Diane Wilson was twenty-four, about five feet seven and a half inches in height, with a superb figure whose tempting effect upon the opposite sex she knew very well and gloried in.
She was pampered, had traveled around the world, been given every luxury by her doting parents, who had been famous interior decorators with many branches in New York, London, Paris, Los Angeles, and Chicago. They had died about four years ago, leaving her about a million dollars in stocks and bonds and cash, and her estate was being handled by an administrator named Gregson Torrance.
Diane had been an only child, brought up by a governess until she was nearly fifteen, educated in private schools in Switzerland, France, and Connecticut. Because of her sheltering in life, she was utterly selfish, opinionated to the most possible degree, and serenely confident of her ability to ride roughshod over everyone with whom she came into contact.
Though her parents loved her dearly, they had been well aware of her egotism. They had stipulated in their will that she was to be allowed a certain amount for living expenses, travel, and whatever further education she desired after college (from which she had been graduated in the East at the age of twenty-one), but that the bulk of the trust fund should go to her upon her twenty-fifth birthday, which was six months hence.
Gregson Torrance was a man of fifty-two, and had been a widower for the past fifteen years. He was a vice-president at the Castrom National Commercial Bank of Los Angeles, and Diane's parents had known his wife and become quite friendly with her. This was how, indeed, he had been appointed administrator of the Wilson estate. Their local branch account in Los Angeles had been handled through his bank, and the relationship with his wife-who was to die about two years after that-had cemented the friendship which had resulted in his role as the guardian of Diane's monetary future.
But he had changed a good deal over the past decade, and as his own fortune increased through shrewd manipulation of the stock market and wise investments in mortgages and trusts, Gregson Torrance had become a voluptuary of decided erotic tastes. He had a young mulatress mistress named Myrna Johnson, five feet eight inches tall, wonderfully supple, twenty-six and exceptionally passionate as well as sadistic. She had been his mistress for some three years, as our story opens, and he had first met her in a bar on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood where her rather cowardly though wealthy "angel" at the time had become embroiled in a brawl when two lecherous men about town had noticed Myrna and wanted a crack at her tender pussy "to change their luck" because of her wonderfully satiny chocolate-sheened skin. Her escort had backed down from a fist fight to defend her honor, and Myrna was actually being manhandled by the two young profligates when Gregson Torrance had walked up to them, knocked one of them down with a right cross to the jaw and then, as his partner was trying to draw a knife, knead him in the balls to put him out of commission. Myrna had been so delighted with the banker's action on her behalf that she had then and there told her escort what she thought of him and had walked out on the banker's arm.
And, this early July evening, Gregson Torrance was enjoying several hours of passionate relaxation in the elegant four-room high-rise apartment in Santa Monica in which he had installed Myrna Johnson. However, he intended to use this evening to make plans for the eventual coming of age of his ward Diane Wilson.
He was in his shorts and sandals, sprawled in an armchair in the living room, sighing with content as he thrust his slippered feet into the thick red carpet. He had a cigar in his right hand and a half-finished glass of bourbon and ginger ale in the other, and his eyes were narrowed as they fixed on his sultry mulatress mistress who lay on her belly on the white-leather-padded couch directly opposite him, wearing only a pair of white kid leather boots to mid-thigh, a matching black nylon bra and panty-set, and engrossed in the latest issue of a scandal-mongering movie magazine.
He was only two inches taller than Myrna, had a paunch from excessively good living, and his gray hair was already receding from his forehead. It matted his chest, arms and legs, which were surprisingly scrawny for his bulk. Yet his doctor had assured him that apart from being about eight pounds overweight, he was really in fairly good physical condition. The proof of this, Gregson Torrance whimsically reflected to himself, would be demonstrated very soon, whenever Myrna gave up reading that damn Magazine and began to pay attention to him with her nimble tongue, her long slim sweet thighs, and that hot tight cunt of hers.
He took a puff at his cigar and thought also that it was a shame that a pampered little bitch like Diane Wilson should come into a million dollars in six months when she was totally unprepared in knowledge of how to handle either the money, other people or herself. He had met her several times over the past few years, and his private opinion was that if she had been soundly spanked as a child, she might today be creditable material. Certainly she was attractive enough, with light brown hair styled in a soign'e bun at the back of her head and drawn away from her high-arching forehead, her insolent gray-green eyes, her uptilted, rather aquiline nose and her small, prim mouth. She had also a pale white skin and a really elegant figure, with high-perched, closely spaced round titties, a very slim waist and a pair of upstandingly rounded, very mobile ass-cheeks; he had seen her in an evening gown walking across a ballroom, and he hadn't been able to take his eyes off that fascinating, undulating ass of hers. Not only did he want to spank it, he wanted to bugger it. But that would hardly be probably in the scheme of things-unless a certain project that had been creeping into the back of his mind lately could be brought to fulfillment. And it was just possible that Myrna, who was part sophisticate, part primitive, might help bring that plan from fantasy to established fact.
"Myrna, my sweet," he said lightly. She frowned, then slowly turned her face towards him. It was a face of which he never grew tried. She had all the profuse elegance of the high-blooded Negro, with the guile of her white father. Her nose was reasonably dainty, and did not betray the Negroid blood. Her mouth was full and ripe and sensual, her cheekbones slantingly set, and her high forehead denoted more than average intelligence of which he had had already ample proof. Her eyes were black, deep and sultry, with occasional golden flecks when throes of ferocious emotion, such as fucking and nearing climax. But it was her body that enticed him most of all. Two large pear-shaped titties, set widely apart and proudly high on her flawless chest; a sleek waist, spacious bottom ovals with a gradually broadening crease to separate them and let him glimpse pussy when he stared at her from behind. Long, nervously muscles thighs, and high-set calves. Long slim fingers with perfectly shaped forearms and wrists. There was much that was patrician to Myrna Johnson, and there was much that was savage. like the thick black curly fronds of pussy hair which grew so thickly on the lower abdomen and covered the mount, which even he, fastidious as he was about pussy, got a thrill out of letting her keep, so that he could rummage with his prick or finger to bear the twitching pink lips of her twat.
"You getting itchy for a piece, Greg boy?" she huskily murmured, rolling her eyes at him and giving him a taunting little smile. Then she wriggled back and forth very slowly on her belly, letting see the way her ass-cheeks flexed and rippled, the muscles in her chocolate-sheened thighs surging against the satiny warm skin. She lifted her booted feet, brought the heels back against her thighs, arched up her bottom a little, weaved it from side to side in the most tantalizingly provocative manner, then again flattened herself and stretched her long legs out.
"In due time, baby. I've got a little idea I'd like you to think about, Myrna. How'd you like to be rich?"
"Ask me a silly question and you'll get a silly answer, lover man," she drawled in that husky, rich contralto voice which sometimes had the overtones of an organ and which never failed to excite his sensuality. "Who wouldn't want to be that?"
"I know, I know." He walked over, drew up a footstool and sat down beside her, his eyes feasting on the magnificent hillocks of her firm jouncy ass, shaped out so alluringly by the panty-briefs. He felt his prick harden in his shorts, and it was sweet torture to sit there so close to her without touching her, knowing that whenever he wished, she would give him pussy. He wasn't tired of her yet, and so long as she was inventive and reverted to the primitive every now and then, he wouldn't, either. "Look, baby," he went on after a puff at his cigar, "you and I have got along just fine and I've never said a word about what side of the blanket you were born on."
"I know, I know, Greg, you're a pretty good ofay for a whitey," she twitted him, her lips curving in a mocking smile. "What are you getting at, anyway man?"
"Just this. You've heard me talk about Diane Wilson a couple of times, haven't you?"
"Sure. That uppity poor little white gal who's going to come into a million bucks in a couple of months. From what you tell me, she sure sounds like a creep. What has she done with her life, anyhow?"
"Not very much to be honest with you. She's been to the finest schools, she's living in a high-rise apartment in Manhattan right now, and she's dabbling a bit in a snotty socialite fund-raising movement that's trying to get dough for some art museum."
"Like I said, I'll bet she never did a lick of honest work in her life," Myrna Johnson tartly remarked.
"You're probably quite right, baby. But now I happen to be the administrator of her estate, and I've already helped myself to a couple of bucks. I've been able to invest a little of that money, because I had a court order just before her folks died. I haven't cheated her yet, but the money I did make through my investments have been paying for this apartment and some of your nice clothes."
"Well, aren't you the cutie, though, Greg!" she looked at him with real interest this time, and her smile was affectionate rather than taunting now. "Tell little Myrna more, lover man. What's going on in that scheming mind of yours?"
"I have a feeling that Diane Wilson probably thinks herself a million miles away from people like you and even me," he said slowly as he finished his drink and set the glass over on the glass-covered coffee-table alongside the couch. "It would be very amusing if Diane Wilson found that she had to kowtow to a girl like you."
"I'd sure put her through the mill, Greg, you can bet on that," Myrna Johnson fiercely declared with a grimace of distaste.
"You mean you'd like to have her to be your slave?"
"You could say that, sure. My great-grandmother was a slave, come to think of it. I remember my mammy telling me how her Granny Althea used to get sent to the whipping shed because she didn't want to let the big white boss screw her. They'd stretch her out on a bench and strap her wrists and ankles down, pull up her linsey-woolsey and give her the paddle on the bare ass. It took a couple of sessions before she finally broke down and spread her legs for that miserable bastard. Oh sure, Greg, there's been slavery back in my family and I'm not forgetting it, not even if I had me a white daddy who gave my mother a pretty good deal for a whitey."
"I see. It would be interesting to find out just how you would treat Diane Wilson if the tables were ever turned and you could boss her around," he mused aloud.
"I'd sure like to try my hand at it. But how can you get away with a stunt like that, Greg?"
"She hasn't any living relatives and I'm the only guy handling her money. Since she's legally of age except for the terms of her parents will when it comes to getting all that dough, all I'd have to do would be to get her to sign a waiver. For example, she could make you or me a gift of everything in that trust fund, and with a valid signature, I could go in to that bank and clean out the account of every red cent."
"Hey now, man, you're talking mighty interesting talk." Myrna Johnson swung her long booted legs down to the floor, sat up, leaned forward and reached out and started to caress his bare hairy thigh. Her gleaming eyes fixed on the bulge in his shorts and she smiled knowingly: "If you're thinking that I'm thinking you're thinking, lover man, you just earned yourself a good hot piece of little old Myrna's poontang right now. Or would you rather have me blow you and save fucking for later on?"
"That latter sounds extremely attractive. I always did go in for double features," he chuckled thickly as he reached out and cupped both her titties with his hands, his cigar thrust at an angle in his mouth, his eyes glitteringly studying her evocative face.
"You're just greedy, that's all the trouble with you," she laughed softly. "But tell me just one thing, Greg honey. How're you going to get Miss Rich Bitch in your power?"
"I'll just tell her to come out and look at some of the property she's going to inherit. Seems to me there's a little house up in the hills in North Hollywood, pretty secluded from any neighbors, and that's part of the property her parents bought a good many years ago. I've had plenty of offers for it over the past few years, but of course I couldn't do anything until the terms of the will are ready to be executed and that's six months off, as you know. But I might just have her come out from New York and look over that house."
"I get it. You could sort of keep her there like a prisoner and make her sigh that waiver, isn't that what you're thinking?"
"Go to the head of the class, Myrna baby." His hands had reached behind her now, unhooked the skimpy bra, let it fall and then returned to cupping her naked, slowly swelling titties. She stared at him teasingly, spreading her legs and letting him see the thick dark patch of cunt-hair which prodded against the snug tight nylon crotch of this final veil.
"Yes," he went on with a hoarse chuckle, "I might put you in that house to run it, and so Diane Wilson would become your servant instead of you hers. That might be very interesting to watch. I've had some letters from her and maybe I'll let you read them. She just oozes selfishness and snobbery in every line. And as for dating, I've read in some of the New York newspaper columns that she's seen here and there with some very eligible and wealthy young men. I can just guess how she keeps them dangling. She sounds like a perfect prickteaser."
"Sounds like a girl like that ought to get a couple of lessons, wouldn't you say, Greg honey? But right for now, want little Myrna to start blowing you?"
"You can go to the head of the class again, baby. Do it nice and slow."
"Don't I always?" she giggled. Then, sinuously sinking down to her knees, she reached for his shorts, unbuttoned them and drew out his swollen prick. Cupping it in both warm palms, she playfully blew against the tip till the lips began to pucker and twitch with sensitized awareness. He groaned aloud in feverish anticipation.
Then she looked up and mockingly whispered, "But doesn't it really give you a charge, Greg, to be my white massa? Don't you feel just great when you see little Myrna down on her knees like a little slave-girl you know you can cowhide if she doesn't do everything you want, like blowing you right now?"
"Of course it does, you sweet bitch!" he panted, reaching out to cup her naked titties and to rub his thumb pads against the flinting nipples. "But I haven't made you a slave exactly, have I?"
"Truthfully, no. That's why I go along with you, Greg boy. Little old Myrna is looking out for Number One. I owed you for saving me from those creeps out on the Strip, you know."
"But you paid that debt many times over, baby."
"Sure. But you treated me right, and I don't think I could find a job that would pay more than the arrangement I've got right now, so why fight prosperity?" she giggled.
"Sometimes," he said hoarsely, his face darkening as he stared at her luscious bare titties, his hands moving to cup her face and to caress it," I ' wish I were racist enough to string you up and take a real leather paddle that wriggly ass of yours, Myrna!"
"Maybe I'll let you. Maybe I'd like that. But I think what you're really thinking is that you'd love to see me give it to Diane Wilson, humble her and make her crawl on her knees to t a girl that's got black blood in her veins, isn't that about right? Or am I reading you out of character, Greg Lover?"
He shook his head. "I've been dreaming about this, but I haven't really done any constructive planning. But hearing you talk like that right now and seeing you like this and imagining you lording it over Miss Diane Wilson, makes me feel that you and I are going to bring this thing off."
"But just let's suppose for the sake of argument, lover," she pursued, "that you do fleece her out of all that whopping big bankroll she's got coming? Let's suppose you make her my little slavegirl so I can paddle her white ass while you get your kicks. What are you going to do to her afterwards? I don't go in for too much rough stuff. You know, like elimination."
"Myrna, I'm surprised at your abysmal lack of imagination tonight," he chuckled. "I wouldn't even entertain the foggiest notion of doing away with her. Besides, it would be much nicer to keep on having her as a slave. I might even want a piece of her myself."
"Ah ha! I thought we were going to get around to that pretty soon. And I'd just love to work her over and get her ready for you, Greg lover. I'd like to train her, domination-style."
"Now you're really showing some imagination, Myrna lover! But right now my hard-on needs taking care of. See what you can do about it."
"Surest thing you know. You just sit back and take it nice and easy and let little old Myrna do all the work, you hear?" she crooned.
Then, once again cupping his rigid prickshaft between her soft moist palms, she bent her head and he felt her mouth lightly brush the tip of his turgid organ. His fingers twisted in her hair, and he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the licentious luxury of being Frenched by his beautiful mulatress mistress. But even as he closed his eyes, he could see haughty Diane Wilson, naked except perhaps for high-heeled pumps, her wrists bound behind her back, tears streaking her arrogant face, kneeling before him while the haughty and beautiful Myrna stood behind her in shoulder-length gloves and thigh-length boots and a glistening white leather bodysheath, gripping a leather paddle in her right hand and patting Diane's shrinking, already vividly marked bare ass to encourage the latter to comply with his most depraved desires. He could feel his spunk bubbling up to the lips of his prick as Myrna now began to suck with a delicacy and cunning born of long practice.
Her fingertips began to trickle his scrotum and then his balls, as she tilted her head to one side, by releasing his prick from the sweet warm-nectared confines of her mouth, and began to rasp her pert tongue against the circumcisional grove and then along the dark-veined throbbing shaft of his agonized manhood.
He shuddered as more images leaped into his mind. He could see Diane Wilson crying out of shame and rage and helplessness, naked except for her pumps and with her wrists still bound behind her, being forced to gamahuch Myrna's thickly-haired cunthole, while he himself stood behind her with a dogwhip, flicking her back and shoulders and the sides of her titties to enforce compliance. It would be exciting turnabout for sure. And once he had neatly relieved the haughty young heiress of everything in that trust fund, he and Myrna could very well take her off to South America, perhaps live in a villa on the edge of Rio or Buenos Aires and keep her there as a slave-or even sell her to some wealthy voluptuary.
But for now, he was conscious only of the savage aching of his beleaguered prick. Squirming closer to him on her knees, his almost naked mulatress mistress was now running her tongue down to his balls, her soft fingers gripping the tip of his prick and giving it tiny, loving squeezes which made him grind his teeth to hold back the savage burst of lust-lava he had saved up for her for tonight.
"Oh, you sweet bitch, that's what we're going to do then," he panted. "Now, get every drop, swallow it down, because one day you'll help me make that snotty, spoiled brat do exactly the same thing and you'll punish her if she doesn't show as much talent as you're doing now, Myrna baby-now, yes, take it all-ohhh Christ, I'm coming-aahhh!"
With a bellow of ecstasy, Gregson Torrance felt himself stiffen and then explode as Myrna's lips quickly folded themselves round the tip of his prick and began to suck noisily. He could hear her gurgling down his bubbling spunk, and he felt an ineffable rapture not only for what was happening to him now but what he was going to try to make happen in the future.
CHAPTER TWO
Diane Wilson preferred to stay in New York, where her parents had had a swanky apartment on Riverside Drive, though they had left her also a summer house in Connecticut, a bungalow in Beverly Hills in the richer residential section of Los Angeles, and a hunting lodge near Mitchell, South Dakota. But with the advent of summer, Diane was finding New York much too oppressive, and she was already planning how to spend what appeared to be another boring summer. Perhaps, she reflected, Biarritz or Nice or even a sojourn in the Bahamas might be rewarding.
This evening, however, she was going out on a date with Paul Jasmer, a thirty-year-old advertising executive in one of New York's largest advertising agencies and from an old and most distinguished New York family. She had known Paul Jasmer about five months, and found him sophisticated, debonair, always well groomed, and full entertaining ideas on how to keep her amused. He had discovered many delightful little restaurants for her, some quaint antique shops and little-known museums. What was more, he hadn't offended her by making a pass at her, not once. In a way, this both pleased and annoyed her; it annoyed her because she had begun to wonder whether he found her beauty tempting.
