"Jesus Christ!" Jack stomped on the accelerator and tore through the intersection. His rearview mirror reflected the pock-marked face of a man he'd never seen. A wide brimmed hat shadowed his forehead, gloved hands worked the wheel tightly . . . beside him sat his twin aiming a .38 at the back of his head.
"What the fuck . . . ? " Wild-eyed, Jack broke all safety rules. His car swung abruptly into a tight left without signaling. The Datsun flew into a spin and banged into the rear end of a parked Volkswagen.
A housewife who'd been unloading groceries from the back seat, pulled her head out. "You . . . you bastard! Come back here and pay for this!" The grocery bag fell from her arms into the snow drift. She craned her neck to read the icy license plate and shook her arm militantly.
Jack could see her mouth working, from the rear-view mirror. "Sorry lady," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow and keeping his eyes peeled on the rearview mirror for the silver Lincoln Continental. The sparkly grill nosed around the corner, gaining on him again. "Oh, shit!"
A bullet sang through the air, hit the dashboard and sent the tachometer dial into a wind milling spin. Jack stomped on the accelerator, and skidded sideways down the street toward the main intersection clogged with noon hour traffic. Muttering something to himself about there being safety in numbers, he put himself into a Sam Spade frame of mind . . . all the way to the police station.
"Our little precious looks nice and rested, don't you think'. '" Myra's liquidy eyes lifted to Southworth's stoic face. "So relaxed and cuddly." Myra laid a soft palm on Southworth's square shoulder; her voice sang with silvery cajolance. "I say we keep her here . . . we really don't need another
Southworth's piggish eyes stopped Myra in mid-sentence. In a wintery voice, he gruffed: "I make the decisions, and you forget she's not been tested." Tested for endurance was the key to Southworth's enterprise. When a client wanted a woman who reveled in oral sex . . . she'd damn well better do it to his satisfaction!
The naked captive lay cringing into the bed. Some kind soul had untied her chafed ankles and wrists and applied lotion to the reddened welts. That same kind person, she recalled in horror, had raped her orally. A shiver of terror snaked up Sherrie's spine as she lifted her green eyes to Southworth's penetrating orbs.
A twitch at the corner of his mouth and his lips went taut. Wordlessly, he gripped the blanket in his hand and tore it off Sherrie's cringing nude body. His eyes began to roam over the smooth, ripe curves of her shivering flesh, a sadistic smile playing on his lips now. Against her will, Sherrie Turner experienced a tiny thrill of excitement.
"Nice breasts," he muttered. "About a 34 C, I'd say . . . firm . . . " He had reached over to pinch her nipples into hard peaks of tingling sensation, making them pucker into rosebuds. "She's very responsive."
Sherrie could feel her traitorous body coming alive under a man's fingertips, throbbing and burning with growing excitement. First the machine, then Myra's attack on me . . . and now him! Oh, Daddy . . . please come get me. Please . . . The thought that she was more afraid of her own responses and the shame that would follow, than the physical attack rattled through her clouded brain.
Sherrie's mind blocked out the voice, concentrating on the actions. She failed to notice as anger mixed with lust as he tweaked her nipple again. "Does that feel good?" he asked clinically.
A tiny groan escaped her throat as she felt the lingering need for a man's potent stalk of flesh grinding into her belly. Myra's delicate fingering of her anus and the wild eroticism of female genitals joining female mouth, had left her one sizzling hunk of flesh.
"Answer me, cunt!" he shouted, twisting both nipples as if they were nobs to his machine.
Jagged spears of pain shot from Sherrie's diamond chipped peaks as he twisted and pulled brutally at her reddened nipples and, wrenched from her dreamy arousal, she fought frantically to free herself from his painful grip. A rush of adrenalin flooded her veins and she managed to leap from the bed and throw herself toward the door. But he caught her in mid-leap before her hand caught the door knob. His hands clamped over her arm, slamming her back down on the mattress. She lay there quivering, naked, defiled.
Don't try that again," he warned in a knife-blade voice.
Grabbing the sheet from the bed, he bit through the hem, then ripped it to ribbons. Testing its strength between his clenched fists, he smiled in satisfaction and glared down at Sherrie. Without looking at Myra, he said, "You better get outta here. Your precious cunt isn't gonna look so relaxed after I'm done testing her!"
Myra's hands flew to her mouth. "No, Southworth . . . please don't hurt her-she's.. . "
"Ah!" She felt it before she saw it coming.
Sherrie's eyes saucered as she watched Southworth hit his lesbian accomplice square in the eye. Whimpering, Myra shuffled blindly toward the door and closed it behind her. The captive whimpered, too, as Southworth turned to her.
"You try to escape one more time, and I'll lose my temper," growled Southworth.
Sherrie's eyes widened in horror as she realized his intent.
"N . . . no . . . I won't.. . I swear I won't!" All too well, she remembered Anna's fate.
Southworth's mouth twitched. "Damn right, you won't," he muttered, brutally grabbing one of her chafed, tender wrists and holding it to the bedpost.
With efficient, doctor-like movements, he knotted the strip of cloth around her wrist, then wound the ends around the bedpost, drawing her arms tight as bow strings. Barely enough slack to let her blood circulate . . . no chance of pulling free. He repeated the procedure on the other wrist while she lay staring up at him with doe-like eyes, her face impassive, her eyes glinting.
"One day you'll be caught.. . " she spat up at him with slitted eyes. "You can't keep destroying women like this!"
"Don't make assumptions," he warned in a chiseled voice.
Sherrie's throat went so dry her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, as she watched the short man turn his back and hook his thumbs in his unzipped pants. He pulled them down over stout, hirsute buttocks, down to his knees and over his ankles. Instinctively, she wriggled, trying to loosen the bonds, but to no avail. Before he turned his back, she abandoned her struggle.
Jack had never struck her-except for that one time-and the thought of this sadistic man whacking her made her shudder. Tied to a bed made her feel degraded, humiliated. She was at the mercy of this maniac who hated women and was bent on destroying them. Oh God! She had to cooperate to stay alive! Fleetingly, she wondered how Jack would feel if he knew she was about to be raped.
But her thoughts screeched to a halt as Southworth turned around, stark naked, kneeling down on the bed. His long purple-veined cock was stiffening, a pearl of pre-cum oozing from the single eye. Just the sight of it started the fevered churning between her legs. With Jack, warm in their bed, the sight of his erect penis had been a sunny promise of joy. No bondage could not negate that association. The idea of having a man's hard penis boring into her belly made her shiver with anticipation and, in spite of herself, a half grin crossed her face. The devil in the angel was calling mutiny!
Yes, he would shove his penis into her . . . certainly he couldn't kill her with his cock . . . then the horrible itching between her satiny thighs would end and the devil's pitchforks would rest.
She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his body lowering onto the bed beside her, the anticipation of his fingers touching her lesbian-arousing body, his lips bruising hers, weakening her fears.
To her shock, she felt him lifting he head and one eye popped open to see him gathering up the pillows. He wadded them up and yanking Sherrie's head up from the bed, wedged them between and slammed her head back down, her chin nearly tickling her chest. Her wide green eyes stared at the crater of his navel, surrounded by pale hair. Craning her neck, she stared at his cruel face. That twitch in the mouth again.
Aside from his one instance of perversion, Jack had been good in bed. But this position was new to her. "Wh-what are you going to do?" she asked in a tremulous voice, puzzled by this strange arrangement.
"It's called fellatio," he answered simply. "Sucking cock. . . "
A whimper tore from Sherrie's throat. Never had she lowered herself to putting her mouth around Jack's penis. The idea nauseated her. Aside from his rancid opinion of her father, her unwillingness to defile her mouth was the biggest cur of their marriage. Now her tormentor was about to cleave through that privacy, just as Myra had with her salacious tauntings and oral rape. Sherrie gulped-dryly.
Oh Dear God! her mind bellowed. Why couldn't lie use her body in the normal way! In terrified disbelief, she watched him lift a hairy leg over her naked torso and position his stout buttocks above her breasts, his knees snug into her armpits, his throbbing, seeping cock dangling ominously before her eyes.
"N-no. . . please.. . not that," she whined, her lower lip trembling in horror, knowing that to beg would only spark his violent temper. "I-I can't do . . . that!"
In answer, his upper lip curled. He shook his blood-heavy cock before her eyes, making a dribble of pre-cum splatter onto her cleavage. "Kiss it. . . put your mouth on it."
Sherrie shut her eyes. The debasement couldn't continue. It couldn't! The machine, Myra, now this! When she refused, rolling her head from side to side to avoid touching the hot flesh with her tender lips, he grabbed her cruelly by the shoulder, digging into her soft, naked flesh until she cried out in pain. He grabbed a handful of auburn hair and yanked until her eyes watered from the agony.
"Oow! That hurts . . . stop!" she whimpered weakly, brokenly.
"Do as I say.. . "
Slowly, she parted her rosy lips, trembling from tight and jagged pain.
"Put your lips around the head of my cock," he said clinically, his piggish eyes alight with fiery flickers of lust. "Suck it!"
Fear and mortification joined hands, but Sherrie obediently closed her succulent lips tentatively around the blunt, shiny head of his rubbery staff. Jack had never forced her into this disgusting, filthy act. She had expected to be sick to her stomach from the taste of it, but to her shock, it didn't taste as bad as it looked. She tasted the bittersweet pungency of a clear, sticky liquid oozing from the tiny slit at the end. Given the choice of being beaten or put in the chair, this was the lesser torture, less humiliating-because she was being forced.