This evening Diane had chosen a summery peach-colored faille frock and silver-tome pumps, and she carried her dainty purse, made in the same glistening material as her footgear. They were going to the Four Seasons, one of the city's greatest restaurants. Then, Paul Jasmer had told her, they might go for a drive along the scenic Hudson. At least it would be cool there, and of course the restaurant had air conditioning.
The lovely, haughty brunette inspected herself a last time in front of the oval mirror in the hallway, then went out of the apartment, locked the door carefully behind her, took the self-service elevator down to the lobby where the uniformed doorman greeted her with an effusive, "Good evening, Miss Wilson. A bit warm these days, I'm afraid. Shall I call you a cab, Miss?"
"No, thanks, Fred," the heiress disdainfully drawled. "A gentleman is calling for me very shortly. Ah, here he is now, I think-yes, it's Mr. Jasmer."
The doorman saluted, opened the door of Paul Jasmer's Cadillac Coupe de Ville, and wished them both a pleasant evening. He had no way of knowing, nor did Diane, for that matter, that the fateful events of this evening would precipitate the change of destiny which was brewing in the insolent brunette's horoscope ...
Paul Jasmer parked the Cadillac near a little cove about twenty miles outside of Manhattan, from which point could be seen a bend in the historic old Hudson River. Far beyond, the distant lights of houses gleamed in the soft darkness of the summer night. Diane Wilson looked at him questioningly. He had been a brilliant conversationalist this evening, made her laugh a good deal, and asked her what her plans were for the summer. He had intimated that he planned a trip to Switzerland in the next few weeks, and had wondered whether she would care to meet him there and ski. Of course she didn't ski, and she saw at once it was a very transparent ruse whereby he would have a chance to get her alone and perhaps make a pass at her. Well, she wasn't having any of that, thank you very much.
"You know, Diane," he said as he offered a pack of cigarettes, lighted hers for her and then his own, "I really wish you would reconsider coming to Switzerland with me."
"But, Paul, I've already told you I don't ski."
"There are other things to do in Switzerland, Diane."
"I have a pretty good idea. But I was thinking more of the French Riviera."
"That is too commonplace these days, I'm afraid. You'd find too many tourists there in July or August and you wouldn't like it."
"I'm capable of making my own decisions as to my vacations, Paul. Now shall we go on with the drive?"
"In a few minutes. Tell me, Diane, have you ever been in love?"
She started, looked at him with her large gray-green eyes, and then uttered a nervous little laugh; "I don't really see what this has to do with anything, Paul."
"On the contrary, my dear. It has to do with everything. You see, I find myself drawn to you. You're a devastatingly beautiful girl, you're quite rich, and you're an exceptional catch for the right young man. Now I can tell you at once before you say anything that I am reasonably well off myself, my parents have left me a good deal of money, so I'm not exactly a fortune-hunter."
"I really don't understand why you're telling me all this, Paul," she said petulantly.
"Do I have to draw you a diagram, Diane? I've got a yen for you. I think we two could hit it off if you'd give it half a chance," he said huskily. His arm was round her waist now, and his mouth was inches from hers.
"Please don't!"
"What's a kiss between friends and maybe lovers?"
"I don't want you to, Paul! Now behave!" she said angrily, her cheeks coloring hotly as she twisted out of his embrace.
"What makes you tick, anyway, Diane? You like to be out with an eligible man, that's obvious. You like to be shown off in the finest restaurants. You're a good conversationalist, you've got brains and beauty. As well as money, which doesn't matter a damn to me. But I don't know of your showing the least bit of affection for anybody."
"Don't you think that's rather my business, Paul? Now please drive me home. I've had enough of this."
"I just hope," he said grimly as he reached for a cigarette and lit it from the dashboard lighter, staring at her all the while, "that someday you get your comeuppance. Someday you're going to want someone very badly, only he's not going to return the favor. You're just a teaser, Diane, if the truth must be known. An expensive and very gifted teaser-"
She had slapped him, then, and he clenched his teeth, fighting back the impulse to strike her back. His cigarette had been knocked out of his mouth, and he leaned down to pick it up and to take a puff of it before crushing it out on the dashboard ashtray. "Thanks. I guess I had that coming. I'll drive you home. And I won't bother calling you again."
"No, don't. It would be a waste of time."
"Yes it would. I think I could get more affection and sincerity out of a call girl, if you want to know the truth," he said curtly as he started up the car and headed back along the freeway ...
She was showering now, standing in her blue-mosaic-tiled bathroom with the full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. She emerged from the shower, daintily reached for a towel so that her closely spaced round titties jiggled in a most fascinating way. The narrow dark-coral aureolae traced amorous circles round pert little nipples. She toweled herself quickly, staring at herself in the mirror all the while. The smooth flat belly with the shallow, wide navel-nook was a premonitory of piquantly sensual appeal. Just below it, the fronds of her dark brown cunt-hair started, thickening as they framed the delicate pink lips of the outer labia. Her thighs were elegantly graceful, sleek and even athletic, rising from high-set, sensitively muscled calves. Her pale white skin was flawless, except for an adorable little birthmark, shaped like a crescent and not so large as a fingernail, at the upper-most part of her left thigh where it joined the base of her jouncy, upstandingly rounded bottom-cheeks. Between these was a broadening crease, the existence of which made the mobility and undulatory rhythm of her gluteal muscles all the more devastatingly prick-rousing to the opposite sex whenever she walked by them.
Diane Wilson smiled at herself in the mirror, and moved closer to it. She pursed her small mouth, arched her thin eyebrows so that the large gray-green eyes with their occasionally glinting golden flecks seemed to become even more imperious and commanding. Then the towel fell from her fingers as, cupping one of her titties with her left hand, she descended her right forefinger from her waist down to the navel, toying with that dainty niche a moment, before moving towards the pouting lips of her cunthole.
And then Diane Wilson began to frig herself as a school girl might have done, standing straddle-legged, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, the thin wings of her aquiline nose twitching and shrinking as her passions mounted.
She was imagining that she had Paul Jasmer kneeling at her feet in chains, naked, his prick tied with silken cords and dragged up behind him to press along the perineum, torturing him at every movement. He lusted for her, and she stood there haughtily in impeccable and untouchable nakedness, complete mistress of him, laughing gaily at his discomfiture and suffering.
This was the way Diane Wilson pictured herself, as a destroyer of men, as a beautiful and truly belle dame sans merci.
And then the spasm seized her, and she groaned aloud, and she pressed her forefinger against her stiffening clitoris and began to frig herself frantically so that the announcement of her orgasmic release would be hastened to shattering tides of pussy-creaming.
So tremendous was the crisis that now took hold of her that she sank down on her knees, bowed her head, and both her hands cupped and clutched her titties as she squirmed about on her bare knees on the blue-tiled floor, panting and shuddering, her body damp with passion-sweat of a narcissist, and as Paul Jasmer had said, there was really no one else in the world for whom she felt the slightest affection, save herself.
Three Fates who spin and weave and measure and then finally cut the cloth of human life were gazing down at her from Mt. Olympus, and they plucked forth the warp of her life and altered it when they saw what joy she took in her own body and how selfishly she denied its usage by one who might have adored her and brought her a new understanding of sharing.
CHAPTER THREE
"Do you mean, Mr. Torrance, that I'm expected to go out all the way to California just to look at a house?" Diane Wilson irritatedly demanded, and it was just as well that the banks at the other end of the line couldn't see her grimace of annoyance, or he might have planned as even warmer reception for her.
"Yes, Miss Wilson, I'm afraid it will be necessary. You see, you are the only living heir of your parent's estate, and as your administrator, it's my duty to show you what your assets are. Now there is a chance to sell this house at a very handsome profit-"
"If that's the case, Mr. Torrance," she said testily," why the devil don't you go ahead and do it without me?"
"For a very good reason, Miss Wilson, that this possible purchaser wants to make a down payment and get your signature on the option papers and ask you certain questions about the property."
"Oh for goodness sake! That means I have to waste about a week out in California, and I haven't the slightest interest in it. Are you sure you can't do it for me?"
"My dear young lady, if I could, I certainly would. The fact is, I can't. Now I could make all the arrangements and get you airline roundtrip tickets and arrange for your stay at the finest hotel. The fact is, I have to be out there myself and I'll be showing you around. There are lots of interesting things in California, and you'll find it a very pleasant change of scenery from New York."
"Perhaps. But I think most of the people out there are kooks, and I just hate Los Angeles."
"I'll try to show you only the best side. Can I count on your coming along, then?
"Oh, I suppose so," she said with a sigh which revealed to him once again her insolence.
"That's fine," he said amiably. "Let's see, it's Wednesday now. Could you leave Friday, perhaps? If all goes well, you could catch a plane out there Sunday afternoon and be back here late at night."
"Well, I suppose that isn't too bad," she reflected. "Go ahead and make the reservations. What hotel are you going to put me up at?"
"The Ambassador, of course. It's on the north side of the city and not far away from the house in
North Hollywood. As a matter-of-fact, I'm leaving tomorrow myself. But I'll have my secretary bring the tickets and the hotel confirmation over to you late this afternoon. And I'll meet you at the airport when you get out there Friday."
"All right. I really haven't decided what I'm going to do this summer, and maybe I'll fly on to Hawaii from there or I might even go to the Rockies."
"Whatever you like, naturally, Miss Wilson. There's plenty of money in your current accounts, I know, but if you need anymore, just let me know. In six months, you'll have come legally into everything your parents left you, and then of course we can talk about whether you want me to go on helping you with your business investments. You've quite a lot on money coming, you know, and property too."
"I'm quite well aware of that, Mr. Torrance," she snippily replied.
"And just about every fortune hunter in New York knows it too. I had to fight one off the other night. He gave me a lot of talk about the fact that he was interested in just me and that he was well off in his own right, but I know better." she was, of course, referring to Paul Jasmer.
"Anyone I know?" he chuckled.
"You just might. His name is Paul Jasmer."
"Why yes," Gregson Torrance said in surprise. "I know his father and mother quite well. He has an excellent position in one of our biggest advertising firms, and he has a good deal of money which his parents left him. He certainly can't be called a fortune hunter."
"Well, that's what I call him. Anyway, you just have the tickets and the hotel reservation sent over. And I'll expect you to pay me plenty of attention out in Los Angeles."
"That, my dear, I can guarantee you," Gregson Torrance said with grim sincerity and then hung up the phone.
He had just broken in a new secretary to replace old Miss Ainsworth, who had finally retired at the age of sixty-four, with a pension from the bank and a testimonial dinner in her honor last week. The new girl was really delicious. Her name was Betty McDonald, she was a few months past twenty, and she had light two-toned brown hair cut in helmet style, with a narrow fringe all along the top of her forehead. Her eyes were an intense blue-gray, she had a most piquant little snub nose, and a firm, full, kissable mouth. She was about five feet six inches in height, but she looked a great deal taller because she wore a miniskirt which showed off half her thighs and against which Gregson Torrance himself had not the slightest objection. There were some of the old fogies in the bank who had mentioned to him that they felt such attire was not proper for so sedate a public institution, but he had simply told them, "In the first place, Miss McDonald isn't seen by the public, because she works just outside my private office and that's behind all the front open desks. Unless they have X-ray eyes, they're not-likely to see her. Besides, her work is very good."
And indeed, Betty McDonald's work was very good. She also had the personality of a very sophisticated, knowing young woman who knew exactly where she intended to go. And if the fact be known, she had already set her cap for Gregson Torrance.
Betty McDonald behaved demurely and was soft spoken, but her earlier life hadn't quite been like that. Her mother had had a furious row with her father about eight years ago, and the upshot of it was that he had abandoned his wife and daughter and gone to the Honduras as a mining engineer. So about four years ago, her mother had finally learned of his death from swamp fever, and promptly remarried a tall, dapper captain of waiters at one of New York's great restaurants. He had a good deal of money, he was a man about town, and he was exceptionally handsome and vain and conceited. He was also a good deal of a chaser, and Betty discovered this for herself about two years ago when her mother was visiting friends in Yonkers and her stepfather came home about eleven o'clock on a slow night.
It was a summer night, and so Betty was wearing just pajama pants and tops, and was sitting in her bedroom watching TV on her portable Zenith. The next thing she knew, her stepfather had entered the room silently and was leaning over her, his arm around her shoulders, and his cheek pressing against hers, murmuring, "You're such a very lovely girl, you ought to come out there and keep me company, Betty darling."
She had squirmed uncomfortably and blushed and tried to get out of his embrace, but then he had put his right hand on one of her pert uptilting pear-shaped titties and kissed her right on the mouth and panted, "I've just gotta give it to you, baby, you drive a man crazy!"
Before she could fight him off, he had ripped off her pajama tops, kissed her titties, and was trying to rip off her pants when she finally knead him in the crotch and put him out of action. Then she told him that if he dared anything like that again, she was going to call the police. And after he had gone back to his room in agony, she made a swift decision. She packed a suitcase of her most important belongings and clothes, wrote a quick note to her mother, and left the house.
Because of her beauty, she had no trouble finding work, and became a receptionist for a large engraving company in lower Manhattan. There she fell madly in love with a handsome Italian who was foreman of the day shift, Frank Gennario, a man of thirty, suave and reasonably well educated. Till the time she had met Frank, she was a virgin, though she had done plenty of necking and heavy petting at high school. She spent several evenings a week learning shorthand and typing, because she wanted to advance herself. She was hoping, however, that Frank would marry her.
But his idea of marriage was a one-night stand, or perhaps a few repeats, because he had a wife in Italy for whom he was sending and for whom he was saving most of his money. He didn't bother telling Betty this, because he wanted a crack at her sweet cunt. Knowing that she was cherry made him all the wilder to get into her panties, and he finally did. He had taken her to a little Italian restaurant on Third Avenue, plied her with Chianti and ravioli, and then taken her for a cab ride to Central Park. There he had a hansom cabdriver drive them slowly through the scenic park, and because it was a beautifully moonlit night, he had his arm around her waist and was kissing her.
By the time the driver returned to the starting point, Betty McDonald felt her panties moist with the urge to be fucked, and so when Frank Gennario whispered to her that he wanted to take her home and make love to her, she nodded and blushed furiously, clinging to him and giving him a furious kiss to show him that her pussy was all his.
He was a master at lovemaking. He undressed her very slowly, exclaiming over her many charms, and when she was down to garter-belt and stockings, he laid her on the bed and, without taking off any of his clothes, began to kiss her body all over, starting with her titties and working on her nipples, moving down to her navel and furling his tongue into that dainty grotto.
Betty almost swooned with passion. One knee up, swaying widely away to expose her pussy, she clutched at his head and ran her fingers through his thick black hair, begging him to do it to her. But he took his time because he wanted to gleam that last bit of passion from this wise virgin.
Finally he got his lips and tongue on her cunt and began to gamahuch her very expertly. Betty McDonald had never dreamed that a man could do that to a girl, and the sensation of his tongue rubbing against the lips of her quim and touching the button of her clitoris drove her frantically out of her mind. So that by the time he finally took off his clothes and got into bed with her, she was wriggling around on the bed, clutching at her naked bubbies, begging him to love her up and do it quick because she couldn't stand waiting any longer.
Passionate as she was, the breaking of her hymen cost her very little pain. Although he was selfish, he was a real expert in fucking. He waited, he didn't hurry, and he didn't brutalize her when he finally got himself all the way in. He saw to it that the bleeding was stopped with a warm washcloth, made her relax and then they smoked a cigarette, and after about an hour, he began to kiss and lick her all over again till she was just as wild with lust as she had been at the very outset. When he put his prick back into her cunt, she discovered that there was hardly any pain left at all but lots of pleasure.
And so she began to see him two and three nights a week, until finally one Monday morning, when she came down happily to work with the expectation of having a date with him perhaps that very night, she heard from the switchboard operator that Frank Gennario had quit his job and was working in Rego Park for a publisher and that his wife and two children were due to join him from Italy any day now.
Betty McDonald quit her job too, but not until she had found another one. This job was the bank at which Gregson Torrance worked. She began there as a file clerk, but continued her work evenings at business school so that she could quickly become proficient in typing and shorthand and so work herself up the line to a better-paying job.
She had been in the stenographer's pool when old Miss Ainsworth had resigned, and Gregson Torrance, checking with the personnel supervisor at the bank, in the search for a replacement, happened to notice her bending over a filing cabinet. The long legs, the shapely jetting ovals of her luscious ass, and her sensual face which told him instinctively that she knew what fucking was all about, led him to pick her, even though the supervisor had recommended others with far more seniority.
But what she had learned about herself was that she wanted regular fucking, but she didn't exactly want to get married anymore. Frank Gennario had disillusioned her, and so had her mother's marriages. No, she decided to play it cool, have plenty of fun, maybe get some rich man interested in her so she wouldn't have to work so hard, and just enjoy life. And that was why she had decided on Gregson Torrance, because she knew that he was a bachelor and that he was also a very tolerant man-which he had proved by hiring her over older girls and also even though she wore miniskirts about which she had been rebuked several times by the rather old fashioned supervisor.
She was in Gregson Torrance's office now, her legs crossed and the miniskirt hiked up quite a ways up her thigh, her steno pad and pencil poised and at the ready, waiting for her boss to dictate. He had just finished talking to Diane Wilson.
"I've got a little errand for you, Betty, if you don't mind."
"Of course I don't, Mr. Torrance."
"That's a good girl. You're really becoming very indispensable to me, Betty, I don't mind telling you. You keep up the good work, and I'll be putting you down for a raise at least by the end of next month.
"That's very nice of you, Mr. Torrance. But I enjoy working for you. You're so different from the other men in the bank."
"That's a compliment. And I appreciate it, too. For that matter, you're different from the average run of bank girl employees too, if the truth be known," he chuckled as he lit a cigar.
She gave him a long steady look from under long thick lashes, and then looked back at her pad as a proper and efficient secretary should. But she shifted in her seat just enough for him to glance at her knees and then follow the natural inclination of his gaze on up those long sleek beige-nylon-sheathed thighs, and he felt the old familiar feeling of an aching cock eager for pussy, especially new pussy.