His knees tightened snugly under her arm pits with that first swath of her tongue, and Sherrie felt a gush of blood flood her cheeks as she felt his meaty stalk grow another rubbery inch. In a dark corner of her libido, she felt an unmistakable tickle of titillation at the spicy, pungent taste of the warm, male semen on her palate.
If she pleased him with her mouth, would he please her with his cock drubbing into her crying belly? Spurred on by the thought, she experimentally twirled her tiny tongue over the thick, purplish head. A low moan of something akin to pleasure rumbled from Southworth's throat. That, Sherrie noted dimly, was the first expression she'd witnessed.
"Now lick it," he hissed, panting slightly from the obscene sight of seeing his cock stuffed between the parted rosy lips of a faceless woman. Women were all faceless to Southworth, and mindless. Only their bodies, their bitchy cunts, were of value . . . even those wore out. like Anna's.
"Keep your eyes open so you can see what you're doing," he instructed.
Her eyes popped open to stare mesmerically at the long-purple veined hunk of male flesh drubbing between her soft lips. It jerked and leapt before her nose, settling there like an annoying fly.
"I said lick it, Sherrie. I'm not going to tell you again!"
He jerked it again, but Sherrie could only stare at it. So hard, she marveled, that the skin stretched tautly over its surface, shining like a polished opal. The thick veins bulged and pulsed against the shiny skin. Below, two pendulous balls in their softly swaying sacs, swollen and heavy with sperm boiling within, slapped against her dimpled chin. Hesitantly, the captive ran her tongue down its hot rubbery length, feeling the blood pulse like wriggling worms against her tongue. Daintily, she licked it all the way, swabbing the wet pinkness over its hairy base, then along the worming underside. The sensation was strangely exciting.
The sensation didn't linger in her tongue. As she slaved over her captor, Sherrie try as she might to blot it out, felt a perverse pleasure growing in the pit of her stomach at the thought of being used this way. That made it all right and moral, didn't it? Being stripped of choice, she decided subconsciously, had its merits. Could she correct the ugliness of being strapped to a bed and forced into performing fellatio on her tormentor? Deep in her smooth muscled belly, she could feel that churning, burning heat, sizzling in the center of her womanhood. It rippled to the diamond chips of her milky breasts and down to the tips of her curled under toes.
Above her, Southworth trembled from the delicate exquisiteness of her warm, wet tongue slaving over his cock that dangled and rubbed over her lovely features.
"Make your mouth vacuum my cum right out of my halls!" he hissed.
Sherrie's green eyes snapped up at him, her feathery eyelashes fluttering over appled cheekbones, the glint in them wildly acquiescing. Obediently, she trailed her warm pink tongue back over the rubbery shaft and ovaled her rosy lips softly and slipped them gently over the naked head of his mushroomed cock. Southworth groaned from deep in his chest and flicked his strong hips forward, sliding the full girth of his lust-bloated flesh into the wet cavern of her mouth and down the length of her velvety tongue to bang against the back of her brutalized throat.
She couldn't breathe! Panic flooded her mind as she gagged, eyes watering. Yet she sucked, vacuuming the seed from his testicles. She slipped her tongue up and down the erect pole of hot male flesh, nibbling softly at the base with her pearly front teeth.
That did it!
Southworth threw back his head and gasped out long repressed pleasure. Something akin to a smile creased his taut lips. Slowly, he began to rock his hips back and forth, fucking into her ovaled mouth as if it were just another cunt to brutalize and defile. His captive struggled to suck and lick, but it was impossible without a lungful of breath to keep her going. She could barely catch a lungful of air before he'd rammed his hardness down her throat, scraping over her tonsils.
Being tied down and forced to do filthy things with one's mouth, was far more terrifying than the electronic wonder in the chamber. Sherrie endured the torture minute by minute, refusing to look at the total picture of her helplessness for fear it might over-amp her senses and then she would start screaming-and Southworth would invent a new torture to silence her.
Better to concentrate on the hot cudgel ramming into her mouth, banging into her tonsils with each thrust, than to scream. In a strange masochistic way, it thrilled her to know she had no choice. She couldn't move her head, pinned as it was between his musky-smelling genitals and the headboard. No choice, no guilt. She had to suck on this pulsating, meaty cudgel or God knows he might make her into a juicy meal for the German Shepherd who'd almost tore out her throat!
Southworth's critical eye shot downwards to study the ovaled, glossy lips stretched tightly around the meaty base of his cock. Seldom did oral sex satisfy his lustful cravings; voyeurism tinged with sadism had been his sexual release. Masturbating to a woman's shrill scream of fear and desire made him cum. But this sweet mouthed female had a magical effect on him!
She worked her jaws together, feeling the blood swell in his penis, making it jerk inside her mouth. He could see tiny ridges of tender pink flesh as he pulled back from the babyishly sucking lips that slipped back inside as he slid his penis forward again. A chuckle gurgled cruelly in his throat as he watched the forest of pubic hair scrape against the sides of her mouth creating a little moustache while his sperm laden testicles slapped an obscene tattoo against her dimpled chin.
Definitely oral . . . he thought, knowing Myra had tested their precious captive. The vision of Myra's plump, mature body straddling the rope-tied captive's soft breasts while she mashed her steaming cunt against the dimpled face, made him ripple with lust. Now those delicate lips that had once tasted lesbian love, were wrapped around his pounding prick! Southworth's hips rolled in a rhythm of lust, as he sawed away, back and forth . . . in and out.. . never quite drawing it all the way out . . . leaving the seeping, naked tip in the warm cavern of her mouth . . . then boring into her throat on the hip flex. Her eyes, liquid green pools, watered. Sherrie's cheeks flushed with tears as she gagged on his potency.
"Ahhhhh!" Southworth clenched his teeth and threw back his head. The paunchy belly disappeared as he sucked in his breath making his abdominal muscles stiffen. "Suck! HARDER!" he yelped, locking his hands around the back of his captive's bobbing head, drawing it over his rigidity until he couldn't see even a quarter-inch of his stiffened muscle. He gnashed his teeth, determined to drown her in pools of sticky cum. His balls erupted then; Sherrie's throat constricted and relaxed, as a pint of scalding semen shot down her throat. She swallowed in gulps.. . again and again and again.
Sherrie's pink cheeks turned crimson as they expanded and hollowed in a valiant attempt to keep from drowning. He didn't let go of her hair until she'd sucked away every last drop of his wiggling, hot sperm. Finally, Southworth grunted out the last dreg of pleasure and his cock deflated like a pricked balloon. The sticky, flaccid tube withered in her mouth and fell limply from her parted lips. The stout body of her rapist collapsed in a heap of exhaustion beside her on the bed.
Sherrie clenched her eyes shut, hating the sound of his labored breathing. He lay with his head on her arm; this was the first time he'd touched her, she realized.
The feel of his warm, sweaty male flesh against her goose bumped flesh started the devils dancing in the pit of her belly. Her vagina cried for attention . . . and once more the tauntings had satisfied her rapist. She struggled against her bonds; she chewed at her lip and whimpered, dying for someone to put out the fire in her loins.
They're done this to me . . . I can't help it if I-Oh, Lord, help me! Through the rationalizations and bloated excuses, Sherrie's conscience shook a guilty finger. The face of her father loomed God-like in a corner of undammed morality. What would her father think if he saw his precious daughter tied by a rapist whose sperm glistened on her lips . . . a tormentor whose sperm she wanted deep in her belly!
She squirmed. Her wrists ached dully from the bonds that held her captive on the bed, fingers numbing from blood starvation. She turned her pathetically flushed face to stare him in his bird-like eyes. A shiny thread of his sperm dribbled from one corner of her twitching mouth as she spat at him.
"You won't get away with this. . . " she hissed through clenched teeth, hating him for depriving her of well earned pleasure.
In answer, he chortled lewdly and then she bolted, straining at her bonds. His middle finger was rubbing the swollen nub of her clitoris in maddening circles, sending a bolt of electricity to shock her system beyond endurance. A cruel grin broke his stoicism. Turning his head toward the door, he called to Myra.
Slowly the door opened and enviously, she glared at l lie naked heterosexuals. Myra stiffened, awaiting Southworth's command.
"I think our precious is ready for Hunters Point Inn. Gel ready to move her."
Myra's forehead smoothed with mingled jealousy and disappointment.
Cringing into the mattress, Sherrie closed her eyes on reality. An ominous feeling that her torture had just begun rippled through her goose-bumped body. She felt the weight lift from the bed and heard a door slam shut.
CHAPTER TEN
"What do you mean, you didn't get him?" growled Bailey, balling up his fists in a murderous rage. "I didn't pay you three grand to take a joy ride in my Lincoln, you assholes!"
Patterson and Carlile shifted their weight simultaneously and exchanged glances.
"We hit his car twice . . . but we lost him in traffic," shrugged Carlile.
"So where the fuck is he now? He's supposed to be in the bottom of Lake Michigan!" Bailey's eyes snapped toward the panoramic gray choppy waters of Lake Michigan from his exclusive condominium window.
Patterson hooked a finger in his collar and gulped. "Headed for the police station . . . "
Bailey threw himself in the nearest chair and held his head in his sweaty hands. "I've got to get those papers.. . . ! " He slammed his balled up fist into the palm of his hand and chewed his bottom lip. The blood was draining from his face; a slight tremor made his hands shake.
The hit men looked at each other and shrugged.