He was in a rare mood today because now he was on the verge of getting Diane Wilson just where he wanted her, way out there on the West Coast, his prisoner, where he would get her to sign a waiver turning over all her money to him and legally, too. In addition, he intended to have Diane humiliated and chastised and taught how to satisfy a man, something she didn't know about already. Something she normally wouldn't learn about or care about perhaps for the rest of her spoiled life unless someone like himself took a hand in reshaping her destiny.
"I want you to call TWA and get first-class reservations for Friday, returning late Sunday afternoon," he told Betty McDonald. "Also, call the Ambassador right now, ask for the manager, and tell him you want a suite, the very best."
"Yes, sir."
"Then ask him to send you a confirming wire for the space, and go down to the TWA regional office and pick up the tickets on my credit card which I'll give you right now." He took out his wallet, extracted the card, tossed it to her and she caught it neatly with a little smile and nod. "Good. Then you're to get me one-way first-class space on the same airline for tomorrow afternoon."
"You're going to the Coast, Mr. Torrance?"
"Of course. I have to be out there to look after my client Miss Wilson."
"I-I'll miss you," she said softly and huskily.
He looked up in surprise, as she met his gaze boldly, leaning even a little forward to show him those gorgeous firm pear-shaped titties of hers thrusting against the tight bodice of the minidress. It was blue, and it showed up her pale white skin excitingly, and he felt the stirring in his balls grow even more agonizing than ever. He really hadn't looked for outside pussy since his affair with Myrna Johnson, but that didn't mean he couldn't act on an impulse and take advantage of an opportunity. And if ever he saw a girl with a bedroom look in her eyes, it was Betty McDonald right this minute.
"That's very flattering again, Betty," he finally said to her with a genial smile "I tell you what, after you finish those errands, you'll take the tickets over to Miss Wilson's apartment. And after that I'd like to take you to dinner. Say at The Tower Suite in time for the eight-o'clock seating. It's a beautiful view from there."
"I know it is. that's awfully nice of you, Mr. Torrance. I'll get busy on this right away. And I'll bring your ticket over when I meet you there tonight."
"Great. Oh by the way, Miss McDonald?"
"Why the last name of a sudden, Mr. Torrance?" she teased as she rose from her chair very sinuously, letting him have plenty of opportunity to look her over.
"Just force of habit, I guess, Betty. But what I was going to ask was, do you have any steady boyfriend?"
"None at all. That's why I'm looking forward to dinner with you at eight tonight, Mr. Torrance. I'll see you there. And thank you again."
He watched her walk out, watching those luscious bottom-cheeks of hers undulate and shift from side to side with her steady pace, the tight and short miniskirt shaping out the bewitching contours of her voluptuous ass.
Tonight was going to be very interesting, and it was going to be by way of a sort of advance celebration of his conquests of haughty heiress Diane Wilson.
CHAPTER FOUR
"I hope I'm not late, Mr. Torrance," Betty McDonald exclaimed as the debonair maitre d'hotel escorted her towards the window table in the Tower Suite.
The banker rose to his feet and gallantly waited until his charming young blonde secretary was seated before he resumed his own seat. "Why not at all, Betty. It's only a few minutes after eight. And how lovely you look tonight!"
"You don't think that my minidress is out of place here?" she anxiously inquired. She had changed to a flamboyant red minidress, and her pantyhose were smoke-colored, giving her legs an exciting sensual tone.
"I certainly don't. I'm all in favor of them, and personally, if anybody brings back either the midi or the maxi, I'll lie in wait for them and assassinate them," he jovially declared. As the pretty maid approached, he called, "A dry sherry for me, and I think the young lady would like an Alexander."
"How did you guess, Mr. Torrance?"
"It was easy. I happened to hear you talking to the switchboard operator the other day and it seems there was something about favorite drinks when you go out."
"My, my," she purred, drawing her chair up closer to the table and leaning forward towards him, her gray-blue eyes fixing on him most intently. "I'm going to have to be very careful what I say around you from now on. You might just hold it against me. And I do want to keep my job, Mr. Torrance."
"I don't think there's any danger of that, Betty. Now suppose you tell me how you found Miss Wilson."
"Oh! Not in the best of moods, I can tell you that, Mr. Torrance." Betty McDonald rolled her eyes expressively, then looked out at the magnificent panorama of New York at night, the Seagram and the RCA Buildings with their brilliantly by lighted vigilance over the concrete jungle of Manhattan. "Isn't that a gorgeous view?"
"Decidedly. But the service and the cuisine are exceptional here, and when you have that view you have my favorite dining place in all New York. But to go back to my client. So you found her difficult?"
"I should say so!" Again Betty McDonald shook her head and exhaled a sigh of expressive eloquence. "She took her own sweet time before she let me into her apartment. It certainly is beautifully decorated, I'll say that for her."
"Naturally. She's been abroad to school and she's had every advantage and always enough money at her fingertips. But how did she treat you?"
"Exactly like a flunky, which, after all, I am. It wasn't so much that, Mr. Torrance. It was just the way she had of looking at me, just as if she felt that I was a piece of furniture and to be shoved around."
"Don't take it to heart. She looks at everybody that way, even me, I can assure you," the banker chuckled. "Now then, here are our drinks. To your very good health, Betty."
"-Likewise, I'm sure." She lifted her cocktail glass in salute, then sipped, thoughtfully staring at him over the glass. When she set it down, it was to ask in a more serious tone, "I suppose she's the classical example of the poor little rich girl. No friends, but certainly she must have a sweetheart."
"You're quite wrong. I was a good friend of her parents, and I can assure you that she was sheltered. When she got to age of adolescence, the time when a girl normally starts to fool around with boys, she was already convinced that she was a princess and that anyone who wasn't in her class just didn't bear noticing. She thinks that all men are fortune hunters, and she's-likely to go on thinking that the rest of her spoiled life."
"Well, she didn't so much as say thank you. She looked at the plane reservations and she wanted to know if they were first class and whether the seat was near the wing or what not. I had to call TWA and ask the girl there exactly where the seat was before Her Highness was satisfied. Matter of fact, she had me change it to the other side of the plane."
"But at least she's got her tickets and the hotel confirmation."
"Oh yes. I brought the telegram. She said to tell you that she'd expect to hear from you as soon as she gets to the airport Friday.'
"I'll call her at the hotel, not at the airport. I'll be busy most of Friday afternoon making arrangements. After all, I have to take on the Grand Tour, you know. But that's enough about Diane Wilson. Now then, would you like another drink?"
"Not now, I'm hungry. And I do hope I did everything right?"
"Perfectly. You're a very charming girl. I'll admit I picked you out of the steno pool with a few mental reservations, but they're all gone now. Also, if it will make you feel flattered, I picked you because you were the most vibrant, vital girl in the entire bank."
"Thank you. Yes, I am flattered. And do you know, there isn't anybody else in the bank I'd rather work for than you, Mr. Torrance."
"Well, now that we've finished with this mutual admiration society, Betty, let's us get down to the serious business of eating."
The dinner was superb. A side of roast beef was the main entree, and both of them selected it. Gregson Torrance ordered a bottle of Nuits St. Georges 1959, a great vintage Burgundy, and Betty McDonald sipped it warily, then nodded and beamed approval.
By the time they finished their leisurely dinner, it was nearly eleven, and the spacious, beautifully carpeted and appointed room was nearly empty and hushed. Gregson Torrance rose, took out his wallet and threw down several bills enough for the check and a generous tip for the maid, the butler and the captain who had served the two of them so well. Then he drew back Betty's chair and escorted her to the elevator, then down to the street. "It's been a wonderful dinner and I wouldn't have missed the view for anything, Mr. Torrance. It seems a shame to end the evening now, though," she said huskily as they found themselves alone in the elevator hurtling down to the ground floor.
Again he felt his prick stiffen and tingle with the presentiment of pussy. To be honest, he didn't want the evening to end, either. "Well, it's true that we both have to appear on the job tomorrow, Betty, but I don't feel the least big tired. What about you?"
She shook her head, leaning back and looking at him with a soft little smile curving her ripe mouth. "I feel wonderful. What would you like to do?"
"That's a very leading question this time of night. We could of course go to a nightclub."
"We could, but it would be an utter waste of time. I really don't like them, they're too noisy, and you pay five times as much for a drink as your would if you went to a friendly little neighborhood bar. And besides, I like to do my drinking in private. And that's not all."
"Perhaps, in that case, a little background music and a good cordial in my apartment which has a lovely view also, might be a proper way to end the evening," he finally suggested.
"That would be perfect!" Betty McDonald agreed.
* * *
She leaned back against his long, comfortably upholstered couch and sighed dreamily as she nursed her pony of Cusenier brandy. Gregson Torrance, seated not too closely beside her, watched her carefully. She wasn't really too different from the way she was in the office, except more relaxed, more abandoned. The skirt of her minidress had hoisted almost to the tops of her thighs, but she had made no movement to smooth it back down. "I wish I knew a good painter who could do your picture that you are right now," he mused aloud.
"You're very sweet. I'm just sitting here thinking whether it would be a mistake for me to let you know how I really feel." She looked him steadily again, then took a sip of her brandy.
"I value honesty and candor above almost everything else, Betty. Why shouldn't you be frank with me? There's too much fencing between people, that's what's wrong with the world."
"You're so right. But it might involve me and I still want to keep my job."
"I can tell you in advance you're not in any danger of losing it. You've proved to be a most delightful companion this evening, and I shall always be grateful for it."
"But the trouble is, if anything more happens you might not think so much of me and it might be awkward for us to work together from then on. "Again she gave him that steady look which was so devastating and which made his prick throb with longing.
"Are you trying to say that you find me shall we say, interesting beyond my role of your boss?" he hazarded.
"Very much. I think I prefer older men. They're experienced, they're not selfish, and they're not in such a hurry. I thought I was in love very much once, and I guess I was, and he was a wonderful lover, only he forgot to tell me he was married and had two kids. I was just his convenience. But I still want to be loved. Only I don't want to involve anybody."
"Well in the first place, I'm definitely not married and I have no intention of being. In the second, I think I'm mature enough to be able to keep our separate identities quite distinctly divided between daytime and evening activities," he said with a bland smile.
"You're really very nice. But I'll bet you've had all sorts of girls. I bet you've even got one now."
"You're quite an amazing girl, Betty. Yes, I've had a little affair on and off for a while, but neither of us is involved and in fact we're very good friends. That's the best way between a man and a woman. No crimes of passion, no aberrations, just mutual affection and sharing each other's needs and wants."
"That sounds very nice. I'm not the least bit jealous, either. I don't even want to know who she is. Am I being too forward?"
"I think at this point I should kiss you," he chuckled softly.
"Please." She put down her brandy glass on the glass covered coffee table before them, and turned to him, offering her mouth. His right hand moved to her tittie, gently nuzzling the side, and as their lips met, his left hand gently caressed her right knee. She had magnificent legs, and indeed they were the most provocative part of her. Long, sinuous, high-set, nervously muscled calves, slender thighs but with the promise of gracious curves at their tops where they merged into the jouncy hillocks of her behind. Hardly had his mouth covered hers when he felt the delicate flick of her tongue tip, and with a grateful gasp he parted his lips to receive this exquisite titillation. His hand now closed on that pear-shaped loveglobe, while his left hand moved along the sleek column of her thigh till it reached the hem of the minidress.
"I've wanted you to do that for a long time, Mr. Torrance," she breathed huskily when he finally ended the kiss, but without removing his hands. Nor did she make the slightest movement to draw away. Her own hands remained clasped together at the back of his neck, and her eyes were humid and wide as they fixed him with an unwavering look.
"I've wanted to make love to you too, since the first day I saw you in that steno pool, Betty. When I saw those lovely long legs and that impudent face of yours, I thought to myself that here was a girl who knew exactly what she wanted out of life."
"I do. But I'll say this in advance, Mr. Torrance, I don't want to mess up your life and I won't try."
"Good girl! I wouldn't let you, to begin with. But it's always refreshing to know that you're not going to set out like a greedy little old digger. Besides, I've been thinking about something, ever since you told me how you didn't get along with Diane Wilson. But we can discuss that later. In the meantime, I very definitely want to make love to you. But you'll forgive me if I ask an embarrassing question-you're not by any chance a virgin?"
"Oh no! I told you I had this thing for this married guy, only I didn't know that's what he was. But he got me started into wanting love. Only this time I want it to be from someone who's an expert and yet isn't trying to hoodwink me." Then, tightening the hold of her soft slim hands against his neck, she moved her face forward to him and her mouth again sealed his. Once again her tongue flicked against his lips and bade them open, and when his own tongue touched hers, an electrifying current seemed to surge between them. Now his left hand moved upwards, under the hem of the minidress, until he found the waist-band of the pantyhose. Meanwhile his other hand was fondling her rapidly swelling tittie, and now the voracious digging of her tongue accelerated and he could feel the sweet hot breath of her nostrils.
"This is awfully nice," she confided huskily, when again they ended the kiss. "Mind if I go to the biffy? Then you tell me where your bedroom is and I'll be there. And can I call you Gregson just for now?"
"I'll spank you if you don't," he chuckled as he rose, not bothering to hide the savage swelling against the fly of his neatly pressed trousers. Her eyes flicked down and beheld the symbol of his power, then her red lips formed an "Oh" and she murmured, "Oh my goodness, I'd better not keep you waiting too long or you will spank me!" And then, as she moved towards the door, she looked back over her shoulder and lazily murmured, "But you know, it might be fun if you did it. It'd sort of be as if my daddy was paddling me to make me obey and be a good girl I wouldn't mind if you did that to me, either, Gregson."
The she disappeared, and he dug his fingernails into his palms and took a long deep shuddering breath. This was going to be one of the most exciting evenings in a long time, even more perhaps than with Myrna. It was very possible., he told himself as he took off his coat and tie and put them on the back of a straight-backed chair near the window, that provocative Betty McDonald might even help him along with Myrna in the humiliation of Diane Wilson.
CHAPTER FIVE
He was in no hurry, for the pleasure of anticipation was always one to relish when one made love to a beautiful desirable girl. He swiftly showered, toweled himself, then put on a pearl-gray satin bathrobe, which felt properly sensual against his naked flesh. Then he moved slowly to the bedroom, and when he entered, he gasped with admiration. Betty McDonald was naked, curled up on her side in the fetal position, her hands cupping her pear-shaped titties, and only the little bed table lamp shining in the darkness of the wide airy room. It was enough to let him see the milky-white pallor of her bare skin set off by the dark blue cover of the double bed. The bedroom faced Fifth Avenue, and a magnificently spacious bay window gave him the illusion of seeing all of New York. Now there were lights and there were varied shadows and configurations of the many buildings which comprised this incredible sprawling city. He hadn't drawn the drapes, nor would he. No one could see, unless they had a high-powered telescope or binoculars, and it didn't matter.
As he approached the bed, Betty McDonald rolled over onto her back and spread her arms in cross, dramatically presenting herself to him. The thick patch of cunt-hair was dark brown, a standing out like a kind of oasis against the white hills and valleys of her naked body. He let his bathrobe drop to the floor and her eyes fixed on the virile thrust of his dark-veined prick. "I want to feel it just that way," she breathed huskily, "and I use pills, just so you'll know, Gregson dear. I want you very much."
"I want you too, Betty. That bed is a perfect setting for you. I wonder what I'll think when I see you primly at your desk tomorrow morning."
"You can think whatever you like, Gregson darling. I just hope you'll want to keep me around after this."
"Don't be a little fool," he chuckled hoarsely as he clambered onto the bed and took her in his arms. She twisted like a cat and rolled onto her side to face him, then flung her right leg over his left hip, arching herself so that he could feel the silky frongs of her cunt rub against the tip of his throbbing prick. Their lips met, and his hands explored the pear goblets of her titties, and his tongue now took initiative as it foraged deeply into her mouth. She closed her eyes and shivered, her hands stroking his cheeks, then his neck and shoulders. He felt his prick ache and throb with a savagery he hadn't believed possible. He was even more aroused than when he fucked Myrna. This slim long-legged beauty was just what he needed before he began his conquest of the haughty heiress.
"Do it quick first, then we can take out time," she whispered.
He marveled at her knowledge of the voluptuary's art. For of course the first fuck always took the edge off, and was fierce and hot and primitive. And then, while the senses were lulled and basking in fulfillment, there was a delicious and methodical and cumulative wooing which once again roused all the ardors until they blazed even more ferociously than at first. It was long and delicious; it drained to satiety all the desires that a man and woman could have of each other. Myrna knew this, of course; but he was amazed that this young blonde should know so much already and should somehow sense his own preferences for pussy.
His left hand moved round to grip one of her jouncy bottom ovals, and she gasped and pressed herself tightly to him, while his right hand fondled one of her bubbies. Without breaking off the kiss and without taking his tongue out of her mouth, he prodded his prick against the soft moistened lips of her cunthole, and felt himself readily accepted. But even at the outset, the wonderful tightness of her sheath entranced him. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to the hilt but as slowly as he dared, wanting to revel in the luxurious enclaspment which her cuntwalls accorded to his invading spear.
He heard her almost guttural gasp as he ground hairs to hairs, hilting her, impaling her to his very balls, and then he felt the fluttering, twitching, spasming, clenching of her vaginal walls against his delving cock. It was one of the most glorious sensations that a man could feel in life, and he closed his eyes and shuddered trying to hold himself back so that he might at least bring her to the verge of orgasm even though he knew he needs must explode within her new, wonderfully tight lovecleft as soon as possible to measure her potential as a lover.
He could feel her bare leg clamping against his hip, and the warm quivering flesh of her excited him. Very slowly he drew back, then dug back to the balls again, and Betty McDonald groaned and sank her teeth lightly into the flesh of his collarbone. "Give it to, oh give it to me hard, oh Gregson, I want you so!" she gasped.
His fingertips dug into the resilient, elastic, warm white flesh of her bottom-cheek, his other hand kneading her tittie, the thumb pad rubbing the flinted bud to learn its tumescence. Once again his tongue dug deep between her lips, and then he drew himself back slowly almost to the very brink of her cunthole, and with a savage thrust ground his hairs to hers, as Betty McDonald moaned and sobbed, rolling over onto her back and drawing him upon her. Then swiftly her long white legs locked over his upper thighs, as she strained him to her cuntbasin. and her arms locked similarly round his shoulders to that his chest squashed down the proud young turrets of her panting titties.
"Oh God-fuck me hard now, don't spare me, fuck me till it hurts," she moaned.
"Yes! You sweet bitch, I will!" he exulted. Then drawing himself back, he thrust again and again and again, and suddenly with a cry felt himself in cataclysmic upheaval. The jet of his spunk burst into the deepest recesses of her womb, and Betty McDonald uttered a shriek and rolled and twisted, shifting her bare legs until they were clamped over his behind, biting him on the shoulder, scratching at him with her fingernails as her own body jerked in tumult of orgasmic response.
And then there was the sweet blackness of oblivion, the sinking down into the void of endless, timeless space and rapture and delight.....
CHAPTER SIX
Blonde Betty McDonald lay across Gregson Torrance's lap, her face covered with her hands, her pale white oval-shaped bottom salaciously upturned. He sat up, propped against the pillow and beyond he could see the twinkling multicolored lights of Manhattan. Only the little bed lamp light diffused its soft glow on the young secretary's naked flesh. But from that first ferocious fuck they had just enjoyed, he already knew volumes about her aptitudes and amorous temperament.
She was direct, passionate, and amoral-and this last attribute was the most important of all to the banker. Such a girl could be selfish and predatory as desired, and if it suited her interests to aid him in his secret plan to strip Diane Wilson of all her prestige and finances and snobbery just as he meant to strip her voluptuous, patrician, virginal body and subject her to the most intense kind of humiliation and degradation, he foresaw that she would be a perfect foil in this alliance. She was sensual enough to appreciate the sadomasochistic pleasures of subjugating the young heiress, particularly since she had already met Diane and been unpleasantly treated by the snobbish beauty. At the same time, while certainly not a gold digger, Betty McDonald was looking out for Number One avowedly, and so if it would be to her particular profit to take part in an enterprise which would provide her with amusement and a kind of revenge as well as sexual pleasure, she would certainly not veto the idea.
After they had smoked a cigarette and had a sip of brandy or two, following their fucking cohesion, Betty had scampered off to the bathroom and then returned, a lithe, saucy nymph with her eyes glowing and lips curved in a crooked little smile as she huskily whispered, "Didn't you say something about giving me a good spanking, lover? Maybe it will get us both in the mood for something as nice as we just had, hmm?"
And so she had made him sit up and even helped him put the two pillows behind his back. "Now you can be my daddy," she murmured evocatively, as she crouched before him on her knees, leaning so that her beautiful pear titties dangled temptingly before him and so that he could reach out and squeeze them fondly with his avid fingers.
"And you're going to paddle my heinie because I've been a naughty girl and won't do what you want. And of course I'll have to do it because I just can't stand being spanked Forever. Would you like that, Greg honey?" She had dropped the "son" of his name, and he suddenly found that he preferred the more intimate abbreviation. Myrna hadn't ever called him that, as he could recall. So right there was a differentiation between his two mistresses-and now he knew that he was going to maintain Betty McDonald just as devotedly as he had done the beautiful mulatress whom he had saved from gang rape and who had become his devoted confidante as well as concubine.
And from the sensory viewpoint also, Myrna and Betty furnished deliciously divergent qualities of pleasure for him. Not that Myrna, despite her partial Negroid blood, was ever too musky, but there was a kind of earthy rawness to her, in the heat and moisture of fucking. Yet Betty was warm and dry, though her mouth and cunt were moist, and the two contrasting opposites excited him enormously. He put his left palm on the small of her back and ran is right hand lingeringly over the resilient assovals, while she made them quake and tense and flex with her agile gluteal muscles. She wiggled her toes and her heels, shifted herself a little closer to him. He could feel his prick already hardening again, and he knew that this second fuck of theirs would be even more thrilling than the first one.
Slowly he began to spank her, but with no set rhythm or pattern. The first slap for example, decorated the top outer edge of her right hip with a bright pink splotch; the second took nearly a minute before it fell on the base of her left bottomglobe. Then followed three or four crisp, rapid slaps all down the crease of her bottomglobes, a sinuously broadening crease which let him have a glimpse of the soft fig of her cunthole and the shadowy groove which led to that other temple of Sodom. These were sensitive areas indeed, judging by the way she kicked up first one leg and then the other, and she sighed and squirmed again. Now he could feel her hairy bush rub against the tip of his straining prick and knew that he was becoming reinvigorated to a renewal of their coalescence.
He ran his left hand up along the deeply hollowed cleft of her spine and then back to the chink-bone, pressing down hard to tell her that he was about to resume this voluptuous chastisement. Then his right hand fell sonorously, once to each bottom summit, feeling the springy white flesh jump and start under the impact of his hand and then seeing the gradually pinkish hue imparted tc the pale white skin. She caught her breath at each of these, kicked up one leg and then the other again, and wriggled herself even closer to him. Now he could definitely feel the silky fronds of her cunt-hair rasping against his agitated prick.
"Please do it harder, Greg," she murmured softly, without removing her hands from her face. And then she spread her thighs lasciviously, arching up her naked behind as if inviting all the slaps that he could bestow upon her. He felt his blood boil in his veins and he reached for the scruff on her neck with his left hand while at the same time he brought his right hand down sharply on the base of her right bottomglobe, then on the corresponding area of the other cheek. And this time he was rewarded by hearing her groan, "Aahhh, oh yes, that's it, Daddy!"
He paused now, keeping his hand pressed against the warm tingling flesh where he had last slapped it, and demanded in a hoarsening voice, "Tell me, Betty, because I don't really know too much about your back-ground, did you and your father get along well?"
"My father? Oh yes. My stepfather? A real bastard, Greg. So when I say Daddy, I mean my real one. Of course he never did this to me, but I often wanted him to. He died when I was just a kid, just a little before I first started having my time of the month. You know, the age-old curse every girl gets because darned old Mother Eve had to go and eat that apple in the Garden of Eden,"
"So I'm a father image for you am I, young lady? That's not too bad. Incest has a certain spice and fillip to it, you know."
"uh huh, I know that very well. That's why I'm so squirmy. Can't you feel me rubbing against your boy?" she giggled softly. "Go ahead, make me cry, teach me to be a good girl because I've been so naughty. Make me do something I don't want to do just because I can't stand how my poor little bottom's going to feel. Please!"
And this was a kind of spiritual catharsis and he could understand it. For he had his own to work out, and it involved Diane Wilson. True, what he was proposing to do to her was highly criminal: skillfully and yet legally rob her of her inheritance, though perhaps he really didn't need it. He was wealthy in his own right, but he had such an obsession about her insolence and arrogance that he wanted to see her reduced to nothing. He wanted her to be across his lap, but in chains, and that was the difference. With Betty, it would be a sweet symbol of a kind of bondage which would be playful and therefore more meaningful in such a relationship. But his thorough sadism and his rutting lust could be best expressed by subjugating Diane Wilson into the lowly status of a bed slave, a piece of furniture who would serve him perhaps as a living hammock or a footstool or a book rest or even a table for his meals.
As he closed his eyes, he could see her in his office, sitting with her legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, hunching her shoulders and giving him that petulant look which always indicated that she was bored and disgusted with even having to talk with him. She would do more than that before he was done with her.
And now his hand came down with gusto on Betty McDonald's luscious naked ass, really stinging, applying to the tops of each bottomglobe in turn, then to the base and then to the roundest, plumpest curve of each luscious assoval. Ten good hard swats with hardly any respite between each, and this time she groaned and sobbed and arched and twisted her bottom frantically, while the reddening marks spread over the white escuthcheon of her flawless jouncy, tempting behind: "Ouchoohhh, oh, Daddy-oooh, that stings so-I'll be a good girl-oh please-I'll be so good-awrrrr-oh Daddy!"
"So you're beginning to feel it at last are you, Betty girl?" he huskily asked. His right palm caressed her naked, now stridently marked bottom-cheeks, found them palpitating and shivering under his touch. His left hand edged along her side to feel the outer curve of her mashed-down tittie against the soft damask cover of the bed. He had put a huge Turkish towel under her for their fuck, without removing the cover-it was an idiosyncrasy of his and one he had often used with Myrna. To get entangled in the sheets and to rumple them when he later would sleep in them was something alien to his fastidious nature. And the scratchy roughness of the towel helped, Myrna had often told him, to get her even more randy. And Betty McDonald was proving the same theory in his own delicious, lithe-agile way.
"Would you like to do this to Diane, baby?" he suddenly put it to her as he lifted up his right hand and gave her a good hard spank on the lower summit of her right ass-cheek.
"Ouch-oh I certainly would, Daddy! I'd just love to tan her ass for her, see if I wouldn't But that's just a daydream, and you know it is."
"I wouldn't be so sure, Betty. Stranger things than that can happen. But I'm asking you, if I put you in position to tan her ass, as you so succinctly put it, do you think you could do a thorough job? Could you make her cry and beg for mercy, agree to do anything at all, even lick your toes and kiss your hand and thank you for the spanking?"
"I'd just love that-my goodness, Greg, if you put me in the way of that, I'd just about do anything you liked, I mean it. I suppose there's a certain chemistry between people, but whatever it is in her sort of rouses the beast in me, if you know what I mean." She dropped her hands from her face and turned it back over her lovely shoulder to stare at him quizzically. He saw that her face was flushed, her eyes wide and humid and that there were even tears in them. His prick was now prodding her lower belly and cunt-hairs agitatedly, wanting entrance to that tight warm humid cleft of hers. But this time it was going to be even more enjoyable, even more prolonged, till he would drain himself of his very last drop of gism and feel himself sucked up by the hungry, tightening and clenching maw of that seething twat of hers.
"That's all I wanted to know, Betty," he said with a chuckle. "You might just get the chance. And now to conclude your well deserved chastisement. I'm going to teach you to be a really good girl, believe me I am!"
And with this he began to spank her in earnest. Alternating on the saucy, resilient and now extremely reddened globes of her firm, enticing young ass, Gregson Torrance brought his hand down like a semaphore, falling abruptly and quickly and harshly, stinging all over the naked posterior as Betty, pressing her palms down on the cover of the bed, lifted up her face and stared out of the bay window, her eyes very wide and blurred with tears, her lips parted, her teeth chattering, her nostrils twitching and shrinking. Her hips jerked now at every spank, and her muffled gasps and "Ohhhs" and "Ahhhhs" filled the bedroom with their lascivious music of pseudo-martyrdom. And with each new contortion, with each new groan, with each new squirming peroration of her reddened ass, Gregson Torrance felt his manhood savagely restored, swept back over the years till he was supremely young and tirelessly virile once again.
At last he stopped, and he heard her sobbing and he saw her legs kick up and down, and her bottom weave frantically and uncontrollably. "Now do you think you can be good and do what I tell you to?" he panted.
"Ohh-oh yes-I will-anything you want-oh Daddy, my poor bummy hurts so-I'll be the bestest girl you ever had, just tell me what to do and I'll do it," she groaned.
"All right, young lady. Get on your knees then and bow your head and suck my cock," he commanded.
"Oh I will! I want to, anyway!" she breathed.
She wriggled off his lap and, one hand rubbing her furiously reddened behind, knelt down before him like a slave. And at that moment he saw in his mind's eye Diane Wilson humbled thus and equally forced to a degradation which for her would be a complete nadir of shame and loathing and revulsion. He felt the soft trembling lips and then Betty McDonald brushed the tip of aching whang, and her other hand caressed his inner thighs. He groaned and leaned his head back against the pillows, as she went on. Delicately now her tongue furled down his gnarled shaft, and now her right hand returned to abet his stimulus. With the tips of her delicate fingers, she traced patterns of evocative lust-arousal along the scrotum and the balls, while her tongue paraded now bare and then up to the meatus. Exquisitively and imaginatively she prodded the tip of her tongue against the urethral lips whence his spunk flowed, as if she would gouge out the nectured lust-lava, his very essence.
And then suddenly she raised her face, her eyes sparkling, and muttered huskily, "Do you want me to blow you all the way, darling, or do you want me to get on top of you and fuck hell out of you? You just name it, because you've got yourself a little slavegirl as well as a pretty good secretary if I do say so myself."
"Get on top of me and take it all away, you sweet bitch," he mouthed, reaching for her.
Betty McDonald gave a knowing little laugh, and then moved forward on her bare knees. Fitting her moist quim against the tip of his agonized, stiff ramrod, she slowly sank down, her fingertips tickling his paps, until she had impaled herself to his very balls. Then she slowly stretched out over him, and his-legs locked round her sweet, sinuous white calves, and then her reddened, stinging and still smarting bottom began to move in a rhythmic undulation as she taught him the sweet initiative of usurpation, taking the role of the male and herself setting the tempo of this glorious and prolonged fuck.
And when at last she quickened herself, greeting him with flurried little cries and groans to "Oh give it to me now, oh shoot it up into my cunt, Daddy," he knew that he had found at last the perfect other mistress who would complement Myrna Johnson's primeval passions and provide him between the two of them with all the delights of a harem ... to which not long from now would be added the most magnificent salve of all, the haughty bitch-virgin Diane Wilson.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Diane Wilson fumed as the TWA jetliner began its approach to Los Angeles Airport. She glared at the pretty, slim auburn-haired stewardess who was walking down the aisle to make certain that all the passengers had fastened their safety belts. As soon as she got off, she was going to report that little bitch for rudeness. Imagine, denying a first-class passenger another drink, when the fare paid was certainly enough to give the airline a very tidy profit! She had two dry Martinis and then decided on the third after she had finished the meal, but the stewardness had politely told her that it was against company policy, though she might have more wine if she wished. And then she had wanted to know just how far the Ambassador Hotel was from the airport, and the dumb little bitch said that she didn't actually know but she would be glad to find out from the service representative as soon as they landed. It was really insufferable!
But her illogical anger at the unoffending stewardess was put aside when, emerging out of the landing ramp into the building of the airport, she looked around to find that Gregson Torrance wasn't-anywhere in sight. How dared he leave her here without meeting her? She was his client, and an important one too, because he had charge of all that money. Well, never mind, in six more months when she came into the trust fund and all the rest of her parents' estate, she'd soon find someone else to replace him.
Glaring, after having waited fully ten minutes for him to show up, she uttered a most unlady-like swearword under her breath and then strode off toward the baggage ramp, arrogantly beckoning to a Negro redcap to be on hand to pick up her one suitcase and find her a cab. As she waited for the baggage to come along on the conveyor belt, she heard her name being called through the public address system and that she was to report to the TWA reservations counter out in the main lobby. The Negro redcap deferentially suggested that she pick up one of the wall-airport phones and identify herself and perhaps she could be given the message then and there. Without so much as a nod of thanks, she walked across the large room to one of the wall-phones and was soon connected to the reservations desk.
"Oh yes, Miss Wilson, we've a message for you from a Mr. Gregson Torrance," a friendly female voice explained. "He says for you to go to your hotel and he'll call you this evening."
Diane Wilson slammed down the phone and, her eyes blazing with anger, walked back to the waiting redcap who by now had her suitcase in tow. "Get me a cab for the Ambassador Hotel!" she snapped.
And when she was inside the cab, she was still furious. Just wait until she heard from him-she'd give him a piece of her mind, she would!
She was somewhat mollified when, upon arrival at the swanky Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard, the front-desk deck received her with almost fawning respect. "Oh yes, Miss Wilson, we have your reservation. May I, on behalf of the hotel, wish you a very pleasant stay with us. If there is anything you need, please don't hesitate to call." That was at least the courtesy due her, she reflected, and so she tipped the bellboy rather more than she nominally would have done, '-m
It was about three in the afternoon when the phone rang, and impatiently she sprang up from the upholstered couch and answered it with angry "Hello!"
"Gregson Torrance here, Diane."
"It's about time!" she snapped. "Why the devil didn't you meet me at the airport? Here I am flying into a strange town and I have to find my own redcap just like one of the masses. I don't really appreciate that, Mr. Torrance!"
"It couldn't be helped, my dear. Now then, why don't you get a little nap and then I'll take you out to dinner. Say about seven o'clock?"
"All right. When do I see the house? I don't really care for Los Angeles and I'd like to get back Sunday sure."
"You can see the house tonight, after dinner," he said blindly.
"That's good. In that case maybe I can even get back tomorrow night. I'd really like to have dinner at the Forum of the Twelve Caesars and maybe meet some of my friends."
Gregson Torrance was thinking to himself that Diane's friends were-likely to be sycophants, probably as shallow and brittle as she herself was. "I'll try my best to get the legal documents taking care of so you can make your plans accordingly," was all he said.
Diane slammed down the phone with an imprecation, and then flung herself back down on the couch and drowsed. It was about quarter of six when she woke up, and she promptly went to the bathroom to freshen up. She saw no need for putting on an elegant costume, because what she had wore on the plane was quite good enough. It was a pleated skirt, a classic white acetate, with a matching suit-coat, under which she wore a pretty peach-colored nylon blouse, a half-slip and a bra and panty set of white nylon, with a snug narrow nylon elastic garter belt whose tabs clung lovingly to the tops of her charcoal-brown nylon hose. Her blue suede open-toe pumps were quite chic and new.
The telephone rang telling her that Gregson Torrance was in the lobby waiting for her. There wasn't any need to take a coat, she reasoned, for the weather was quite warm and sultry. In her purse, besides she had a plastic raincoat in a neat little compact packet.
Gregson Torrance came forward with a smile and extended his hand. Diane Wilson shook it disdainfully, giving him a" frosty stare as she remarked, "I see you're on time for this, at any rate. Are you sure you brought along the papers?"
"Quite sure, Diane. Relax. There are some nice things in Los Angeles, even if you don't approve of the city. I will admit our public transportation is pretty bad, but then I've heard tall tales about New York, too."
"I really don't care about any of these cities, if you want to know something," she said snippily as he courteously held the cab door open for her and she clambered in," and when I get all my money settled, I might just pick up and move to Switzerland. There wouldn't be any tax there for one thing, And I could choose my own friends."
"You can do that here too. But I'll admit that Switzerland is a sane, reasonably secure country. I wouldn't recommend the rest of Europe. Now then, let's forget such mundane things and have a good dinner. Do you like French food?"