A red curtain of anger blinded Bailey. "Fucking son of a whore!" he spat. Whether he was damning Jack Turner or himself, was a point of conjecture. That he's sorely underestimated his son-in-law's perspicacity and depth of revenge was slamming home like the lock of a prison cell door. "I never thought the chicken shit had the balls. . . . "
The thermometer read 14 degrees, but Jack Turner was sweating when he skidded into the police station, threw himself through the bullet proof doors and elbowed his way past the dispatcher, heading straight for Officer Pearson who sat chomping down a Big Mac at his desk.
Out of breath and flushed, Jack slapped the brown envelope on the officer's desk. "There's the evidence you wanted," he challenged, breathing hard. "There's somebody out there trying to kill me . . . and God knows what's happened to my wife!"
Officer Pearson pushed back the shiny bill of his hat and stared into Jack's reddened eyeballs. Jowls rippling, he chomped on his burger and gulped it down dryly. With one eye on Jack, he pulled the string on the envelope and squinting, flipped through a pile of death certificates. "Hmmm . . . " he muttered, pooching out bread-crumbed lips.
"Bailey's in cahoots with the coroner up there. It takes seven years to declare someone legally dead, doesn't it?" Jack jabbed a finger at the 1973 date on the first coroner report. "That was delivered by private messenger yesterday."
Pearson scratched his chin; his eyes shot upwards. The names Barbara Collins, Janet Crwaford, Dottie Jackson rang a bell. He shook his head. "A handful of phony death certificates isn't evidence," decided the officer. "We need testimony.. . . "
Jack sat down and stared the officer in the eye. "Where do you want to start? I've got names, dates.. . you name it."
Pearson's thoughts were elsewhere. His eyes fell to the photograph of a lovely bloodied young redhead. Across the top of the photograph was stamped a number. Curiosity piqued, he flipped through the death certificates and matched up the name Barbara Collins. He scratched his chin. Something didn't jibe.
The officer sucked in his breath and regarded the distraught husband with a fresh opinion. "Your wife is Sherrie Turner, right?"
Jack blinked and stiffened. His body turned all sinew and tendon.
"You're shaking, kid." Pearson changed the subject.
"Somebody took a couple of pot shots at me, that's what's the matter!"
Pearson lay a comforting hand on Jack's shoulder.
"Before we get into that, I have some news about your wife." The other gulped.
"We found her car." Pearson watched the husband. "It was parked in the Greyhound Bus Depot. It appears she took a bus north to Wisconsin to a little town up there. We're familiar with the town . . . been trying to crack a case up there for years. Two Grand Jury Investigations pooped out." The officer shook his jowls.
"You think my wife's been . . . . ? " Jack's eyes fell to the pile of death certificates. "I'm going up there. I don't care if those bastards put a bullet through my brain, but I'm going to find my wife and bring her home!" he bellowed.
Pearson lay a restraining hand on Jack's arm. "This is no Dashiell Hammet novel. This is the real world where people get bloody if they stick their noses in other people's business."
Jack's cheeks crimsoned. "What the hell you doin' about it?" he whined. "Where's my wife?"
He knew now he had to take matters into his own hands.
The black limousine nosed down the snow plowed narrow road, heading for Hunters Point Inn. The sun burst in a Mediterranean blue sky, painting a pristine picture of hot and cold temperatures and colors. One gloomy object blurred the crisp focus.
Wedged between a locked door and Southworth's body, Sherrie cowered in the back seat, her mood stormy with depression. Her wide green eyes blinked under spidery eyelashes as the driver made a tight right turn into the lodge's parking lot. Sherrie shivered and pulled up the collar of her coat, holding it tight to her chin. What new hell awaited her? What perverted tortures would abuse her bruised and ravaged body?
Hunters Point Inn wore the cloak of moneyed sophistication. No Volkswagens or Datsuns cheapened this parking lot! Mercedes, Alfa Romeos, Porsches glinted under blinding sunlight. Her attention shot to the stone fronted lodge with fresh red trim dripping with pine boughs and Christmas tree lights winking at the sun.
The limousine drew to a halt and Sherrie's heart clawed at her throat. Fleetingly, the temptation to run for it flickered with hope . . but futilely. Southworth, in a deceptively gentlemanly fashion, slipped his arm through hers and together their heels clicked on the wet cement toward the front door. His nearness nauseated her, sickening her with remembrances of sordid excesses. A heavy congestion in the pit of her belly was all too real!
A fresh faced blonde with honey hair swirling about her shoulders, opened the door. The piney scent of Christmas mingled with Christmas carols and heady giggles of women and good humored men sung in the air. Sherrie's eyes swept over the high beamed ceiling with boughs of mistletoe and pine. The irony of Christmas cheer percolated in Sherrie's veins. A bolt of homesickness thumped in her heart to thicken depression.
"Welcome! I'm Jill," grinned the young woman shifting her weight in the vee-necked evening gown that clung to her svelte curves and mounds with the tenacity of wet jersey. The strawberry tips of her nipples poked through the satiny fabric as if trying to bore holes in the fabric that rippled over the pouting mound of her Venus.
When Sherrie hedged, Southworth poked a finger in her back, steely as the nose of a .38 magnum. One last desperate glance over her shoulder and the captive consented, stepping into the merriment of her new prison. The door clicked shut behind her.
Southworth dropped his clutch on Sherrie's arm and drew Jill over for whispered conversation behind the captive's cringing back. Hastily Jill ushered her up the curling staircase laden with loops of pine boughs and crisp red ribbons, down a hallway eerily reminiscent, and into a room.
Sherrie's fear widened eyes flashed over the sunlit room. Two single beds, two dressers, carpeted floor, fireplace. A private bath and dressing room made an L-shape to the spacious, finely furbished room.
"Make yourself comfortable," encouraged Jill cheerfully through succulent red lips. "I have to get back downstairs . . . you know how Southworth is," she shrugged and slunk toward the door in a rustle of satin. "Take a nap if you like and rest up," she suggested in a voice that hinted at foul play. "The maid will be in to help you dress later."
The door clicked shut and Sherrie threw herself on the bed and cried salty tears. Weakened beyond the will to fight, she fell into a dreamless sleep. Lifelessly, she lay on the bed, the afternoon sun sojourning west to splash a yellow streak of sunlight over her immobile body.
When the sun had traveled, moving its streak to the foot of the bed, a knock on the door made Sherrie's eyes flash open. Leaping to her feet, she struggled for a moment to put together the puzzle of entrapment. Southworth, the limousine . . . it was coming back to her now. Stroking a wave of hair back from her cheek, she opened the door and peered into the eyes of a young woman.
"May I come in and take your measurements?" Olga asked, shouldering her way past Sherrie.
"Measurements . . . but?" A tremulous hand wiped the sheen from her forehead.
"Don't give me any trouble, missy," snapped the matronly woman. "Now strip off that coat and let's see how big your breasts are."
Deciphering the impatient glint in the other's eye, Sherrie hastily shed her coat and tossed it on the bed. As tape measure slipped around the milky mounds of her breasts and pulled tight.
"Hmmm . . . 34D I'd say." Her hand shot out to cup one melonous circle and Sherrie bolted. The buxom woman winked at the captive and turned on her heel and departed.
Sherrie threw herself on the bed and whimpered pathetically. She could smell something in the air and it didn't smell like Christmas!
Another knock on the door. Olga poked her way into Sherrie's private quarters and ordered the fearful and confused young woman to shower and wash her hair. When the dripping captive, cringing in the terry cloth robe she'd found by the tub, obediently sat at the dresser as instructed, Olga began fussing over her with ceremonious meticulosity. She set her hair in long, swirling waves, and applied make up to her flawless skin, highlighting her high cheek bones with peach rouge. False eyelashes flickered over her cheekbones, giving her a mystical beauty. Sherrie studied herself in the mirror, not at all unpleased . . . until Olga slapped her on the back and ordered her to get up and step into the dress.
She sucked in her breath as Olga tugged at the zipper. If it felt tight, it looked tighter. Lifting her eyes to the full length mirror, Sherrie let out a gasp. Days of emotional and physical stress had shed five pounds, and the profile that stared back at her would have made a criminal out of her father!
The dress clung to her curvy flesh possessively. The red lame, garish as a Christmas tree bulb, caught the sunlight and blinked off the protruding mounds of her heavy breasts. It tugged at her waist, pulling it to a mere twenty-three inches, then loosened its grasp to swell over her slender hips and thighs. A slit opened to the sleek curve of her thigh, grazing the elastic band of her lacey bikini panties.
"I.. . I can't wear this!" she whined. Instantly intuition screamed her fate. "No! Nooo!" She would be fed to the dogs, dressed like this . . . the dogs whooping drunkenly around the Christmas tree downstairs!
Olga caught her by the arm and swung her around. "Chipper up your attitude, missy. There's no way out of here. You make a fool of yourself downstairs and you won't live to see Christmas!"
Sherrie's jaw fell slack.
A shadow darkened the doorway. "Wow, you look sexy as hell!" whistled Jill drunkenly, slinking in three inch high heel shoes to the withering captive. Reaching for Sherrie's sweaty palm, she laced her fingers in an intimate gesture and gave the captive a kinetic tug. "They're waiting for us . . . " She shivered her naked shoulders. "Oh, you'll have so much fun here, Sherrie. After you get used to it . . . And here Sherrie's eyes popped wide. ". . . life at Hunters is like one long party! All the drugs and drink you want . . . free clothes . . . and men . . . rich men!"
Add it up and you get whore, thought Sherrie.
"Hurry up!"
Fingers entwined, Sherrie tripped after her luscious bodied mentor. Her three-inch high heels wobbled treacherously as the twosome descended the curling staircase to the living room seething with obscene laughter and the clink of glasses.
Sensing her roommate's apprehension, Jill whispered hotly: "Don't worry, honey. You and I'll be together, okay?"
A pair of warm lips kissed Sherrie's cheek and she stiffened. November 21 would be a night she would never forget; that soothingly warm kiss promised her that!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sherrie balked as Jill goaded her through the doorway into a large room off the hallway. Behind her, the din of randy laughter and tinny, off key singing, echoed off the walls to pound in her ears. Sherrie's fear dilated pupils focused on one object: Southworth's placid face as he sat with a drink in hand talking to a well dressed man. One step into the room and the numbers multiplied.
The mirror-walled room opened onto a mahogany bar sparkling with crystal decanters filled with amber liquors. It all painted a moral picture-until her eyes fell on the round bed set on a stage. Around it sat soft, cushiony chairs for the voyeurs who would watch her.
"Come on," encouraged Jill lightheartedly. "Let's have a drink."
Sherrie tripped after her mentor and plopped herself down at the bar. Behind her she could feel the eyes, hungry predatory eyes, boring into her naked back. Sherrie shuddered and grabbed for the glass from Jill's proffered hand. A trickle of the amber liquid dribbled down her dimpled chin as she gulped it dry.
"Hey, take it easy, honey," warned Jill. "And don't look so nervous . . . you'll piss off Southworth!" Tremorously, Jill shot Southworth a placating grin. She could see the displeasure in his piercing eyeballs and through clenched teeth she hissed at Sherrie to turn around and smile.
"Oh, oh," Jill sucked in her breath. "He's coming over here!"
Sherrie stiffened with fear, grabbed for the decanter and poured herself another drink. She'd swallowed half of the burning liquid by the time Southworth was breathing down her back.
His voice cut like a knife. "You girls don't look as if you're having a very good time. . . and these men have paid a lot of money to see happy women. Now swing around, Sherrie, and uncross your legs and let the men see your cunt! I won't tell you again."
Southworth, the perfidious tormentor, was chipping away her defenses. Coughing from the rest of the scotch puddling her gullet, she swung around reading the murderous message in Southworth's eyes as he settled between two unctuously dressed men whose expensive cologne stung her nostrils. The scotch began working at her emotions, blurring fear and hate . . yes, and a bubble of lustful anticipation.
"Smile," pleaded Jill settling beside the inebriated captive and slinging one lithe leg over the other. "Pull up your skirt or we're done!"
Knowing she'd never see another Christmas if she didn't obey his salacious commands, Sherrie threw self respect to the wind and rode the winds for survival. Dizzily, she swung around on the bar stool and exposed a naked sweep of thigh and buttocks. Staring at Southworth under fluttery eyelashes, she uncrossed her legs and showed the blue vee of her panties snug over the pouting vaginal mound.
The balding man next to Southworth, the one with the sparkling pinky ring, whispered to the perpetrator of Sherrie's gloom and then rose to his feet. Sherrie gulped as he came towards her, his eyes wide with lust.
Roy Jepsen's flinty eyes raked over the provocative vision of auburn-haired beauty. A long red curl had fallen over her naked shoulder, teasing at the cleavage that rippled as she reached nervously for her drink. Something about the innocence of her unmeasured movements fascinated him, hinted at an acceptance of pleasure.
Abruptly the lights dimmed and someone closed the door, muffling the laughter and bastardized Christmas carols beyond. Soft red lights circling the platform of the circular bed flooded the room with a sensual aura of anticipation. Sherrie's throat constricted and fear clawed at her heart as she felt Roy's hands guiding her by the shoulder.
"I guess they're ready to start," remarked Jill offhandedly, grabbing a decanter of scotch and tripping along behind Roy and his pathetically terrorized toy for the evening.
Sherrie's ankles wobbled and Jill slunk an arm around her waist to steady her. "You'll get off . . . the angel dust always helps."
Angel dust sounded like a Christmas cookie, but judging from the bitter experience of the past few days, she knew Southworth had no sweet tortures!
Jill answered her silent inquiry. "Yeah, it's a drug . . . kinda puts you out so you don't have to think."
"I.. . I don't want any, Jill. . . please don't let him make me-" Sherrie shook her auburn head and tumbled into a soft, cushiony chair, drunk on scotch and fear. She felt a chafing twist at her right wrist, and pried open her drunken eyes to stare into Southworth's blazing eyes.
"Sure you want it . . . now be polite and accept what's given you, damn it!" he hissed.
She did . . . and went numb. Her lissome body tingled, cutting through the alcohol haze. Nothing felt real, not the men sitting oogling at her delicate curves and swells, not even the flush-faced woman staring back at her from the mirrored walls. Slowly, her hand rose to touch her cheek. Yes, she thought drifting into a drugged haze, this is my flesh.
A warm hand touched her neck and craning her neck, Sherrie stared into Jill's wide blue eyes. "Come on, honey . . . Southworth wants us to start."
The semi-circle of men sucked in their breath collectively at the hour-glass figure clad in a half-cup strapless brassiere, garter belt hugging her voluptuously rounded thighs, and fishnet stockings. She stood nearly naked, her fluff of blonde fleece tufting below the line of her garter belt. Sherrie sucked in her breath, too. When had Jill stripped-and before all these men!
Southworth's unspoken command slashed through the haze of drugged inebriation and slowly, Sherrie rose to her feet, instinctively knowing what was demanded of her.
"Come on, honey . . . I'll make it good for you," whispered Jill, slipping behind the captive and helping pull down the zipper to get the dress off her shoulders. Her nimble hands slipped down to cup her breasts while the tip of her tongue licked at the goose-bumped back of Sherrie's neck to send chills rippling down her spine.
The first thunderbolts of disgust passed. Dear God, he wants me to make love to a woman.. . in front of all these men! Would the torture ever end? Thinking was a big chore with Jill's hand working over her body, sliding down her smoothly rippling belly to let her fingers tease the lips of Sherrie's pussy under her lacey bikini panties;
"Let yourself feel," whispered Jill in gusts of warm breath.
Then a shudder rippled through Sherrie's body when one of Jill's hands slipped behind her and unfastened the clasp of her lacey brassiere. Her mind, clouded with angel dust, slowed her reflexes and her brassiere fluttered to the carpet. Jill's hands were everywhere, caressing and touching her, arousing her, nipping at her nipples, gliding over her satiny buttocks and whispering over her steaming pussy, arousing her in a way Jack never had.
Jill swung her captive around so they stood facing each other, Jill a scant three inches taller, so that when she licked her tongue over Sherrie's trembling lips, the tip slipped under the cleft of her upper lip, teasing feverishly. Sherrie closed her eyes against the lesbian gesture and shivered, feeling Jill's fingers pull at the slender band of her panties, rolling them over her sleek hips and naked thighs. Then she stiffened for the feel of fingertips caressing her vagina venturing through the fleecy nest for the bud of her clitoris and flicking at it with a soft fingertip.
Hot sexuality, thick and sweet as warm cream, rushed through Sherrie's feverishly aroused body and her mind drifted off to erotic paradise as Jill's tongue teased over her succulent lips and her fingers played on her thumping clitoris. Despite the horror of being made captive to these unctuous voyeurs, her body began to move in rhythm to Jill's expert touches. Again Southworth had discovered the core of her animal sensuality and was playing on her weakness.
Dear God, when had Jill stripped off her panties? Dully, she had a vague remembrance of feeling a rush of cold air on her genitals. She stood with legs spread, letting Jill's hand caress her cunt.. . so moist and hot and twitching.
Mindlessly, Sherrie's tongue slipped out between her rosy lips and the two of them stood licking, not kissing, as Sherrie's sweaty hands swept behind Jill to undo her brassiere. From their sidelines, the men muttered and grunted approval. She could feel their presence. The room swam in a sexual heat that mingled with the pungent sweetness of the drug-laced cigarettes as the two naked women stood nipple to nipple, naked except for Jill's black garter belt and stockings and high heels. The mirrored walls reflected their sparring tongues loving with lesbian joy, while Jill reached out and slid a snaky finger all the way up Sherrie's seeping cunt!
Sherrie's hands flew up to caress her lesbian captor's swollen breasts, to tease her nipples into bumblebee erections, arousing her with a feline knowledge of what Myra had taught her she would appreciate.
Roy was going crazy! He humped in his chair, his penis pumping in one hand, a drink in the other. He sat with his piercing eyes flinting over the two women while his Chicago friends watched the two women and unzipped their tailor made pants to stroke their bulging cocks poking out of initialed silk shorts. Roy stroked his cock softly then, fearing he might ejaculate prematurely. He wanted to savor the pleasure of watching women make each other cum.
He watched the women going wild, stroking each other like cats in heat, fluttering over naked flesh. The one with the auburn hair was his choice; he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Her magnificent high-breasted body fascinated him, the tiny waist and full thighs as she stood now with her legs slightly bent and spread apart, her pelvis thrust out while the blonde-haired prostitute slid two fingers in and out of her swollen cunt. Roy's eyes riveted on the sweet nest of Sherrie's cunt, flowering with wet passion!
Southworth sat smugly in his chair, feeling the excitement and sexual tension in the room mount electrically as the two naked women stood face to face, their tongues licking, sucking, slurping at the other's creamy flesh. He watched Jill's free hand rise to her breast and take one of Sherrie's teasing hands to slowly guide it down over her smooth stomach, through the nest of her pubic curls to the heat of her womb.