"If you can find anything comparable to Quo Vadis or the Baroque, by all means."
Half an hour later, they were dining in an elegant French restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard, and Diane Wilson began to feel more her own important self. The courtesy of the captain and the waiter was impeccable, and the chef really seemed to have outdone himself. Her canard a I 'orange was as good as any she had ever had in New York, and Gregson Torrance had ordered a vintage bottle of Puligny-Montrachet which was really a memorable gustatory experience.
After crepes Suzette, flamed with Grand Marnier, and strong black coffee, she was actually smiling at the gray-haired, suave voluptuary across the table from her. "This really isn't too bad, you know," she drawled as she put a cigarette to her arrogant red lips. He leaned forward across the table with a silver, monogrammed lighter for her. "At least it's better than the meal I had on the plane and that miserable stewardess, telling me how many drinks I could-when I get back home, I'm going to write a letter to the chairman of the board of that airline, you just wait and see!"
"I'm sure she didn't mean anything personal. It's probably the airline policy,"
"Now don't you go start in telling me what that little bitch told me," she said fiercely, crushing out her cigarette and glaring at him again. "Let's get that house-seeing over with, shall we?"
"By all means, let's," he said. The smile on his face was mocking, but Diane Wilson didn't notice. She was too busy preening herself and making sure that people in the restaurant were observing her classic beauty. Gregson Torrance paid the check, added a handsome tip, and then took her by the arm and escorted her out of the restaurant to a waiting cab which he had had the busboy call for him at the time desert had been served.
He helped her in, and then told the driver the address in the North Hollywood hills.
Then, seated beside her, he lit a cigarette and eyed her meditatively. She had a sulky frown on her face, and she was staring straight ahead. She was impatient to get this over with, he knew. He wondered if she would be quite so impatient if she knew what really awaited her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"God Heavens, this house of mine is certainly isolated!" Diane Wilson exclaimed as the cabdriver stopped at the top of one of the Hollywood hills, in front of a spacious two-story house set about two hundred yards back from a magnificent lawn and hedges, and completely framed and enclosed by towering trees on either side which further hid it from the road as well as from lower vantage points along the way.
"That is one of its principal charms, Diane." Gregson Torrance observed as he paid the driver and offered the heiress his arm.
"You say you have an offer to buy this house, Mr. Torrance?" she asked as they approached the door.
"Yes. But the asking price could be better, I think. However the prospective client would pay a good deal of money cash down, and that's always advantageous. Of course, for tax purposes, and assuming that you retain me as administrator of your estate after six months," he added with a cynical smile, "my recommendation would be to have the payments spread out year after year so that you wouldn't have to pay so much in a lump sum to Uncle Sam."
"We'll see about your being my administrator later, Mr. Torrance, Diane Wilson icily observed. "For the moment, I just want to inspect this place as quickly as possible, find out what your offer is and then sign any papers I have to. I'd really like to get back to the hotel as soon as I can, repack my suitcase and perhaps leave to tomorrow morning."
"As you say. I'll ring the bell.!
He did so, and after a moment the door was opened by a comely mulatress, wearing a clinging black satin dress whose hems ended about three inches above her dimpled knees. She had a lace cap atop her head, and a little white apron. She wore high heeled black leather pumps with rhinestone buckles, and her lissome legs were sheathed in smoke-colored nylons.
"Miss Johnson, this is the owner of the house, Miss Diane Wilson. Would you please show her around. I want to go downstairs and see if everything is locked up the way it should be," Gregson Torrance remarked.
"Of course, sir. This way, if you please, Miss Wilson!"
"Why don't you show it to me yourself, Mr.
Torrance?" the heiress fumed. "I don't care to have servants show me my own property."
"In a sense, Diane," he turned to her with a frowning look on his sensual face," I'm your servant too, so long as I am your administrator. And Miss Johnson is quite reliable, believe me."
"She's a nigger!" the unexpected sally burst out of Diane's petulant mouth. "Now will you show me the house yourself? I think you've behaved very rudely towards me in getting me out here in the first place and not meeting me at the airport, and now this."
"Very well. Just give me a few minutes and I'll join you. I just have to inspect some stuff downstairs," Gregson Torrance said, controlling his fury and giving the mulatress a quick and almost imperceptible glance at which she responded with an equally imperceptible nod. "Just let her show you the living room and I'll be back in about three or four minutes."
"Oh, all right, but please hurry!" Diane angrily remarked.
The mulatress had gone ahead out of the little antechamber reached to the wall just beyond the door of the huge living room, and clicked on the light switch. Diane moved forward, still scowling and indignant, but had to admit that the decor was really magnificent. The room was furnished in Louis Quinze period, and there were superb tapestries in the style of paintings by Watteau on two of the walls.
The young mulatress stood with arms at her sides, considering Diane Wilson who looked around the room, her upper lip curling in scornful pride. So she owned this lovely house, and it was just one more proof to her that she was far above commoners, and certainly like this impudent nigger maid. She turned now and saw the young woman looking at her, and at once she flared up: "What are you staring at, anyway? What's your name and how long have you been working here and who hired you?"
"Mr. Torrance hired me, my name's Myrna Johnson, and I only just started this job," was the cool reply.
"Well, I happen to own this house, as you probably know from Mr. Torrance. And I say you're fired. You might as well start looking for another job, and I'll tell Mr. Torrance so when he comes back."
"I wish you would, please, Miss Wilson. He night not take it from me," the mulatress at once replied with an engaging smile.
Diane Wilson ground her teeth and, unable to conceal her indignation any longer over what she considered a thoroughly miserable reception since she had landed at the airport in Los Angelees, walked over to Myrna Johnson and slapped her across the cheek. "That'll teach you to be more civil to your betters," she hissed. "And you're still fired, no matter what Mr. Torrance may say. I'll give you a week's extra pay, but get out now. I don't want to see your ugly face again in this house, not ever, do you understand me?"
"Only too well, Miss Wilson."
"And what's that supposed to mean? Do you want another slap? Just get out of here at once, you black bitch!" Diane almost screamed in her fury, turning very pale at the imagined insult.
What she might have done was conjecturable, but at this moment Gregson Torrance entered the living room with a bland smile on his face. "Everything is in shipshape condition. I think we're ready to proceed to the basement, Myrna," he addressed himself to the mulatress.
Diane Wilson stood there, her mouth agape, looking first at him and then at the mulatress. "What is this all about? Mr. Torrance, I want you to fire that girl! She's been rude and insolent to me. I don't want to hear anymore, do you understand? I'll pay her off and give her a week's pay, but if I own this house I never want to see her again."
"That's going to be rather difficult, Diane," he drawled as he calmly took out his cigarette case, took one out and tapped it on the case, then lit it. "You see, starting as of right now, Myrna is going to be your maid."
"Have you gone crazy? I told you I want that bitch fired. I don't want any niggers around me, and certainly not that one. I don't need a maid, I never have." .
"You're going to need this one. You see, your living quarters are going to be a little confined to start with, and you're going to need all the help you can get."
"Now you're talking in riddles and I don't like that sort of talk at all. Take me to see the rest of the house and then let's get out of here. And that girl goes too. In fact, she can leave right this minute and I'll mail her a check.
"I think we'll all go down to the basement, Diane. You can cool off in there. You're a little over excited, which is understandable. But I'm afraid there are a few surprises for you," Gregson Torrance said as he moved closer to the unsuspecting heiress, while at the same time the mulatress approached her from the other side.
"Now that's enough of that!" Diane Wilson stamped her foot, her eyes blazing. "Why should I go to the basement? I wish I'd never come to Los Angeles-"
"Now that, Diane," Gregson Torrance chuckled evilly as he seized her left arm at the elbow," is probably the first honest thing you've said all day! Grab her, Myrna and let's get her downstairs!" m
"Let me go-what do you think you're doing--are you insane, both of you? Stop it-help-oh my God-what are you going to do with me-how dare you-you've no right-let me go of me, you're hurting my arms!" Diane Wilson cried. For the mulatress had seized her right arm now and the two of them were dragging her out of the living room and towards a narrow door at the very back of the lobby which she had just quitted. Pausing to open it. Gregson Torrance glanced at the fuming, frantic heiress and said to the beautiful mulatress, who of course was his own concubine, "I'm sure you'll want to take a little vengeance for the names she called you, Myrna darling! All right, let's get her down the stairs where Joe and Ben can get her ready for her new life!"
With a despairing shriek, Diane tried to hold back, but the two of them dragged her down the winding stairway into the basement. And there, from the light cast by a naked electric bulb stuck in the ceiling, Diane Wilson saw two powerful Negroes, wearing only jockstraps and sandals, grinning at her in anticipation.
CHAPTER NINE
Diane Wilson turned with a cry, for Gregson Torrance and Myrna Johnson had released her arms and stepped back.
"What does this mean?" she shrilled. "Why did you bring me down here? Who are these niggers?"
"I would advise you from now on, Diane dear," the banker said with an ingratiating smile, "not to make the mistake of using that term to Joe or Ben or Myrna here. They resent it. As for what you are doing here, you are her to learn a much needed lesson. You have had your way a good many years, and you have ridden roughshod over everyone. I might have been inclined to be a little less drastic with you, for I thought that perhaps you would have some saving grace. But having heard you talk to Myrna, and now listening to you insult these very capable and genial friends of mine, I have utterly no compunction in turning you over to their tender mercies."
"Oooohhhhh!! What do you mean by that? are you going to kidnap me or hold me for ransom? I see it all now-you want to get hold of my money-I ought to have known. You're a filthy crook, and you got me out here-" but before Diane Wilson could finish her angry tirade, Myrna had walked up to the indignant heiress and calmly slapped her twice across the right cheek, then twice more across the left.
"And that, Diane, is for calling me what you did and for slapping me, plus interest," the mulatress purred.
"Ohhhh! You-you dared to strike me! Oh, you bitch, you dirty little nigger bitch-you're in on this scheme too-you just wait, the police are going to know about all this," Diane stormed.
"If they hear of it, my dear," Gregson Torrance blandly corrected. "Joe and Ben, will you be kind enough to help the little lady undress? I would like to have her down to her underwear. After that, we'll see. And I think for the night, she ought to go to bed with a good sound spanking to think about and be locked in the smallest cell at the end of the basement."
"That's a good idea, Mr. Torrance," Joe, a wiry, light-colored Negro of about forty, chuckled. He winked at his crony, Ben, who was about thirty-two, rotund, with his head shaved clean as a billiard ball and who looked like a pugilist, which he had been for several years, retiring when he found that his slugging wasn't enough to keep him from being knocked out by most of his opponents because he was too slow-footed and cumbersome.
"I-likes that myself," Ben volunteered with a lascivious cackle which made Diane Wilson's blood run cold.
"Now you look here, Mr. Torrance," the light-brown-haired heiress cried angrily, again stamping her foot, "you dare to hurt me, and you'll get the death sentence in court. I know something about the laws out here in California. You've tricked me, and you're trying to get my money, and all these people are in with you and you've had it planned all the time."
"You really show more intelligence than I had assumed, my dear Diane," he said as he lit a cigar and took off his suit coat. "And that's quite true. Before I finish with you, you will be quite happy to sign a waiver, making a free gift of all that is coming to you from the trust fund six months from now-a gift to me and to my little sweetheart, Myrna here. Yes, she has been my girl for some little time and I take it amiss of you to have called her what you did and to have slapped her. Even if she hadn't wanted revenge, I'm afraid I should have taken some myself on her behalf."
"Ohhhhhh!" Again, all Diane Wilson could so was gasp, so horrified and stupefied was she by the sudden reversal of her situation.
"And now I think the time has come to proceed to direct action," Gregson Torrance continued. "Joe, Ben, see what you can do about persuading this stubborn girl to removed her clothes, down at least to her bra and panties. After that, we'll see."
"Dat's right, honeygal," Ben chuckled evilly as he moved forward. Suddenly taking from behind his back a short leather dogwhip with a plaited tip, he continued, "You sees dis, Diane gal? I'se gwine to use it on your ass effen you don't start doin' wut Mistah Torrance say. Start peeling right now, effen you know whut's good fer you."
Diane turned to regard the two Negroes, her large eyes frightenedly widened, her face a mask of absolute consternation and disbelief. Until this moment, she had not dreamed that such a thing was possible. But now, seeing the sturdy naked bodies of these Negro guards, and seeing a whip raised up against her, who considered herself so aloof and untouchable, she was very close to panic.
"Oh no-this is all a joke-for God's sake, Mr. Torrance, you can't let them do this-they haven't any right-my God, why are you trying to brutalize me like this?"
"Because, my dear girl, you have never taken an order in your life and because you have absolutely no sense of humility," the banker interposed as he puffed at his cigar and seated himself on a tall footstool near the stairway which had led down to this basement prison. . .and so it would be for Diane Wilson henceforth. "Because force is the only argument that a creature like you can understand or appreciate or obey. Now you'd better do exactly what you've been told, because Ben and Joe have strict orders to whip any nonsense out of you, and they're already mad at you for calling them niggers."
"Sho is, Mistah Torrance," the baldheaded Negro growled as he took a step closer to Diane and drew back his right arm to threaten her with the dogwhip. "I don't let nobuddy call me dat, even in fun. You hear dat, Diane gal? You gonna take off dat stuff you got on, or does I have to whup you inta doin' it?"
So saying, he stepped forward and sept the dog-whip around Diane's waist with a loud crack. She uttered a shriek of consternation, not really believing that he would attack her with the instrument of servitude, and rubbed her waist frantically because her thin clothes hardly dissembled the slender thong's bitting sting.
"You-you h-hit me!" she finally gasped, staring at Ben as if she couldn't believe the testimony of her senses.
"Dat's right, Diane gal. And I'm gwine to do it lots more, 'less you start doin' what you're told, you hear me?" he growled. Then stooping, he slashed at her calves with the dogwhip, wrapping the leather thong around her left calf, and Diane shrieked and jerked her leg away, then bent over and began to rub it frantically, tears springing to her dilated eyes and her cheeks flaming with the ignominy of this assault.
"She sure doesn't understand the King's English, honey," Myrna purred to her banker lover.
"She will. Just give her time," Gregson Torrance chuckled, as he puffed leisurely at his cigar.
"Git dat skirt off fast," Ben now commanded, angry authority in his voice, and once again the dogwhip lashed out, this time biting the consternated heiress right over her bubbies. She uttered a shriek of pain, rubbing her titties frantically, starting back until she bumped against the hard brick wall of the basement, and a frightened glance down the corridor showed her there were several iron-barred cells of varying sizes. The thought that she was to be incarcerated here, completely helpless, to be taunted and mocked at by these niggers drove her absolutely wild. Sobbing, she suddenly rushed at Ben and tired to wrest away the dogwhip. With a bellow of amused laughter, the stocky baldheaded Negro cuffed her across the mouth with his left palm, turned to one side and cut at her hips with the dogwhip as she stumbled by, wedding the thong to the lithe contours of her right haunch. Again she shrieked, because the leather thong had bitten viciously, and one of her hands reached to rub the wounded place as she turned again to the banker, to implore reprieve.
"My God-don't let him hit me with that awful whip, Gregson! For God's sake, let's talk this over-we can work it out-I'll keep you as my administrator-I'm sorry if I offended you and that girl, but for God's sake, you can't mean to keep me a prisoner and keep me down here at the mercy of those awful men!"
"I see that you are already learning some humility. Now you call them men instead of niggers. But you'll do better than that before we're finished with you, you insolent, offensive, overbearing bitch!" was Gregson Torrance's mocking answer.
And even as she stood there with her arms thrust out in supplication to him, Ben moved behind her and the dogwhip again crashed against her bottom, the thong biting just across the tops of the upper summits. Under the lash, Diane shrieked again and twisted frantically, stumbling away, her eyes mad with pain and shame.
"Aiiiii! Don't, you're hurting me! Oh, stop it, for God's sake, Greg, make him stop!"
"When you obey, he'll stop, but not before," was the banker's curt response.
"Take off that skirt like I told you to, bitch," Ben growled, and followed the sobbing, whimpering young woman as she backed against the wall, pretending to strike at her calves as she stooped, and he suddenly curled the thong around her titties again, and Diane Wilson screamed in pain as both hands clutched madly at her titties and she twisted herself this way and that, tears running down her cheeks.
"Awrrrr! Oh, not there! Oh my God, Greg, do you see what he's doing to me? Oh God, don't beat me-don't torture me-please, Greg, listen to me-
I-'m sorry-I didn't mean to insult any of them-won't you please have them stop? I-I'll pay you for your services-please be reasonable-you brought me out here all this way-oh please, you can't mean what you say!"
"But I do. You're going to be a slave to someone else for the first time in your life, Diane. You're going to be humiliated and whipped like a naughty child whenever you deserve it. Your only hope of easing your situation is to do absolutely and blindly, even, whatever you are told by any of the four of us. Is that clear?" The banker stared mockingly at her.
Her magnificent titties rose and fell with erratic turbulence as she choked back her sobs. But the impatient baldheaded Negro was not content. Once more the dogwhip cracked over her titties, and she uttered a wild cry of pain and, rubbing her bubbies, sank down on her knees and writhed this way and that as the atrocious pangs of the lash seared her virgin flesh.
"I'm gittin' sick of all this futzing around, honey gal," Ben growled as he advanced, the whip again upraised. "I'm gonna learn you to do whatcha're told right off, git me? Now you either take off that skirt or I'll take it off for ya, and ya won't like that one little bit, wil she, Joe?"
"Nosirree!" the taller Negro cackled.
Tears running down her cheeks, Diane Wilson tremblingly put her hands behind her to the fastening of her skirt, but not in time, alas, to prevent another persuasive, smacking cut of the plaited leather dogwhip which curled around the top of her chest just above her bosom. And once again her hands madly scrabbled at the rising welt left by that ignominious lash, as she frantically began to unhook the skirt, her tear-blinded eyes staring apprehensively at her executioner.
"My God, my God, don't let him do this to me-oh please, Mr. Torrance, please-I-I-I-if it's more money you want, we can talk it over-I've got more than I need-"
"Of that I'm quite certain, but you're going to need even less, as you'll soon find out, Diane," Gregson Torrance chuckled, puffing at his cigar and cynically blowing a wreath of pungent thick blue smoke right into the face of the pampered heiress. And at the same moment, Ben applied a whistling cut of the dogwhip across her dimpled shoulders, and Diane screamed again with pain, bending and twisting herself under the burning sting of the lash.