Sherrie shed resistance as Jill guided her hand down until her fingers touched the softly curling pubic hair. Of their own volition, her fingers ventured, touching, feeling, reveling in the soft, moist beauty of another woman's cunt. She let the tip of her middle finger slide between the other's puffy cuntal lips and threw back her head, while she reveled and thrilled at the magic of touching another woman's cunt . . . so soft and smooth, warm and moist. Her middle finger sluiced along the hot slit, feeling the juices sticky and seeping as she rolled her pelvis downward and out and spread her legs, bending them slightly at the knees.
Their breath bathed each other's faces, so closely they stood, their stomachs and breasts touching as they swayed their shoulders back and forth, rubbing their nipples against each other as Jill with a wild thrill, felt her finger slide up into her lesbian lover's cunt. She fucked in and out of that wet hole as the women pumped their hips in perfect rhythm of lust.
The playroom fell silent, except for the heavy breathing and rustle of clothing as every eye fastened on the two women moving and caressing each other obscenely. Jill, her eyes closed tight, eyelashes fluttering over flushed cheek bones, felt her body light with passion from liquor and the magic angel dust. . . and Sherrie's unexpected expert caresses. Suddenly Jill's middle finger pulled free of her sucking cunt and her hands slipped around her possessively. Jill was cupping her buttocks in her hands and pulling her forward, smashing their pubic mounds together.
In answer, Sherrie cupped the cheeks of Jill's soft buttocks and the two women stood in the center of the room with their knees bent, their thighs rubbing against one another, their backs arched away from each other. Their heads threw back in animal abandonment and their hair hung free and long as they ground their pubic mounds together. Sherrie gnashed her teeth from the thrill of her pubic curls slipping on Jill's wet cunt and the electric excitement of Jill's pubic hair scraping over her swollen clitoris and teasing it to wicked heights of arousal. Their swollen pussy lips kissed and they groaned and clutched each other like fiercely mating cats, pumping and grinding.
Sherrie was maddened with lust, stumbling. She started to fall, crazed with the bittersweet torment as her clitoris burned and her pussy lips throbbed. Blood pounded in her ears.
Hoy heaved a cry of delight as Sherrie fell on the round bed, making the step up to the platform in a desperate attempt to find relief. She tumbled onto the mattress, her legs split wide. And Jill was right there to help . . . she pulled her lover's hips forward until they were on the round edge and then she spread her friend's legs wider still. With a lazy groan of lust, Sherrie let them fall open. Jill fell to her knees and knelt between them and, using the palms of her soft, warm hands to force her thighs still wider, she leaned over Sherrie's trapped body and saw her milk-white belly flowing up to her firm breasts. Lizard-like, Jill's teasing tongue darted out to lick at Sherrie's dimpled navel, bringing a long moan of joy from Sherrie's laxly parted lips.
With maddening slowness, Jill began licking down the captive's stomach, before burying her face in the darkly curling pubic hair and watching Sherrie's cunt flower open and twitch convulsively like a fish's hungry mouth, begging in a rhythmic joy as it glistened with lust-crazed titillation.
Every man in the room sat on the edge of the cushioned chair, gawking at Sherrie's reddened cunt with wild awe. The shy, auburn-haired woman turned lesbian was a rarity at the Hunters Point Inn . . . a rarity they would pay dearly for. And they did.
Jill's practiced tongue darted out and licked around the puffy cuntal lips of Sherrie's trapped body that shook and goose-bumped with desire. She thrust up her hips, rotating them and spread her legs as wide as they would go while the men murmured obscenities, groaned and stroked kittenishly at their bulging cocks.
With slow, torturous movements, Jill's tongue snaked up and down Sherrie's seething cunt, barely touching it, teasing it with feathery touches. Sherrie groaned aloud at the electrifying thrill as her body writhed and ground, longing for more sweet lesbian torture . . . begging for more . . . much more.
Then with a flicker of an eyelash, Jill plunged her tongue into the steaming depths of Sherrie's aching cunt and Sherrie bent her knees and pulled them back and up so that they crushed against her magnificent breasts. Jill's tongue sucked at the juicy softness of her friend's fleeced vagina, delighting in the pungent taste of another woman's lust. She pulled her pink tongue out to work at the nubby, thumping clitoris that kept moving teasingly out of reach as Sherrie's hips ground lewdly into the bed.
Jill, frenzied with desire, broke the soulful kiss and fell in a mass of goose-bumped flesh on top of her captive like a man, her tongue licking out. "Did that please you, honey?" she whispered in Sherrie's ear, her pussy grinding down hard on Sherrie's nakedly exposed
"Oh . . . " Sherrie flailed her auburn head from side to side. Nothing was real; nothing mattering now.
"Then do it to me!" came the hissed reply.
Sherrie answered in a throaty rasp as their bodies, covered with a sheen of sweat, writhed together on the bed in front of the men's oogling eyes. Heat of arousal steamed from their bodies as they licked each other's tongues and rubbed their cunts together in grinding circles. The men lifted from their seats to watch, sweat beading on their tight faces as they licked their dry lips, their mouths suddenly parched from a savage desire to suck and fuck the two women who were clawing at each other's bodies like hungry cats.
And Sherrie had turned feline. She had reached a state of sexual desperation and together they licked and writhed, stroked and caressed, becoming more frantic and wild. Now Sherrie was in a crazy, writhing passion . . . a whirlpool of lust. A feeling that surpassed blissful orgasm sizzled in her veins, numbing her brain and sparking her nerve endings. Her eyes swelled shut, her teeth ground and barred. She wrapped her long legs around Jill's waist and locked her slender ankles and squeezed with every ounce of strength left to her. She flattened her seeping cunt against Jill's. Together they moaned and licked and twisted on the bed while their hips pumped and they rocked back and forth, humping each other madly. They rocked too far, teetered over the rounded edge and crashed to the carpeted stage.
Bewildered, Sherrie rose up on her hands and knees and glanced around. Thank God . . . Jill was right there, sprawled spread eagled on her back. Sherrie groped toward her, groaning, eyelashes fluttering; Jill slowly bent her knees and spread her legs wide, opening a moist cunt to Sherrie and all the men in the room.
Sherrie's glistening body crawled between her lover's legs and her green eyes gazed at the lust twitching face. The heat of her sex seemed to steam from Jill's pussy and for the first time, Sherrie saw another woman as a sexual object. Bending her elbows slightly, she lowered her breasts so that her puckered nipples just barely touched Jill's pouting mounds. She swayed back and forth, rubbing her hardened nipples over Jill's firm mounds. Then, sensing the men in the room and knowing her bare buttocks were open to them, she split her legs wide, stretching her knees out until they touched the insides of Jill's thighs. The men dropped to hands and knees to get a better view of the brown button of Jill's anus and the ragged, pink folds of her cunt, throbbing with blood and twitching with lust.
With a languid sigh, she lowered her naked body onto Jill who thrust her hips up and slowly lowered her weight until she was pressed against Jill's naked flesh and their wetly seeping cunts kissed. Sherrie pumped her hips while Roy, on the floor, peered longingly at the tiny brown hole. His breath panted from his lungs.
The room was hypnotic with the smell of lust. No one spoke. Sherrie could feel the men's hot breath bathing her back as Jill cupped her breasts in her trembling hands, cupping and tilting them, offering them up to Sherrie's succulent mouth.
With a desperate groan, Sherrie bent her head and poked her velvety tongue between her teeth to lick at the hardening nipple, feeling strangely excited at licking another woman's breasts . . . so milky and soft. Softly, she took one of the rosebud nipples in her hot mouth and gently sucked it while the tips of her teeth nibbled teasingly.
The animalistic need to claw herself away from this bittersweet torture and orgasm overwhelmed her senses. Her body was on fire, from the tips of her puckered nipples to her curled under toes; she wiggled down over Jill who bent her knees while her hands played with Sherrie's navel and played there for a teasing moment.
In Sherrie's drugged mind, she felt as if she were a spectator of her own lustful actions. In a split of mind and body, she watched with an objectively critical eye, two women making lesbian love . . . breaking all morals and societal rules . . . and it was damned exciting!
Her eyes peeped open to tiny green slits, her eyelids heavy with passion and there, not an inch away, at the height of Jill's silken thighs, was her fringed pussy, dripping with love juices and pouting for attention.
Once is fun and twice is habit.. . the words flitted through Sherrie's mind. Am I really becoming a lesbian? Oh, Gawd . . . I can't help myself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Coercing a police officer into giving out confidential information was harder than selling a beaten up Volkswagen to a millionaire, decided Jack impatiently. After nerve jangling hours of listening to Officer Pearson droll into the receiver to a Wisconsin officer in a case presumably related to Kurt Bailey's untimely transgressions, his nerves began to pop one by one. He could wait to see Bailey behind bars, but he couldn't wait to retrieve his wife.
He pulled at Pearson's sleeve to get his attention, broke into his conversation, paced the floor scratching his neck.
"You really know how to make a nuisance of yourself," grumbled Pearson, replacing the receiver. "I could have you arrested for impeding an officer of the law, you know."
"Listen . . . " Jack's eyes bugged as he shook a fist at Pearson. ". . . if your wife disappeared and the police had a lead that just might get her back, wouldn't you go crazy listening to some damned fool rambling on about an out-of-state case . . . wasting time?"
Pearson snickered. "Kid, if my wife was gone, I'd be the happiest damn man in the world!" His eyes fell to Sherrie Turner's sophisticated smile. But then my wife's fat and ugly . . . wonder if she gives him head?
"Bullshit," muttered Jack painfully. "Last week I would have said the same thing.. . . "
Pearson drew a heavy sigh. "Okay, kid." He rocked back in his chair. "If you happen to see the Greyhound bus records stating that a woman of your wife's description bought a ticket to Hurly, Wisconsin . . . I ain't really breaking a police officer's code, am I?"
"Jesus, you're human after all," breathed Jack, ready to kiss the bear of a man swinging around in his swivel chair to face a map of Illinois, including bits of Wisconsin and Iowa.
A chipped nail pointed to a small dot in northern Wisconsin. "That's where she went."
Jack grabbed his coat.
"Oh, and kid. . . . "
A trace of a smile creased Jack's unshaven face.
"Yeah. . . ? "
"Remember what I said about getting bloodied for sticking your nose in other people's business. Don't play cop."
A little bit of information is sometimes a dangerous thing, ruminated Officer Pearson, but by the time Jack drove to that dumpy hick town, he wouldn't have a chance to play cop. At least it got the guy out of his hair. A pudgy finger dialed Wisconsin as his eyes lifted to watch Jack Turner charge past security.
Once, twice . . .forever? A thread of rationale wove in Sherrie's dusty mind as choice, this time her own, dictated by the animalish scent of another woman's genitals, made her flick out her tongue before taking the lunge.
Slowly her pink tongue slid out from between her soft lips and Sherrie closed her eyes and buried her warm head in Jill's steaming loins and felt the pulsating head and moistness of her female lover's vagina. Her tongue wiggled and darted towards the hair fringed target. She paused a moment to savor the juices flaring in her nostrils.
Jill wrapped her legs around Sherrie's swan-like neck and thrust her hips up and ground her pelvis, moaning. Her arms flailed out, all control of her nervous system short-circuited. She was all nerves. The two shameless women writhed across the floor, rolling over once so that Sherrie lay flat on her back with Jill straddling her stomach. Her vagina ground over Sherrie's face as her hips pumped up and down against the maddening thrust of Sherrie's hot tongue.
Thrashing her blonde hair in shimmers of red under the lights, a banshee cry of demonic lust tore from
Jill's throat. She leapt to her feet, her breasts heaving, sheened with sweat, screaming: "Let me, let me!" Yanking Sherrie to her feet, the two naked women stood facing each other, glassy eyes sparkling under lust heavy lids.
"Let me fuck you!" Jill hissed. She guided her lover by the shoulders to the bed and eased her down so that she lay flat on her back, legs spread wide and shamelessly. She lay in a dream of lust. Languidly, Sherrie bent her knees and let her legs fall open so that every person in the room could see her crying, begging cunt.
Through half-swollen shut eyes, Jill watched, her fingertips playing in the forest of her cunt as Southworth came forward, his sickening face devilish in the red light. He handed Jill something that resembled a piece of the mechanical chair-a shaft with straps and buckles attached. Southworth glared licentiously down at his captive with a wild, tight expression. He reached down to pinch Jill on the breast, making her wince as he twisted the hardened nub of her nipple between steely fingers.
Then Jill was all motion, fastening buckles and positioning herself. Sherrie's eyes saucered as she stared at the dildo, hanging obscenely between Jill's lithe thighs like some kind of practical joke. One tight strap crossed her taut buttocks, pinching the flesh; they fastened a strap around each thigh and tightened the buckles so that the prick was erect . . . horrifyingly erect.
And Roy was more than willing to help. His fingers, eager and hot, got in the way of Jill's smaller ones, lie won in the end, pulling the buckle tight. Bending her knees and using one hand, Jill deftly slipped the cock end of the dildo into her own cunt and fucked herself. The cock twirled between the fringes of her cunt as she mewled.
Just before orgasm, she cupped her hands in front of her and Southworth handed Roy a bottle of oil which she poured into her hands. Ceremoniously, as if approaching a virgin, Jill smeared the oil over the plastic length of the artificial penis.
The captive did not flinch this time! Past memories of the chamber fluttered through her drugged mind, and only the pleasure, the godforsaken pleasure poked up through the clouds of remembrance. Shamelessly, the runaway wife thrust her hips upward and her hands squeezed the milky mounds of her breasts as she offered all of her sex to Jill.
Jill crawled down on the bed between Sherrie's taut thighs and the men went wild! The straps and buckles stripped about Jill's luscious flesh brought a collective groan of lechery from the Chicago corporate executives whose own wives forbid them the pleasure of fleshy vice.
Slowly, Jill lowered herself and Sherrie accommodatingly slid her hands under her buttocks and lifted her hips up so that her pouting pussy jutted out and her cunt twitched, searching to fuck the artificial penis in its hot walls.
Jill, lewdly, provocatively, rubbed the mushroomed head of the pink plastic dildo up and down the lubricated slit of her lover's vagina, searching for the sweet tasting hole of her cunt.
Sherrie squeezed her eyes shut and let her head loll hack and forth, her breasts quivering and glistening with sweat under the red lights. "Fuck me!" the words tore from her throat. "Fuck me like a man!"
Jack's blue eyes trailed up filigreed pine boughs to the bursting sun as his Datsun snow tires bit into the ice slickened narrow county road forking ahead. The back of his neck felt tight and ached from the long tedious drive . . . to nowhere? Ahead he caught a glimpse of a cafe, looking dirty and rundown in the pristine setting of green pines and pure snow.
Why the hell Sherrie would come here, he hadn't the foggiest. Didn't make any more sense than him fucking her in the ass. His neck screwed tighter at the loathsome thought. He hammered his fist on the steering wheel, tasting self-disgust. A woman of Sherrie's moral stature didn't deserve animalish treatment
Caffeine was the last thing he needed for his nerves, but his senses were fading fast and although the pathetic looking hamburger painted on the cafe's front was hardly appetizing, he had the sense to respect somatic needs. He'd been running on coffee and adrenalin; now his stomach was complaining sourly.
The drunken ass implanted on a beer can littered sofa watching Dallas Cowgirls shake their boobies was an alien creature to the one bending his head and pulling up his collar creating the hapless picture of a man looking for his wife.
I le took a seat at the counter and through heavy lidded eyes stared at the gruff faced man standing with one foot on a box of Folgers Coffee cans, smoking a cigarette and watching game shows on television.
"Cup of coffee, please . . . no cream . . . and a cheeseburger, no mustard."
Harvey surveyed the stranger suspiciously. He cocked his head to the side and smelled the cologne fragrance of city living and noted, too, the five o'clock shadow glooming the man's handsome face. The coffee dribbled from the pot as, tilting it, he kept a weary eye on the customer, sensing in him some of the alien qualities of the young auburn who . . . Now, don't bring trouble to your door, Harvey, he rebuked himself.
Yet he couldn't squelch curiosity. Last night's dog hunt haunted him still. "You ain' from these parts of the woods, are ya?"
It was an answer, not a question. Jack blinked through the steaming wafting from his coffee cup. "What makes you ask that?" The cup clattered on the saucer.
Harvey shrugged his shoulders. "Jes wonderin', tha's all." He turned his attention back to 'Match game' and stroked a scruffy chin, feeling, rather than watching the man stirring his coffee.
"You remember seeing a tall, auburn-haired woman with hair down to here come through here lately'. '" stated Jack.
Harvey's eyes Hinted. "Who are you, a private investigator? I don' know nothin' about it." He karate chopped the air stiffly and stared back at the pool television reception.
Jack watched the man's jaws mesh in profile. Through the steam making his sinuses drip, he smelled suspicion. "The bus stops yards from your door letting off every passenger ticketed to Hurly. and you don't remember who comes through your door?"
"Don' take it personal if I don' remember this lady, for chrissakes . . . I ain't responsible for other people."
Jack jumped to his feet. The long ride and sleepless nights focused on the apathetic man watching TV. "Listen, you bastard . . . if you know something . . . " And here he grabbed Harvey by the shirt sleeves and hissed in his face three inches from his.". . . know anything that could help me find my wife, I'll put a bullet through your eyes! I've had people shooting at me, and I ain't no chicken shit. . . you ask Bailey if you don' believe me!"
At the name Bailey, Harvey's heart jumped to his throat. "Okay, okay," he relented, shaking himself loose from Turner's white knuckled grip. "I remember her. Sh-she got off the bus and wanted to know where the Crackerbox was. . . . "
Jack's tired face screwed up. "The Crackerbox . . . what the hell's that?"
"It's down the road . . . but don' let anybody know I told you . . . you hear me?" he barked after the man running for the door. "You hear me? I wan' no part of this!"
Jack raked trembling fingers through his hair, feeling none of the cold. He unzipped his leather trimmed coat and wiped the sweat from his brow. Hands shook on the key chain. "Damned coffee. . . . " he cursed, pulling out of the cafe parking lot and heading down the road.
The blonde-haired hussy in red hunting underwear crooking a tempting finger caught his attention like iron to a magnet, and it was with a sigh of relief that he pulled into the Crackerbox's vacant parking lot and leapt to the door.
He squinted up at the sun, waiting for the door to open, while the postmark on Bailey's tight security mail kept parachuting into his brain. That and the bugged look on the cafe owner's face at the mention of Bailey. He stroked his scratchy chin and waited.
The door creaked open, didn't swing open in welcome as the blonde in the red underwear promised. The anemic, drawn face of a frightened woman peeked through the crack in the door, then disappeared.