Seeing the exit beyond her and the stairway down which she had come, she suddenly made a desperate lunge towards it, but Myrna Johnson, with a mocking little laugh, thrust out her foot and tripped the frantic brown-haired beauty, who sprawled ignominiously on her face with a bruising thud and a cry of pain and terror. For now she knew that she was in the ands of those who would be pitiless towards her, and all her threats and pleas and tears would not move them from their fell purpose. Or at least, if she was not entirely convinced as yet, the terrifying awareness that she had thus far not succeeded in arguing them out of this incredible and dastardly scheme began to stun her insolent and hitherto unhampered ego.
"You're just going to hurt yourself, Diane honey," the mulatress drawled as she contemptuously stared down at the sobbing young woman. "You might just as well give in now, because Ben and Joe are her to make sure you learn your little lesson. Now get right up and take off that skirt, and then you can take off the suit coat. Give her a couple more cuts of that good whip, Ben honey. She doesn't seem to like it the least little bit."
"Ah kin see dat real good, Myrna honey," the stocky Negro grinned with a broad wink at the delectable mulatress. He moved towards the shuddering heiress, who had now got to all fours, one of her knees bruised and aching from the fall she had taken, thanks to the alert mistress of Gregson Torrance. Seeing him approach with the whip upraised, she uttered a shriek.
"Oh don't! For God's sake, don't whip me any more! Let me have time to know what you want of me-for God's sake, Mr. Torrance, call him off!"
"You will be whipped until you obey, that's the long and short of it, Diane. You don't know what obedience is, and therefore we don't trust you to make up your mind to it," the gray-haired banker mocked her. "Stand up now, and get that skirt off, or Ben will really let you feel what a whip is like. And after that, of course, you'll get extra punishment for disobeying. Now do what I told you to, at once! I'll count to ten, and if that skirt isn't off, Ben is going to take you over his lap, pull your skirt up and your panties down, and give you the whip twenty-times on your bare behind."
"Ohhhh! Oh dear God in heaven, can this be happening to me-oh, it's not possible-oh, it's horrible!" Diane Wilson wailed as she slowly staggered to her feet, her eyes haggard, her face pale and tearstained, looking around at those four faces on which there was not the slightest sign of mercy.
Gregson Torrance took a long puff at his cigar,-once again sent the wreath of smoke into her face, and counted out: "One. . .two. . .three. . .four-I mean business, Diane, and Ben is really going to spank your naked seat if you don't have the skirt off by ten ... five ... six-"
As she saw Ben take a step closer to her, grinning cruelly to show his yellowish, strong teeth, some of which were inlaid with gold foil, Diane shuddered and fumbled with the fastenings of the skirt until at last it fell to the floor.
"That's better," Gregson Torrance approved. "And now the suit coat, if you please. And you'll get just a count of five for that tone ... two ... three ... "
Once again Diane obeyed, and when that fell to the floor to join the skirt, she was revealed in her blouse, half-slip and the provocative and gauzy lingerie beneath. But for her this was a dreadful ordeal, almost worse than nakedness itself. For she had a kind of phobia about Negroes, and the thought that this mulatress girl and those two horrid men, one with a whip, were watching her degradation was almost anathema to her.
"That's better," the banker smiled. "Now the blouse, if you please. Ben, stand close by, just in case she gives us any trouble."
"Oh please, what are you going to do to me? Oh dear God in heaven, don't do this, Mr. Torrance, I'll do anything you want, I'll pay you well-only please call these horrid people off, I beg of you!" Diane moaned, clasping her hands and staring at the gray-haired roue with agonized, tear-filled eyes.
"Ben!" he said sharply. The Negro cackled, nodded, and struck Diane Wilson around the waist with the dogwhip, its plaited tip curling inwards toward her belly. With a shriek she jerked away from its terrible caress and began to tear wildly at the buttons, glancing back over her shoulder, panting and sobbing, until at last she flung the blouse to the floor to join the skirt and the suit coat.
"Oh for God's sake, don't let him hit me any more with that dreadful whip-I'll do what you want-but please, please explain why you're doing this to me, Mr. Torrance!" she implored.
"As I said once before, to teach you a good lesson in humiliation. You know, you really are a lovely girl. We're doing this to teach you the essentials, now. I want that half-slip off this minute!" Gregson Torrance ordered.
Diane Wilson shuddered, looking pathetically first at Myrna, who tossed her head with an impertinent little laugh, then at the two Negro men. As she saw Ben take a step towards her with the whip uplifted, she uttered a cry and groped frantically for the fastenings of the half-slip, until it too dropped to the floor. Gregson Torrance sucked in his breath, while the two Negroes feasted their glittering eyes of her lithe virginal loveliness, all the more delectable in this deshabille of bra and panty set and with the tight, narrow garter belt's tabs hugging her gauzy nylon hose.
Diane Wilson stood there shivering, her face scarlet with shame, her fingers twisting to and fro in her desperate anguish, conscious of the lewd appraisals of the two Negro guards and of the contemptuous young mulatress whom she had already mortally offended. She stared with tear-blurred eyes at the nonchalantly seated banker who sat relaxed on his stool, contemplating her coolly through the smoke of his cigar.
"Oh please," she moaned feverishly, "please stop! How-how much money do you want me to pay you to call this whole thing off and let me go back to New York?"
"Money couldn't buy it, Diane, I'm sorry," he said curtly as he raised his eyes to study her. Then, with another puff at his cigar, once more blowing the smoke across her face, making her cough and gasp and twist her face around in despair, he added, "And now the problem is purely an academic one. You've insulted Myrna here by calling her a nigger, calling her a bitch, and by slapping her. You've equally insulted Ben and Joe, and I think that each of them are entitled to one satisfaction from you. On the other hand, you've behaved quite audaciously and arrogantly towards me, and since I'm calling the turn in this little episode, perhaps my decision should take precedence. Now, don't be impatient, Ben Joe-each of you will have ample opportunity to be avenged for Diane's insults to you. Let's see now-how shall we begin her humiliation? I think a good spanking by Myrna in front of me would be excellent. Joe, bring another stool, a taller one, and a set of buckling straps."
"I sure will, Mistah Torrance," the taller Negro grinned and licked his lips with relish.
Diane Wilson stood there, not believing the testimony of her ears, and then a slow blush suffused her cheeks and forehead, even the lobes of her ears as she panted: "Oh dear God! Oh no-you couldn't be so cruel-oh, Mr. Torrance, don't let her do that to me-I'll die of shame-oh, it's horrible-please, for God's sake, have mercy on me-I'll pay you whatever you want-I swear I will! I won't tell anybody about this if you'll only let me get dressed and go back to New York-I swear I won't!"
"Sorry, Diane. Joe, get it, please," was the laconic answer.
CHAPTER TEN
A few moments later, Joe returned with a heavy wooden footstool with its top padded with black leather, and set it down facing Gregson Torrance, who was leisurely finishing his cigar. He squatted down and laid two sets of heavy brown leather straps with sturdy buckles at one end at the side of the tall stool, which reached about the level of the average human waist, and then straightened to wait for orders.
"Now then, boys, put Diane over the stool so that she faces me, and tie her wrists and ankles as tightly as you can," was Gregson Torrance's next order.
"Oh no-oh my God-please don't tie me-oh, I'll do anything-in the name of mercy, Mr. Torrance, don't shame me like this! How can you treat me this way, when you were a friend of my mother and father? Oh God, I must be dreaming, this must be a horrible nightmare! How can you do these things to me!" Diane moaned, wringing her hands in hopeless despair. What was taking place was simply inconceivable for her mind to grasp, but the reality of her situation was suddenly and terribly pressed in upon her as the two Negroes seized her by the wrists and forced her to the stool, as she shrieked in protest, trying to plant her feet and drag back, and then they inexorably forced her down, bending her over the apparatus of chastisement.
Myrna Johnson purred contentedly: "That's it, boys. Bend that haughty ofay ass over real good, so it'll be nice and tight when I spank it."
"Noooo! I don't want you to-oh, stop-God help me-won't somebody help me-Mr. Torrance, help me-I'll pay you-I told you I'd pay you-"
"Save your strength and voice, my dear. I told you, you're going to need them," he mockingly broke in. Now, while Joe kept the half-naked young woman bent down over the stool, Ben squatted on the other side, seized her wrists, crossed one over the other, and then expertly looped the heavy belt around them, then around the lowest rung between the front legs. It was easy for him to move back now and fix her ankles in the same way, and now the heiress found herself draped over the spanking stool with her pantie-sheathed behind exaggeratedly upturned, the tight white nylon panties seeming like a second skin as they outlined the hillocks of her voluptuous virgin ass.
"Oh, what are you going to do-oh please, please don't hurt me-oh, I can't stand pain-oh please, Mr. Torrance, have pity on me, have pity!" Diane sobbed heartrendingly as she tried to jerk at her wrists, only to find them tightly pinioned.
But he ignored the heiress's agonized entreaties and, glancing toward his mulatress mistress, drawled, "All right now, Myrna, do you want to go ahead and spank her?"
"Boy, do I ever! I can't wait to get my hand on that bare white ass of hers, darling!" Myrna Johnson purred sadistically as she moved behind the trembling, writhing, half-naked brown-haired heiress. "First of all, these pants come right smack off. I don't want anything between my hand and her ofay skin," Myrna declared.
So saying, she inserted her fingers in the waists band of the gauzy nylon panties and ripped them off without bothering to yank them down. Diane Wilson uttered a wild cry of shame and terror, struggling frantically in her bonds, while at the same time contracting the muscles of her naked ass in the useless attempt to diminish its all-too-vulnerable dimensions.
"My oh my, that's a real pretty sight!" the mulatress giggled, putting out her hand and lingeringly caressing the shuddering, spasming bottom-cheeks, while Diane, her eyes bulging from their sockets, uttered shriek upon shriek as she implored Gregson Torrance to halt this supreme degradation of her person.
"She sure does caterwaul a lot, Greg honey," Myrna Johnson remarked a moment later, her palm still fondling and smoothing and patting the shuddering white-skinned globes of Diane Wilson's voluptuous bare ass. "Of course, just a simple hand-spanking is much too easy for this pampered, insulting white bitch."
"I know it is, but for the very first time-and I'm sure it's the first time she's ever been spanked. Besides, as you know, I've worked out quite a program of activity for our charming guest during her stay here, and there will be plenty of chance to use something more painful on her bare behind a little later, Myrna dear," Gregson Torrance chuckled.
"That's true. I was forgetting that, Greg darling," the sensual mulatress huskily murmured. "Well now, Diane baby, here we are at least. Aren't you sorry you slapped my face a little while ago and called me a nigger bitch?"
"Oh please-for God's sake-I'll pay you-yes, I've got lots of money-oh please, Myrna, don't humiliate me so-I'll pay you well-you can work for me-I'll pay you more than he does-please get me off this-you'll see, I'll be grateful to you!"
"Oh, you're going to be grateful, all right, Miss Rich Bitch, never you fear," Myrna Johnson giggled. Now both her hands were squeezing, palpating, kneading the cheeks of Diane Wilson's bare ass, while the young woman wriggled and squirmed frantically over the spanking stool, tugging feverishly at the heavy strap which buckled tightly around her wrists and the rung of the stool. "But you know something? Right now I wouldn't take any amount of money for the pleasure of just whacking your naked ofay ass, I wouldn't. So you can just get yourself ready for a good, hot, hard fan tailing. 'Course, I would sure rather use a paddle or Ben's whip there, but like Greg says, there'll be time for everything, so why rush things. Now, I think I'll leave that garter belt on. It sort of frames your big white ass and gives me a nice target. Let's see how red we can make it, shall we?"
With this, she stepped back a little and to the victim's left, raised her right hand and administered a resounding smack across the rounded curve of Diane Wilson's bare right bottomglobe.
There was a frantic yell, of shame rather more than of pain, as the victim's hips jerked convulsively, and it seemed as though Diane Wilson was trying to jack herself off over the top and the edge of the spanking stool. Her head rose up frantically and her tear-blurred, dilated eyes fixed on Gregson Torrance's amused and cynical face only a few feet away, and once more he cynically discharge a puff of cigar smoke into her agonized nose and eyes, which made her cough and choke and burst into helpless, fitful tears.
"Boy, that white skin sure does mark good!" Ben declared with the air of an expert-which indeed he was. "Ah jist wish Ah could use dat ol' whip on her right now instead. Ah could paint pictures with it, I sho'nuff could."
"Oh please, oh dear God in heaven, MyrnaI'm begging you humbly-I'll pay you two hundred dollars a week to work for me, and I'll even sign a contract-yes, anything you want-only please let me go-this is so shameful, so humiliating-you're a woman too-take pity on me!" Diane Wilson was babbling.
"I sure am a woman like you, honey, only I'm a helluva sight better one. From what Greg told me, you don't even know what usin' your pussy and ass and titties to be a woman to your man is. Two hundred bucks a week and a contract? My, oh my! And all over a little spanking that isn't even started yet. Although I may say from just these two smacks I've just handed you, your ass is sure going to be red as a tomato when I get done, Little Miss Rich Bitch!"
Smarting under the mulatress's derision, groaning and sobbing, Diane again fixed her agonized eyes on the banker who had engineered this diabolical scheme for her downfall.
"Oh Greg, Greg!" She strove to gain his sympathy by using his first name in the intimate form she had heard Myrna adopt, "Please let me off-I'm sorry if I offended these people-I'll apologize-only don't have me treated like thisit's inhuman, horrible! Please, can't we talk it over?"
"We're going to talk over a great many things, Diane," he replied. "But they are going to be things that Myrna and Ben and Joe and I choose, not you. Your time of making decisions-except those which will most vitally concern your own wellbeing-is over now. Go on, Myrna. It's really a lovely sight."
"It is for me too, Greg honey," the mulatress laughed softly. Once more her hand passed slowly over the flinching bare ass-cheeks of the victim, whose hips twisted and wriggled frenziedly as the awful knowledge that she was not going to be spared the ultimate dregs of degradation was impinged upon her haughty ego.
Bent down sharply from the waist, her head and shoulders towards the floor, her bottom was angled upwards and out, with the most lascivious possible angle. And try as she would to clench her long, lovely thighs, she could not prevent Myrna seeing the patch of dark brown cunt curls framing the soft pink fig of her virgin twat, or the shadowy, intimate ambery groove that let to her virgin ass-hole.
Smack-Smack-Crack Thrice Myrna Johnson's hand sonorously flattened against the jutting naked behind of her victim, the first two attacking, the summits, and the third stinging the base of Diane's left bottomglobe. High-pitched cries of mingled indignation and pain were wrested from the victim, and once again Diane's hips lunged and squirmed, heedless of the lewd display of her most intimate person which she provided not only to Myrna but to the blacks. By now, their jockstraps were bulging savagely with the erections they had already achieved, and if Gregson Torrance had not been there to supervise, this, Diane Wilson's first humiliating spanking might well have been interrupted by a sound fucking or perhaps a browning.
The victim's elegant figure and relative tallness made the spanking stool a particularly provocative showcase for her denuded charms. The stress on her muscles emphasized the delightful grace of her rather svelte long thighs, as well as the agile muscularity of her sinuously high-set calves. Myrna had already noticed the exquisite little crescent-shaped brown birthmark at the top of the victim's left thigh, and meant to take advantage of it during the spanking. The pale white skin was exceptionally satiny and flawless, but where Myrna's palm had smitten, bright red splotches stood out on that white escutcheon in the most lascivious way.
And then, exactly as Myrna had described, framing those jouncily and upstandingly rounded assglobes, the narrow white tabs of the little garter-belt accentuated the libidinous jut of Diane Wilson's highly spankable bare behind.
Once again the mulatress paused to caress and squeeze and playfully slap and naked hindquarters of the sobbing, distraught young woman, and once again Diane Wilson frantically implored mercy from the very maid she had so arrogantly insulted and slapped, thinking her a mere menial who would be, like all those others in Diane Wilson's sheltered life, existing only to serve her beck and call: "Oh Myrna, three hundred a week, then! Yes, I promise you and Greg can write up the contract-not before those n-niggers-oh God, I didn't mean that-those m-m-men-oh please, no more-please stop-oh please, Myrna!"
"You hear that, man?" Joe said to Ben with a scowl. "Looks to me like that dirty little ofay bitch is jist bound to down-talk us black boys. We'll show her, though, won't we?"
"Sho 'nuff will, Joe boy, no two ways 'bout it," the tall Negro smacked his lips and nodded. "Tan her ass fer her good, Myrna baby. She's insultin' you too, you know?"
"But I didn't mean to say it-it just slipped out! Oh, have pity on me-Greg, for God's sake tell her to stop. I'll pay her and I'll pay you too-yes, these men-" the heiress feverishly sobbed.
But now the spanking resumed. Moving closer to the nearly-nude, squirming captive, Myrna Johnson pressed her left palm down on the small of Diane Wilson's back and at this short range began to slap the upturned, jutting bottomglobes with brisk, quick, stinging slaps that not only shamed but also pained the pampered heiress.
In all she gave Diane about a more dozen slaps, distributing them impartially all over the wriggling, gradually reddening bare behind, as Diane burst into tears and once more hysterically supplicated Gregson Torrance to intercede in her behalf.
Then again she paused, but once more to agonize the sobbing and whimpering heiress. Both hands now glided over those upturned, defenseless, vividly splotched bare ass-cheeks, and Diane closed her eyes and moaned and groaned in direst shame as she felt the mulatress' fingers pinch here and there, tweak and tickle and stroke virtually every inch of her helpless naked posterior.
Then once again, while she was still wriggling and sobbing and protesting, her executioner resumed. But this time with broad sweeps of her right arm, applying energetic spanks with a gusto that sent Diane's body lunging forward as she remained tethered and draped over the spanking stool. Her head lifted to announce each burning smack with a loud wail and a babbled supplication for pardon.
Myrna was spanking all over that helpless, naked seat at her disposal, but without touching the little brown birthmark. By now she had inflicted some forty spanks, and Diane's bare bottom was uniformly a bright red, the cheeks uncontrollably spasming open and contracting again.