Jack shouldered his way through with a grunt, watching the woman's face turn from surprise to fear. Her head shot around and she sucked in her breath tightly, showing off as she did, high cheek bones and a finely chiseled nose that one day, conjectured Jack, had been the makings of one gorgeous woman. The detective in him wondered what had gone wrong.
"I'm Jack Turner," he testified hotly, "and I've come to find my wife."
Anna's work gnarled hands clasped and pressed to her chest, her thin face twitching nervously. A man hadn't looked at her with that intensity for years, and the angry glare, so like her brother's accusation, made her wither.
"Her name is Sherrie . . . Sherrie Turner . . . I know she's been here . . . I've been in contact with the Chicago police," he said stiffly, plumping up confidence. "I have testimony from a cafe owner down the road . . . now where is she?"
Who was more nervous, the maid whose twitch had strengthened to a near convulsive tremor, or the caffeine sodden sodomist was a matter of conjecture.
He flipped open his wallet and Sherrie's shiny face smiled up at Anna. "This is Sherrie . . . have you seen her in the last couple of days? " Waiting for an answer, he flipped it again, mentally noting the musty dampness and aura of despair in the room. Even the deer's head hanging above the stone fireplace seemed to leer down at him unwelcomingly. No smell of roast duck, no sound of laughter, no register book . . . what kind of lodge was this?
Anna's hand flew to her mouth. She shook her head wildly. "No . . . no . . . I've never seen her . . . I.. .
Jack's hand shot to her wrist, giving it an angry, desperate twist. "Listen," he spat, "I have reason to believe that my wife has disappeared . . . if you know anything . . . " It was a long shot in the dark. Officer Pearson had simply given him the clue: Hurly, Wisconsin. With a sigh, he let go of her wrist and wondered if he was going crazy. Bailey, asshole that he was, had nothing to do with his daughter's disappearance.
Anna rubbed her wrist, eyes falling to Sherrie's face. A hot wetness stung her eyes. Had she the courage to end the nightmare of years of moral and psychic enslavement that deepened with each beautiful, hopeful face that appeared at the door? She fingered the gold band in her apron pocket. Clutching it tightly in her fist, her eyes swept around for signs of Myra, locked in her bedroom. Reluctantly, the maid drew out the treasure.
"I found this in the hallway . . . when she tried to escape."
"That's Sherrie's wedding ring!" Blood pounded in Jack's ears. Escape . . . ? Keep cool. . . keep cool! Anna squeezed back emotion. Fate works in miraculous ways, she thought thankfully. With Southworth delivering off his captive to Hunters and Myra nursing a black eye, fate had led her to open the door. She was ruminating on this, paying little heed to the distraught husband shaking her by the shoulders.
"Where is she?" he hissed, shaking Anna so hard her pug loosened and shimmering black hair tumbled about her shoulders. "Are you hearing me?"
"Yes, yes . . . " His strength clutching her shoulders overwhelmed her . . . the closeness of a man's body.
"Where is she?"
"She's been taken to Hunters Point Inn," mumbled Anna, still clutching the wedding band. "Where?"
Choking back emotion, she offered directions. When the door slammed behind him, Anna stood rubbing her shoulders, holding herself. Southworth would kill her for this treasonous act. This marked the end, she knew. Strange that one woman could change her life, perhaps end it. But the end of anything is a beginning of something fresh and, with that realization burst a glimmer of self esteem, something foreign to Anna since the day she'd been accused by her mother of sleeping with her stepfather. The drunken, moronic sort who'd laughed the day she packed her suitcase, and against her brother's advice, left home.
The desperation of being disowned by one's family hurt worse than Southworth's tortures. For a mother to damn her daughter, stain her soul with boundless guilt . . . and a brother to watch apathetically while she threw herself into a world she knew nothing about, was a kind of death in itself. By freeing Sherrie, she'd freed herself in a sense.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Fuck me, fuck me like a man!" Jack's panting wife bleated, her face eerily distorted in the red light's glow.
Jill quickly complied. Placing the head of the plastic dildo at the slit of Sherrie's cunt and pushing down, she felt it sink into her seething flesh and felt, too, the end boring into her own cunt, gouging, filling her with wild desire for the real thing.
"Ohhhaaaggghh!" Sherrie sighed and shivered with goose- bumps. Jill's deep throated groans of delight echoed hers as the men watched the cock head plow in, pulling her cuntal lips obscenely apart while Sherrie's body wriggled in attempts to gobble it up.
Slowly, calculatingly, Jill withdrew the plastic penis inch by inch, only to plunge downward with a pelvic smashing thrust into Sherrie's womb. The men crowded closer to the bed, watching Jill's strapped buttocks and thighs pump in and out as she fucked like a man . . . as best a woman can. On the bed, a sweating mass of shivering naked flesh, Sherrie bent her legs as far as they would go as she thrust her hips forward to eat up all of the artificial cock. Jill fell on top of her and stabbed her pink tongue into Sherrie's drooling mouth.
They writhed and undulated together on the sofa, crushing their milky breasts together as Jill fucked the cock all the way to Sherrie's spongy cervix and felt the other end gouge into her own vagina. Each withdrawal made the fitted end contract in her cunt and when she fucked into Sherrie's pussy, the end swelled and surged in her. Faster and faster she fucked, building a frenzied rhythm, the two of them digging their nails into each other's backs as they fucked and wallowed in lesbian love.
Something savage about the way the straps fitted her lover's naked flesh and the way she humped her like a man, shoving the artificial penis (or was it artificial . . . she wondered, biting her lip until she drew blood. . . . ) into her creamy cunt.. . nearly made Sherrie cum.
Roy was tearing off his pants, ready to get what he'd paid for. He was the first to crawl on to the bed naked, his hands groping for the lesbian lovers as they fucked and licked one another, moaning and grunting out their lust. He lay on his side, jutting out his rock hard cock stuck in their faces, a lick away.
Jill was the first to lick it. Sweating, she fought for it . . . until Sherrie caught sight of the manly stalk of flesh and vied for possession of its power. Their hands were all over it, stroking it, their tongues licking each other as they licked it.
Now Sherrie lay on her back with Jill on top of her, feeling their soft, sweat sheened breasts crushed together with their puffy nipples slipping and sliding as the dildo fucked in and out of her cunt. Jill took Roy's blood-red penis in her mouth and sucked noisily on the mushroomed head, seeping with pre-cum. Sherrie craned forward and claimed the shaft of it, bumping heads with her lesbian lover who fucked her still.
With a grunt, Roy pulled his cock out of Jill's mouth and smirking obscenely, shoved it between Sherrie's laxly parted lips. It came as a shock, the rubbery pole twisting down her throat, but she sucked, loving the taste, the feel, the sin of it all.
But that wasn't enough for Roy. He'd come here for pleasure and if one woman was all he wanted, he would have stayed home with his wife. He shoved his cock first into one mouth and then the other, panting, his teeth showing as he watched the two women suck and fight over the possession while they fucked each other with the dildo.
Then the mattress shook from other weight on the bed-coming from all directions. Roy's board of directors crawled over the coverlet on this, their last meeting of 'a week long sojourn to the north country to discuss corporate politics in a setting conducive to level headed decision making' as the memo to the chosen few stated, after arrangements had been made with a Chicago contact.
Those corporate hands were making quick decisions now as they pawed at the women, naked and reckless. One shoved a bony finger up Jill's anus as the other tried to wedge his hand underneath Sherrie, his finger probing for her own puckered, sensitive once-violated hole.
Bodies fell like dead weight on the bed. An older man with silver hair was there alongside Roy. Sherrie's eyes flashed open with a start. The dildo was gone.
Jill shrieked as they pulled her off of Sherrie's clutching body, throwing her on her back, tearing at the buckles and tossing the plastic shaft across the room, jealous of the surrogate penis when they had the real thing! As Sherrie watched, a treacherously sinful thrill ran through her body . . . Jill had disappeared under a heap of thrashing, sex-maddened bodies, creating a hydra of arms and legs and a cacophony of lustful grunts and moans.
Rape! She'd learned the meaning of that word. Again she would be raped. All those stout cocks, those mouths, jabbing at her vulnerable orifices. She gasped, but not with apprehension as hands grabbed her goose-bumped flesh. Rape . . . a trickle of indecision shot through her brain. Was it rape? Didn't she want to be mauled and screwed in her mouth, in her cunt and in her-Sherrie's eyes flew open to stare into Southworth's pinprick pupils, flashing red in the lights . . . then downward to his pathetically wormish cock in his hand.
He yanked her to the edge until her head drooped over the side and everything looked upside down . . . she felt the hands, the bodies, the legs, the cocks. The men were on her and someone-did it matter who?-was sliding his swollen cock up and down her seething cunt. Hands and lips and tongues and cocks possessed her body, every inch of her naked flesh, fucking, probing, pinching, driving her toward orgasm.
She opened her mouth and Southworth's wormish penis slipped in uninvited. It grew hot and hard in her mouth as she sucked breathlessly, drawing his sperm from his testicles until she tasted one drop of cum. That spurred her on, made her crave more.
A writhing mass of bodies crowded the bed, with no way to sort them out.. . Sherrie sucking Southworth's cock while he watched gleefully, counting the profits he's make from this sweet dish. As dollar signs shown in his eyes, the sperm amassed in his genitals until, with a screeching yelp he came in her mouth, shooting white hot streams of hot sperm that scorched her tonsils and burned her throat, filling her gullet with a puddle of cream.
With a final moan, Southworth staggered backwards and tumbled to the floor, his eyes fastened on the wild orgy. Sherrie licked her lips and closed her eyes to everything but feeling. She was being fucked and sucked and battered around like a rag doll. Somebody was jabbing his penis in her cum dripping mouth . . . who? Did it matter?
Angel dust, PCP, is known for the remarkable agility its users experience, that and a noticeable lack of pain. That's what happened to Sherrie now and Southworth grinned, knowing he'd struck the right combinations in drug usage, alcohol and settings to create an orgy that made the Romans look like pussy cats.
Jill was lying beside Sherrie on her back, being fucked in the cunt while another man suckled her bruised breasts. The air was hot and sticky with cum and she felt someone's cum puddling warmly on her belly . . . whose sperm meant for whom? Threads of stickiness glistening on Jill's nakedness added to the chorus of lustful moans coming from the corporate directors' mouths. The two lesbian lovers groped for each other and their mouths locked as they sparred their tongues, both cumming, their bodies shuddering and twitching as they were fucked by one man after the other.
The chairman of the board, Roy Jepsen, was definitely the leader of the gang. Barking out orders, he made everyone back off and then directed Jill to climb on top of Sherrie. The women lay together, dizzy, engulfed in a pool of lust, grinding their cum-drenched vaginas together, spreading their legs wide so that Roy could get behind them and fuck first one and then the other. Each director was granted his turn at fucking the two captive women and, as Sherrie felt each renewed cock plunge into her spongy cervix, she convulsed, cumming in a spiting stream of lust. Each man had his turn, before falling away exhausted. Rubbing her sweat sheened breasts against Sherrie's, Jill matched her lover, orgasm for orgasm. As the men fucked them from behind, the women licked each other's faces, wiping clean the men's sperm splattered over their lust contorted features. Making love to a woman and a man, decided Sherrie somewhere in some corner of her brain, had to be heaven!
The room sizzled with the smell and heat of lust, mingled with the sweet smell of angel dust. Their bodies mingled into one mass of sweat glistening, cum-spattered flesh. Roy suddenly dragged Jill across the bed, her face wild and ecstatic as he flipped her over onto her stomach and shoved his cock into her cringing asshole. With amazing strength, he rammed his slithering cock tight into her anus and rolled her over on top of him so that she sprawled obscenely, legs spread apart, face contorted in pleasure-pain, cunt gaping open with Roy's cock buried deep in her anus. One of his director's eyed his chance, licked his lips and jumped into the foray.
Jill groped for his sticky cock and guided the head up into her neglected cunt and fell into a rhythm between the two men: one cock in her anus, one cock in her cunt.
One in her anus . . . The thought burned through the dusty haze of mind numbing drugs. Jack . . . raping her. She slithered for the edge of the bed, but Roy, eyeing his chance, let another director take his post at Jill's creamy vagina and leapt on the auburn-haired lovely who'd captured his lecherous attentions.
He fell on top of her in a lustful groan and she felt the bulbous head of his slippery cock press against the button of her anus. Sherrie squeezed shut her mascara-smeared eyes, and gritted her teeth, knowing the pain would kill her. The soft walls of her rectum could never tolerate his gouging masculinity!
She didn't know the blessings of PCP or Southworth's crafty reasons for using the drug. . .and when Roy plunged deep inside her anus, boring deep into her bowels . . . there was no pain beyond a dull pressure. He sawed in and out, making strange sucking sounds. Then someone was lifting her limp body until she lay on her back with Roy under her, his thick cock boring into her tender anus. His rough hands reached up and around her rib cage to paw her breasts, squeezing them, taunting her chafed nipples until even through the tranquillizing drug, they felt raw.
Now on top of her was the vice chairman of the board, leering down at her. For a thin man, he possessed a girthy cock, she mused lewdly, proud of herself for being able to put together one cogent thought. With an inviting little mewl from her cum-encrusted, parted lips, she groped for that stalk of male meat and guided it up into her creamy cunt, feeling the two penises move in slippery unison, fucking her in the tender nether regions of her anus and the other into her seething vagina. She blinked her eyes and sighed, oblivious to any goings on in other parts of the Hunters Point Inn.
When Jack's blue Datsun nosed into the Hunters Point Inn parking lot, a lineup of black and white cars blocked the entrance and exits, trapping the Mercedes and Cadillacs and foreign sports models with their out-of-state license plates from his home state.
The police were amassed, checking their ammunition. The press photographer was there. Jack scratched his head. They were about to close in-on whom, for what, and why?
Sherrie couldn't stop cumming! She bucked and writhed and wriggled herself between the two men, impaling herself on their potent stalks of blood-fed masculinity. "Cum, cum, cum . . . " she muttered through hissed teeth, goading the men on to fill her with their steaming seed, loving their male dominance controlling her body while she floated off on a cloud of sensual hysteria.
The directors worked overtime, thrashing slavishly to please her. The lanky gray-haired man drilling into her vagina stiffened, threw back his head and Sherrie's ear drums pounded from the shrill screech torn from his lungs. He shot a hoseful of steaming cum deep into her cunt just as Roy reached the end of his race for stamina. Faster and faster he bored into her anus, sawing, pulling out the tender anal flesh on each withdrawal and shoving it back in with a grunt.
"I . . . I . . . I'm cummming . . . again!" wailed the captive, biting her lip until it bled as she bucked in unison with Roy's fleshy body.
He mauled her flesh, as if holding it for ransom, until he'd emptied his pint of white hot cum in the depths of her bowels. Sherrie was delighting in the feel of laying naked between the two sweating male bodies whose cum dribbled from her ravaged anus and vagina, when a scream rent the air. First one shriek, then another, and another.
The police crashed through the door, knocking it off its hinges. A chorus of humiliated startlement rang with anger and fear, echoing off the mirrored walls steamed with illicit sex. The board of directors scrambled madly for clothes, fighting for possession of a shirt, pants. . .anything to cover their incriminating nudity. Roy Jepsen, chairman of the board, covered his face with his hands and barked threats at the snickering press photographer who'd snapped off a roll of film in the first minute.
The sheriff brandished the cold nose of a .38 magnum before Southworth's piggish eyes; in the red light is resembled a black penis glinting with red blood. "You picked the wrong fortune cookie this time, Southworth. We finally got your ass." The officer of the law cocked his head toward one of the ten state police flanking him. "Handcuff this one . . . and make sure the press gets a good shot of him!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Snowflakes swirled over the Datsun's hood. The air was invigorating, awakening. Jack cracked the window and swung one arm around Sherrie's shoulders and kissed her hair.
"I still can't believe Daddy could have involved himself with that loathsome Southworth . . . criminal, murder, analist.'" The past week had been agonizing. Everything she'd believed stable and enduring had been inverted, converted . . . everything from faith in parentage to love for her husband. And her sexuality.
The doctor had warned of extreme fluctuations in mood and, seeing his wife tremble with emotion, Jack hugged her close as they headed south to Chicago.
"Don't worry about your father, honey. He'll probably turn state's evidence on Southworth and whatever that lesbian's name was and get off." No sympathy chimed in his voice. Just to turn the screw deeper, he started to inform his wife that he'd been partially responsible for finding her, but changed his mind.
"You really think so?" she sniffled. "I still don't understand why they arrested him."
"For conspiring with a public official to falsify state records. Clever guy, your Daddy," snickered Jack bitterly. "He and the county coroner had a deal worked out so that death certificates were issued on every poor bitch who turned up at the Crackerbox."
"You mean I could have been declared dead?
He nodded. "Sure. No body, no evidence . . . out of state. . . . "
"But if you love somebody and they disappear," she interrupted, "wouldn't most people dig deeper? I mean it's all so apathetic . . . so horrible!"
"The county coroner had that one wrapped up too. He presumably had the bodies buried in the state owned cemeteries and it takes years to get permission to exhume a body . . . by that time seven years had elapsed and insurance companies are satisfied with that."
"But how many women did he murder."
"Who knows? Most of them were suicides, according to the cops." He hugged her close. "Don't worry . . . even Anna was supposedly declared dead, but she's working at Harvey's cafe now."
"I.. . I want to forget it and concentrate on life for awhile."
"That's right. From now on I pay the mortgage, not Daddy . . . and when you need a new dishwasher, you come to your husband." Tempting it was to drive home the loathsome point that in a sense her father had held her captive and raped her. "You're going to have to learn to trust me. I know it upset you that your father fired me . . . but he did that because I was getting suspicious, not because I was too stupid to sell cars."
"Maybe you don't want me, after I . . . with those men," she confessed in a small voice.
He squeezed her shoulders and kissed her hair that tumbled over her flushed cheeks. Sherrie began to sob openly and cuddled against his strength.
"I.. . I haven't been giving you enough credit, have I? I always thought Daddy was right."
"It's going to be all right. A man has to be a male before he can be a husband, and that's what I intend to do. No more favors from anybody . . . except one," he amended.
Liquidy green eyes studied the strong profile, one hundred percent male and handsome as the day she'd met him.
"How about spending the night in a motel with a bottle of champagne and a nice dinner. . . ? " Jack tried to pry his mind loose of the vision that haunted him for the three days of Sherrie's recovery in the hospital. Sherrie, strewn naked on the bed with cunt hungry men pawing at her vulnerable curves. Only by replacing himself at dominator could he eradicate that nightmare. "And no TV," she retorted crisply. "No TV."
This is what it took, Sherrie began to understand, to stop judging Jack so harshly. Foolishly, she'd prayed for the day when Jack could afford to buy her the luxuries her father had showered upon her. What she didn't realize was that in the end, she'd paid for it dearly.