"Whew! My poor little hand is hurting me now, wearing it out on that big bare ass of hers," she lamented as she turned to Gregson Torrance. He had just lit a cigarette and, is legs crossed, his hands gripping his right knee, he was watching this juvenile chastisement with burning gaze.
"That's a good start," he commended his mulatress mistress. "Maybe by now Diane will be more disposed to taking orders. Now then, my girl, if we untie you and let you up, will remove your bra and then kneel down in front of Ben and Joe and apologize to each of them for insulting them?"
Diane was fighting for breath through her sobs and she could not at once answer. Pretending that this was out of stubbornness, Myrna stepped forward to deliver a sharp little pinch to the little brown birthmark. Diane jerked back as she emitted a shrill cry of agony.
"When Greg speaks to you, bitch, you answer him good!" Myrna hissed, and then she applied two stinging slaps, both on the base of Diane Wilson's bare right bottomglobe.
"Oww! Boohoo! Oh yes, yes, I will, only have mercy and stop! Oh, it stings, it burns, I can't stand any more! Only for God's sake, no more!" the heiress wailed in capitulation.
Myrna stepped back reluctantly, blowing on her hand. Then she nodded to Ben and Joe, who promptly came forward and unbuckled the straps. It was Ben who, his hands against Diane's shivering, naked waist, lifted her to her feet from over the bent-down posture which had so ignominiously offered her most intimate charms to the avenging hand of Myrna Johnson.
"Git down on her knees now and do what he told you to!" he growled at the weeping heiress.
Almost heedless of her half-nudity and the fact that the curls of her cunt and the soft, twitching lips were prominently on display to all these alien eyes, Diane Wilson began to rub her blazing bottom, as the tears ran down her cheeks. But when Gregson Torrance scolded her for taking so much time and called out "Ben, see if you can't give her a hand," Diane Wilson uttered a wild shriek and babbled, "Oh no! I'll do anything you want. Yes, yes, I'll obey you!"
"That's much better-that's showing sense at last. Now then, Diane, get down on your knees before each of those two boys, kiss the feet of each of them, and apologize for having called them a nigger. If you don't do it quickly, so I can hear you, back you go over the stool and this time Myrna will use Ben's whip, which you have already felt!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Crushed with shame and despair, but cowed by the dread of further physical suffering inflicted by her four assailants, Diane Wilson crouched on her knees, clad in only her bra, garter belt and hose during her spanking by Myrna Johnson, her frantic twistings and attempts at kicking had scuffed off her dainty pumps. Her white bottom was a flaming red, and stood out obscenely against the smooth, deeply hollowed plane of her beautifully sculptured back. Now she found herself humbly kneeling before the very one who had inflicted this atrociously humiliating chastisement on her, the mulatress, and lest she forget her due, the cynical voice of Gregson Torrance rose now to acquaint her with it.
"All right now, Diane, apologize humbly to Myrna, thank her for spanking your big naked bottom and beg her forgiveness for the insults you gave her. And let me add that if your contrition does not seem convincing, we can always put you back over the stool for another dose!"
Cringing and distraught, tears coursing down her scarlet face, the woebegone heiress stammered in a choking voice, "Pl-please, Miss Myrna, I-I apologize for all I said and did to you and I'm sorry-and-and-th-thank you for giving me the spanking and-and oh my God, how could all this have happened to me?"
In the midst of her humbly, mortifying apology, she burst into tears of utter desolation. But once again Gregson Torrance, directing the seance, cut in angrily: "What's this? I'll give you something to whine about, my girl! Now thank her for that spanking, and use the words I told you to, or back over that stool you go, and this time we'll use that whip that Ben was using on you to help you to undress. Do you want that?"
"Oh God no! Oh, not the whip-I couldn't bear it-oh M-Miss Myrna, I th-thank you for sp-spanking my b-bottom-"
"That's not what I told you to say. I think you deserve to go back over the stool for a harder dose," he again insisted.
Diane Wilson was in a pitiable state of terror now. Glancing feverishly back over her left shoulder now, she crawled forward until her titties, half concealed by the white nylon bra and perceived gauzily through it, were almost brushing the smirking mulatress's lower thighs. Then, in a very access of anguish and fear, she panted out, "Oh no-I thank you for sp-spanking my b-big b-b-bare b-bottom! Oh, please forgive me, I didn't mean to insult you, Miss Myrna, truly I didn't!"
"Well, that's some what better," Gregson Torrance conceded in a somewhat mollified tone. "Are you willing to accept that apology, Myrna?"
"For the time being, I think so. But I want her to get down there and kiss my feet, both of them. Get down there and do it, slave girl. Yes, that's what you are now. I'm the mistress and you're the maid and it's going to be just a little bit different than it was before. Get that face of yours down there to my pumps and kiss them loud and hard, so I can hear-or else you'll hear something loud and hard on that big red ass of yours," the mulatress taunted.
Overwhelmed by her degradation, poor Diane Wilson had no recourse but to obey. As she bent down still further, she naturally jutted out her bare behind to the delighted gray-haired banker, as well as the soft pink cleft of her virgin cunthole, which peeped out in the most lascivious offertory as if inviting a good hard fucking. He could feel his prick stiffen in the fly of his shorts, but he restrained himself because he had worked out a most elaborate program for the humiliation of Diane Wilson. Through it, he knew he could crush and subjugate her and make her truly the lowliest of slaves, dominated by terror and by pain and shame, just as in the past she had always dominated others by her rudeness and selfishness.
Tremblingly, the brown-haired young heiress applied a loud kiss on the toe of each pump, then straightened. Myrna nodded. "That's some better, but you've still got lots to learn, you ofay bitch. Now jist you get over there to Joe and Ben, and you kiss their feet and tell them you're sorry for calling them niggers-do you hear me?"
"Yes-yes-"
"Call me mistress, you ofay slut," Myrna Johnson hissed, as she bent forward, twisted the fingers of her left hand in Diane Wilson's light-brown hair and then slapped the weeping young woman viciously across first one cheek and then the other with her open palm. "Say it!"
"Oww! Ohhhhh-M-Mistress-oh please, my hair-please, M-Mistresss," Diane wailed, squirming uneasily on her knees as the mulatress sadistically tightened the grip of her slim fingers.
"Just don't forget it again, or you'll get the whip on your bare ass," Myrna Johnson threatened. "Okay. Now get on with your apologies."
Sniffling, shuddering with anguish, the almost naked heiress crawled towards the two Negroes. She bowed her head down to their feet and began to kiss noisily so that all could hear, first at the feet of Joe, with some hesitation. But, observing this, Myrna made a sign, and Ben drew back the dogwhip that he had still retained and bought it down across the ripest curves of her already burning asscheeks. With a wild shriek, poor Diane straightened as if sprung out of a jack-in-the-box, clapping both hands to her burning behind, wailing in pain, her titties jiggling with the burning pain.
"Now start all over again and do it right, or else Ben will really do it. Put yur head down there, put your mouth on his toes and suck and kiss them-I want to hear it, too. If she doesn't, Ben, cut her ass a couple of times for her."
"Oh no-don't do that-I will-I'll do anything-don't beat me any more-I'm suffering so-I'll do it!" Diane gasped, and so she did, while Ben's prick thrust violently against the jockstrap which was his only covering.
And then it was Diane's turn to render the same homage to the squat, whip-wielding Negro, who amused himself and tortured her by wielding the plaited tip of the thong, letting it trickle over her naked shoulders and back while she humbled" herself, bowing her face down to the floor and putting her face to his toes and applying moist sucking kisses to them until Myrna at last tired of this little game.
"Now what's next on the program, Greg?" she asked.
"Well, I think that to make certain that our new little salve girl isn't hungry in the morning, she ought to have something to eat before she goes to bed. Joe, will you get that bowl of stale bread and sour milk at the back there, on the little table?"
"Sure, boss." The taller Negro strode down the darkened narrow corridor and returned with a blue china bowl which he set down on the floor. Diane gazed at it, her eyes blinded with her tears, her hands still furtively rubbing her vividly marked bottom. The cruel cut of the dogwhip which Ben had just applied stood out in a darkening welt above the background pattern of Myrna's palm-splotches, and her ass-cheeks shuddered and contracted spasmodically in the aftermath of the humiliating and painful chastisement.
"All right, Diane," Gregson Torrance said as he again lit a fresh cigar and rose from his chair. "Get down there on all fours in front of the bowl and lap it all up. When You've shown enough humility and obedience to warrant being treated like a human being, then you will be. But you're still on probation, and you're going to be dealt with as you've deserved. And in just that way you've treated others, perhaps not literally but certainly spiritually."
But I'm not hungry, truly I'm not, Mr. Torrance!" Diane groaned.
"Myrna, go bring me that leather paddle," Gregson Torrance ordered.
"Oh no! Not more beating! Have mercy-what in God's name do you want of me?"
"Obedience. Ah, here we are. Thank you, Myrna dear."
He brandished an oval-shaped leather paddle with short adhesive-taped grip to ease the heft in the wielder's hand.
"Now then, Diane, you're going to lap it all up. The minute you stop or I hear you not eating, you're going to feel this paddle, and you can guess where. Now begin!"
Again her shoulders heaved with anguished, muffled sobs as the beautiful young heiress lowered her head to the china bowl and took a tentative sip of the contents. Then she made a wry face.
"Ughh-it's turned-it's sour-oh, please don't make me-oohhhrrrr!" Oh, my poor bottom-oh please don't beat me any more!" For the banker had stooped and applied a well-aimed swat at the center of her ovalshaped behind, and poor Diane Wilson again rushed both hands back to her burning posterior, while, turning her tearstained, contorted face back towards him, she entreated mercy.
"Take your hands away and go back to your eating. I told you what was going to happen. Now eat it all up, or you really won't be able to sleep on your back tonight," he warned.
Whimpering, crushed, conscious only of her mortal terror of new tortures and new pain for her tender, pampered flesh, believing that she had already endured more than human flesh could possibly sustain, poor Diane, not yet realizing what still lay in store for her, once more lowered her anguished face to the bowl and forced herself to swallow the revolting concoction. The lumps of bread were stale and hard, the milk was sour. But when she once hesitated and the paddle swept with a sonorous thwackkk! across the crests of both ass-cheeks, she no longer tried to protest the unpalatability of this nocturnal repast. Gulping, whimpering, sobbing, glancing frantically back to make sure that he wasn't about to use the paddle on her again, Diane
Wilson disposed of the contents of that bowl, and then straightened, buried her face in her hands and gave vent to hysterical sobs and tears in the crisis of desolation at feeling herself so utterly humbled, disgraced and martyrized.
"I will say, Greg honey," Myrna Johnson purred as she moved over to stand beside her lover and put an arm around his waist, "that she's done amazingly well in so short a time. There might just be hope for the little bitch."
"Well, appearances are often deceiving. Now, right this minute, you can see your yourself how that sore red ass of hers is making her very eager to avoid any more punishment. But then, we haven't asked too much of her, relatively speaking. But tomorrow, when we have a few more demands to make upon her, then will come the real test of whether Diane Wilson is going to be a really good little slave girl or whether her naked ass is going to require some really serious attention. But now I think it's time for bed, because she's had a most strenuous day. Flying across the continent, after all, and then discovering the house she owns is really going to own her."
The mulatress laughed huskily and gave Gregson Torrance her lips, deftly thrusting her pert tongue into his mouth as his hands reached for her bubbies and fondled them ardently. He was breathing hard, and when she slipped a hand down to squeeze his prick, he murmured, "Now now, you sweet bitch. Let's put Diane to bed first. Then we can go by ourselves."
"I really don't think she needs a bra to go to bed with," Myrna reflected.
"You're right. This basement is well heated and there's a thermostat that will keep her from catching cold. All right, Diane, you've just heard your mistress say she'd like to have you take the bra off. Do so at once!"
Diane Wilson groaned and slowly reached behind her back, for she saw Ben lift his dogwhip and she saw Gregson Torrance lift his hand which still brandished the paddle. The bra dropped and she stood in only garter belt and stockings, dreadfully conscious of her nudity before those two Negro males, the mulatress, and the man who had been her administrator and her parents' trusted friend. She put her hand over her cunt, as if just realizing what she had been exposing to them all this time, and Myrna giggled.
"It's a little late for that, honey. We know you've got a cunny. Now you just put your hands behind your neck and clasp them there and spread your legs real good, so we can all look you over. Come look, boys!" she invited the Negroes.
Again Diane groaned, but Gregson Torrance took a step forward and snarled, "If you ever again show your distaste for an order, Diane, you'll get the whip. Do you understand me? Now do what you're told and do it without any faces or noises, or we'll really give you something to moan about."
Slowly Diane Wilson obeyed, spreading her legs, but Myrna found this not too satisfactory.
"Wider than that, you stupid ofay bitch! Ben, lend me your dogwhip just this once."
"It's a pleasure, Miss Myrna," the stout Negro stepped over and handed the plaited whip to the mulatress.
With a frantic cry, Diane Wilson straddled her legs to the maximum, panting there, her magnificent titties rising and falling turbulently in her shame and apprehension. She closed her eyes, her cheeks absolutely scarlet with the ignominious and mortifying fall from grace which had taken place in so short a time since she had landed at Los Angeles International Airport, and she had to stand there, shivering and trembling, while the two Negroes walked around her, making obscene comments on her figure, even telling her how much they would enjoy giving that hairy snatch of hers a good fucking. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into sobs and tears as this went on.
"All right, put her to bed for the night, Ben," Gregson Torrance finally decreed.
"Glad to, boss," the squat Negro grinned. He walked up to the trembling young woman, seized her by the wrist and led her, stumbling and trembling, to a cell at the far right and beyond this clearing, down the corridor. With his left hand he turned the knob of the door and opened it, then drew her inside. Meanwhile, Myrna went over to the wall and flicked on a light switch. At once the other part of the basement was lighted up vividly, and it was seen that Diane Wilson was in an extremely narrow lockup type of cell, similar to those at police stations. There was a narrow cot, a wash basin, a little stool and nothing else. Directly opposite her cell was a much larger one, and there were singular apparatuses inside, such as a sawhorse and a whipping post. Also, the floor was padded as a gymnasium might be. It was to be, as poor Diane learned the very next day, her "exercise room."
"Lie down on your belly on that cot, honey," Ben commanded, and the sobbing young woman quickly obeyed out of sheer terror. "Put cher wrists behind yer back. That's right. Now then, we'll jist keep you nice and comfy here for the night," he chuckled as he produced a pair of handcuffs and locked her wrists in them. "Dat's so you won't frig yer pussy none while we'se gone, heeheehee!"
Diane moaned as she pressed her scarlet face down against the rough blanket on the cot, wishing herself dead or at least able to turn invisible and able to disappear from the view of her tormentors.
"I think that'll do it," Gregson Torrance chuckled. "Of course, if the little lady needs anything during the night, she'll have to ask for it. Diane, pay attention. Can you hear me?"
"Y-y-yes," the unhappy, naked young captive gasped.
"You will call me master, and you will call Ben and Joe master also, just as you will call Myrna mistress," he Went on in his inflexible tone. "There is a little black buzzer in the wall there, just above your cot. Do you see it?"
Slowly the naked brown-haired heiress raised her head and perceived it, and then she nodded.
"What did you say?" he persisted. "Ben, we might just have to take her outside again and put her over the stool."
"Yes, yes, I see it, m-master!" Diane almost screamed in her apprehension. Myrna and Gregson exchanged a meaningful look, and their fingers entwined. Her other hand went again to his prick and rubbed it through his fly, and he began to breathe heavily. Seeing that delicious white-skinned heiress handcuffed and in a cell, in his power, had given him a ferocious hard-on, but the time was not yet time to take her cherry-or rather, to take all three of them!
"Very good," he said in a thickening voice. "If you want anything during the night, you'll have to press that buzzer. Of course, you'll have to do it with your nose, or maybe with your foot. And if you require anything, you will be obliged to pay for it. And I'm sure Ben and Joe will be glad to explain that to you. And now I wish you a pleasant goodnight. If you dream at all, try to tell yourself in your dreams that you are going to be a very obedient and humble salve girl, beginning with breakfast. We will see you in the morning."
Beckoning to the two Negroes, he led the way upstairs, back into the house. The light switch was turned off and Diane Wilson found herself plunged into the inky darkness of the subterranean basement, naked, a prisoner, her bottom still smarting from the atrocious and humiliating spanking she had had at the hands of the mulatress, consternated to discover that she was being treated like a lowly animal and that there was no escape. . .
A little later, Gregson Torrance stood naked in the luxurious bedroom of the first floor of the house, while Myrna, kneeling before him, herself naked also, ran her hands up and down the backs of his thighs and gave his prickhead stinging little kisses.
"Thank you so very much, darling, for letting me spank ass," she murmured, looking up at him with a provocative glint in her eyes. "I'd just give anything if she were my real slave all the time."
"We'll see. I have someone else coming out from Chicago who'd like to have a little fun with that Diane. You may have some fun with her yourself, my dear. But there's no hurry. Miss Wilson is going to be with us for quite some time."
"Are you going to get her to turn over all her money to you, Greg lover?"
"Don't be so greedy and impatient, Myrna. Of course, but in due time. After all, if we go before a judge and it is discovered that she did so under duress, it wouldn't stand up. She's going to have to learn to do it of her own accord, and that's going to take a little time and little training. And also a good deal of spanking, unless I miss my guess. But that's enough about Diane right now, you sweet little chocolate-skinned bitch. Get to work on my prick, because I'm bursting!"
"I know you are. I could tell how much you wanted to screw that little ofay bitch. Did I spank her nice for you? Did I make her wriggle her big white ass, and did you see lots of her pussy? I was thinking that you'd have given just about anything to have stuck your big dong into that little meathole of hers," the mulatress purred, and then her cheeks bulged and her lips sucked as she accepted his ramrod and voraciously began to suck alone the head and the gnarled, dark-veined shaft itself.
Gregson Torrance uttered a cry and dug his fingers into her hair, his face turned up to the ceiling and contorted in the rictus of lust. And suddenly he felt himself burst, and as the dazzling phantasmagoria of imagery swirled in his brain, he could see Diane Wilson doing this same act, the supreme laudatory homage to the master. And he wondered how much whipping it would take to force the pampered aristocrat to come to this nadir of degradation so that she would suck a man's prick and swallow all his spunk.
When he at last recovered, he panted to Myrna, "Now let's go to bed, and you can work me up again so I can get into that tight sweet snatch of yours, you lovely bitch."
"Who's coming to have fun with Diane, Greg dear?" Myrna wanted to know as she languorously stretched herself on the bed, turning on her side towards him while he lay with his arms pillowing his head, his cock limp. She bent over him and began to lick at his greasy ramrod, her slim fingers stroking along his inner thighs, his balls and scrotum, until gradually his prick began to thicken and throb with the revitalization of passion.
"A very pretty girl. Her name is Betty McDonald. You two ought to get along famously. She hates Diane's guts just as much as you do, but for a different reason. Now shut up and get me hard so I can fuck you.-'
"Yes, master," she giggled, and soon, having with tongue and lips sucked and licked him to potency once more, the beautiful young mulatress clambered over him, took hold of his shaft and guided it into her cleft, and then sank down until it was up to the balls inside of her. Lying over him, as his arms and legs clasped her, she began to. French kiss him frantically, working him as well as herself into that mystic euphoria which at last burst in shattering and annihilating waves into her chasm.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When she had heard the footsteps recede and seen the lights go out and found herself in Stygian darkness, Diane Wilson flung herself back down on the cot on her belly and wept unashamedly. The blanket was rough and scratchy, and the throbbing pain of the spanking made her squirm uneasily, so that she was conscious of the rasp of the coarse cloth against her beautifully rounded, closely spaced white titties and the furry crotch of her virgin cunthole. But more than this, she was agonizedly aware of the chill metal clasp of the handcuffs against her slim wrists, for this symbolized more than anything else the atrocious downfall from her vaunted pedestal of patrician superiority.
However, she soon began to feel an irritating pressure in her bladder, and with horror found that she had to urinate. She had taken only a cursory glance at her cell and seen that there was only a washbasin in it. Gingerly she rolled onto her side and carefully sat up, not without a feverish "Ough!" that would have made Gregson Torrance smile with cynical amusement if he had been there to see and hear her.
Now the need grew greater, and with dismay she realized that the lapping up of that sour milk and the stale bread crumbs had probably been instrumental in stimulating the nominal urge to this. Frantically she bit her lips and clenched her thighs together, but it only seemed to make it worse. Now fierce, throbbing and burning waves of discomfort irritated her cunthole, and her began to rise and fall violently as she whimpered. What could she do? The only thing she could think of was the washbasin, and at last with a groan of shame, she got to her feet and very carefully took tiny shuffling steps in the darkness until she bumped her tender bottom against the cold porcelain bowl. Again she uttered a gasp, and then, arching on her tiptoes, very carefully squenched her behind over the edge of the washbasin, fumbling with her hampered hands to try to get some sort of fulcrum or hold. The anxiety feeling of falling was a dread suspense and terror for the naked young heiress, but at last she felt herself seated in the basin and then, bursting into tears, eased her bladder. The warm touch of her own piss drenched her thighs and made her miserably conscious of how far she had fallen from the heights of aristocracy and arrogance.
When it was over, she eased herself down with a groan of pain, because it sent muscular tensions through her tender behind. Then she hobbled back to her cot, nudging for it with a foot, and finally laid herself-down on her side, closed her eyes and tried to sleep. At last fatigue claimed her, and she was plunged into dreamless slumber.....
"Time to rise and shine, IT white gal," she heard a jeering voice jar through the foggy and drowsy darkness that still engulfed her. Slowly she sat up, blinking her eyes. The lights were on again, and there were no windows down here to show the passing of time. And she saw that Ben, the Negro who had whipped her, was standing outside her cell, clad only in a jockstrap and sandals, hands on hips and grinning at her.
"Ohhhhh! Is it-is it morning?"
"Dat right, honeygal. Time foah you b'eskfast. Ah'm gonna let you out right now, so's you kin eat it real fast. After dat, Miz' Myrna is gonna come down and give you whut you might call a I'll exercise in what you might call the rumpus room." He jerked his thumb backward over his shoulder, toward the cell containing the various apparatuses which she had only quickly glimpsed in her agonizing s'ance of degradation the night before.
With this, he unlocked the cell and gestured for her to come out. Her face flooded with crimson now as she meekly moved towards the open door. She was aware that his eyes were feasting on her titties and cunt, and she dug her nails into her palms and wished that she could at least cover the most intimate part of her body with her hands.
There on the floor of the basement was a bowl containing cornflakes and cream, with a little sugar. There was also another bowl, a smaller one, with black, strong coffee, and the odor was good. She sank down on her knees and began to eat the cereal while the Negro watched. In his right hand he held a "spanker," which was nothing more nor less than an old warn black leather sole from a heavy slipper or sandal. However, he did not have to use it, for Diane found herself actually hungry. The coffee revived her, and she drank it eagerly.
When she finished, he chuckled, "Not too bad Mistah Torrance, he gwine to be real pleased you did so good de fust time, but you got a long way to go yet, ofay gal. Now jist to show me you ain't trickin' none, s'pose you crawl over heah, git youh head down and kiss ma feet good, so's Ah kin heah it."
He purposely used the Negroid drawl and slur, to emphasize to Diane Wilson his black origin. Truth to tell, both Joe and Ben had excellent educations and were members of a Hollywood dramatic society. They were semi-professional actors, and since they had been at liberty for a month, Gregson Torrance had located them through his own methods and explained what he had in mind. The prospect of taming a haughty white young shrew-for such Diane Wilson assuredly was-as well as of a substantial cash bonus, as well as the assurance that there would be no possible legal consequences for either of them, with the implied hint that they might even be permitted to enjoy her sexual favors, had made both Negroes leap at the opportunity the New York banker had offered them.
Shuddering with rancor, because in broad daylight-or at least morning that was such-this humiliation seemed even more grotesque than it had last night when fatigue and pain had overwhelmed her, Diane Wilson had reluctantly bowed her head and applied her trembling lips to the bare toes of her Negro guard.
"Louder 'n dat, ofay bitch," he growled, to her startled anxiety, and when she hurriedly kissed his foot again, he bent over her and applied a stinging Whackkk! to her naked ass.
"Aiieeeowouuuu!! ! Oh, don't! It hurts so! Oh please don't beat me, please don't!" she at once wailed, half-raising her body and trying to reach the brightly splotched area with her handcuffed hands, wishing to rub it out as she wriggled and squirmed on her knees.
"Now you jist git down dar and kiss mah feet agin, plenty loud, or you'll git plenty spankin' on dat big ofay ass of yourn," he warned.
Once more Diane Wilson's cheeks were flooded with tears as she forced herself to comply with the ignominious edict. But once again, under the pretext that he did not hear the kiss loud enough, Ben leaned forward once again and planted another vigorous Crack! with the leather spanker on the other cheek, leaving two vivid outlines of the implement imprinted on her already tender, naked, quaking flesh. Once again she shrieked with pain, reaching fruitlessly with her manacled hands to rub the afflicted area, but she could not reach it. Once more she bowed her head down and three times more kissed that same foot before at last he let her kneel up.
He observed with amusement how her hands were straining to try to yank her wrists down and get her hands on the flaming splotches left by the spanker. "Cut dat out," he at last said. "Heah comes Miz' Myrna. You better hop real smart and quick when she calls de tune, or youah gonna git moah dan dis yeah spanker on yer big white ass, gal! Moh-nin',Miz' Myrna!"
"Good morning, Ben dear. Well, I see the little bitch has had her breakfast and you've put her through a little course in humility. Has she called you master yet?"
"Hey deah now, she sho didn't! Git down back over my feet, gal, and kiss dem all ovah again and say 'Good morning', Massah' " the Negro growled, brandishing the spanker and waving it in so menacing away that Diane hastily groveled at his feet again, sobbing, but hastily doing as she was told.
"Now you can kiss mine and call me mistress, bitch," Myrna observed when this was completed. And when Diane turned to contemplate the mulatress, she gasped aloud. For Myrna was stark naked except for should-length red leather gloves and matching thigh-high boots in red leather, high-heeled, her furry cunthole and her magnificent jutting titties unveiled completely.
"Only seein' as how I'm a gal, bitch," Myrna went on with an amused smile, "I don't want you to kiss my boots yet. Crawl up here and put your mouth on my cunt, kiss it nice and sweet and say 'Good morning, Mistress!'"
"Oh no-I won't do that-that's filthy-that's indecent-you have no right to try to make me do such a thing!" Once again Diane Wilson's rancor overcame her and led her into the folly of defiance.
Myrna's eyes glinted with glee and narrowed with cruelty as they surveyed the naked, handcuffed, kneeling, sobbing heiress. "So!" she exclaimed. "She's not as well trained as you might believe, Ben boy," Myrna pronounced at last. "It's a good thing I'm going to spend the morning with this little bitch. She's going to learn to do a lot of things she never dreamed she'd know at her age. All right, Ben, open the cell door and let's get out little pupil started on her lessons. Go and tell Mr. Torrance that we're ready to start. If he's still sleeping, let him be. We had quite a night for ourselves." With this, she grinned bawdily at Ben, who grinned in response.
Diane Wilson, sickened with revolt and nausea at the implication which she understood only too well, and even more revolted at the notion of what Myrna planned to have her to do, she watched while Ben opened the farther cell door and tossed Myrna the spanker. The beautiful mulatress bent down and brandished it in Diane's face.
"Now you cut out that whining, you bitch, or
I'll really give you something to whine about. Now you crawl on in there on your knees, and then you're going to do what I tell you to. Do you hear me?" Myrna hissed menacingly.
"Oh God, I can't do that-it's-it's indecent ... it's dirty-"
"Are you telling me that my cunt's dirty and you refuse to suck it, you snooty little ofay bitch? I'll learn you, you watch!" the mulatress snarled, and then, instead of spanking Diane, who had already quailed and inched herself forward as if to protect her all-too-tender and vulnerable ass, Myrna moved swiftly and felinely in front of the unhappy heiress. Then, gripping her by the shoulder with her left hand, Myrna with a cruel grin drew back the spanker and landed a solid blow on Diane's left tittie, just at the outside of the curve.
"Ahrrrrahwrrrrr-oh God, not there any more-you'll kill me-don't hit me any more there-it hurts too much!" Diane shrieked.
"So we've found a sensitive place at last, more of her ass, huh? Get on in there, you bitch," Myrna growled, and this time, moving around, she applied two stinging smacks on each of Diane Wilson's shuddering naked assglobes.
Wailing and sobbing, twisting and jerking on her knees, the harassed and naked heiress crawled slowly forward into the floor-padded larger cell, and Myrna clanged the door shut after them both.
Then, planting herself with legs astraddle before the whimpering, weeping young woman, Myrna Johnson commanded, "Now you stop that, do you hear me? You crawl over her and put your mouth on my cunt and you kiss and suck it good, and then you say 'Good morning, Mistress' just like I told you to say. You hear me?"
"Oh God-I can't-oh please, don't make me do that-haven't I done everything else-why are you so cruel to me-why are you so inhuman?" Diane wailed.
"Because you've got a dirty, nasty ofay mind, that's why. Because kissing a girl's cunt is a sweet, nice thing, if you had the sense to know it, you bitch. You never had any friends in your life, not even men, from what I hear tell. Well, you're going to learn to do everything. You're going to be just like a little baby, and babies get spanked when they're naughty. Do you want something like this? Do you want your titties whacked some more-like this?"
Suddenly lunging out, Myrna Johnson whacked Diane Wilson right over her left nipple with the supple leather sole. The naked heiress tilted back her head, with a frantic, wordless shriek, shrill and agonized. Her body wrenched and twisted, and on the fine necreous skin of her tittie, the angry bright pink splotch of the spanker sole appeared, while the nipple seemed darker and more swollen than ever.
"Do you want some more?" Myrna demanded, waving the sole in front of the girl's screwed-up, tear-bathed face. Diane definitely did not.
Whimpering, shivering, the beautiful heiress moved forward on her knees. Then, with a guttural snarl of delight and sensuality, the naked mulatress plunged her gloved left fingers into the light-brown curls of the unfortunate captive and, yanking at them, hissed, "Go-on, do it! Otherwise, I'll whack your tits off, you bitch!"
With a moan, Diane Wilson closed her eyes and shudderingly forced her mouth against the pungent, moist, warm cleft. The thick silky cuntcurls of the mulatress tickled and brushed her nostrils and chin, and she groaned. But suddenly the sole fell twice, each time on the base of the left buttocks, and she shrieked aloud, and then weaving her hips this way and that, she pressed her mouth firmly against Myrna Johnson's cunt.
"That's better. That's it. Now do it loud and suck, so I can hear it good. Now let me hear it, or I'll whack your ass and tits off, both," was the gloating command.
Diane Wilson obeyed, tears running down her cheeks, quaking on her knees, her own titties panting with frantic and feverish emotion. At last the suctional sounds which her lips made in that osculatory gesture satisfied the mulatress, and she moved away.
"Now then, tell me good morning and use the proper word," she demanded, and Diane hastened in a faltering, choked tone to say, "Good morning, M-Mistress!"
The regimen of degradation and humiliation had truly begun for beautiful Diane Wilson, but she was still far from realizing to what a morass of lustful usage her beautiful virginal body would be subjected, and how her mind and spirit would be channeled to the will of her tormentors and this indomitable and vindictive mulatress who was the concubine of her own administrator!
Now Diane was obliged to move to the sawhorse, and was told to straddle over it. She found she could do this by standing on the tips of her toes, otherwise the sharp ridge would bite into her tender cunt. Once more her wrists strained against the shackles, her long, slim fingers frantically twisting and digging to break loose, to try to hold onto the ridge and so loft herself in the event her leg muscles could not sustain the stress imposed on them.
Myrna moved around her, her beautiful bubbles jiggling, displaying herself and making certain that Diane saw her cunt and titties constantly. Brandishing the spanker, she playfully tapped Diane on the bubbies and warned the girl, "Now don't you dare leg go, or you'll sure rub your pussy raw, white gal! This is good for helping your muscles out and making you bend your legs pretty good. You're going to do a lot of squatting and crawling before we're through with you, so get your leg muscles in shape now.. Now lower yourself until the top of that sawhorse just touches your pussy-that's good-push yourself up with your toes-good! You just keep doing that until I say stop."
"Oh, but it hurts! I'm so tired-it hurts me-oh please, won't you have mercy, mistress," Diane moaned.
For answer, Myrna seized from a panoply on the wall a three-thonged martinet, the lashes of which were three and a half feet long, tapering to fiendishly tipped ends that would give a ferocious sting to sensitive girl-flesh. Whistling the lashes in the air, she approached the sawhorse, and Diane uttered a cry.
"Oh, don't use that on me, mistress-please don't!"
"You'd better not have me use this whip, or I could take your nipples off, you big white slut. And" I could take the skin off your white ass, if I want to. Now keep doing those pushups, if you wanna save your cunt," Myrna said contemptuously.
Crying like a child, Diane Wilson raised herself back and forth, until the muscles in her feet and calves and thighs rebelled, and then she sank down, with a cry, her head tilting back, her eyes bulging as she felt the atrociously sharp ridge of the sawhorse pressing against her virgin quim.
"Oh please, take me off it, mistress-oh my God, it hurts-it's cutting me between the legs-oh my God, I don't want you to whip me any more-oh, have mercy!" she shrieked. I've done what you wanted-have mercy!"
"Do you promise to do everything I order you to do, if I take you off?"
"Okay. Just walk yourself off it, that's all you have to do, you stupid ofay," Myrna laughed.
Diane made a last effort, and limping, shivering, she managed to move away from the vicious sawhorse, and then collapsed upon the padded floor where she sprawled, her wrists still locked behind her, crying wholeheartedly.
At last, through the blur of tears, she saw the toes of the red leather boots standing beside her. "Kiss my boots, slave!" she heard Myrna command, and Diane obeyed again, dominated and crushed by pain and terror.
"Now then, slave, since I'm the mistress and you're the maid, I'm going to use you for my pleasure. Do you understand?" the mulatress at last demanded.
Diane groaned and shook her head, staring haggardly at her tormentress. Myrna made the thongs of the martinet whistle in the air as she moved towards a low, wide bench and then sprawled herself upon it, her knees drawn well up and straddled widely, exposing the entirety of her enticing cunt.
"Come over here, git on that bench, put your head down and lick and suck and kiss my cunt until I cream. Do you understand, white gal?"
"Oh, I can't-don't make me do that-oh please, I can't-I can't!"
"You can't? Maybe you'd rather I called Ben and Joe in here and have them tie you up to that whipping post over there. And then they could take two whips just like this to your ass and your tits. And then I'd make them stick pins in your sore ass and tits-yes, I would, Diane, until you got down on your knees and sucked their pricks. Would you rather I'd do that, Diane? All I have to do is ring this bell here in the wall, and it'll bring them running. Do you want me to?"
"NOOOOO!! STOP!" Diane shrieked, beside herself with frenzied terror and shame.
"All right. Then do what I told you to. And if you don't make me cream, you get twenty swats with this whip on your bare ass, now remember that," Myrna warned.
She watched Diane Wilson crawl towards her, tears running down her cheeks, trembling, her beautiful bubbies jiggling and shaking as she came. And on those white, round, closely spaced love-globes, there flamed the splotched of the spanker.
Arrived at the bench, poor Diane clambered upon it and moved towards the hugely inviting gape which Myrna Johnson had made of her cunthole.
"That's it! Now git your face down on my cunt and lick. I want you to gam me real hard," she commanded.
Casually she flicked out her right arm, and the tips of the martinet stung Diane's bare back. With a cry, the young woman forced her mouth against the odorous cunthole, and began to kiss and suck lick, as the thongs playfully flicked her and there over her shuddering white body.
"That's nice. Not too fast, now. Now stick your tongue in. Do you feel that little button? Give it to me there-rub it back and forth-now you're getting the idea, baby-Mmmmmm, that's nice-you'd better stay like that or I'll whip the shit out of you-now, now, you little gamahucher, suck my tittie cream-you're beating black pussy, lap it up-now!" Myrna suddenly cried hoarsely as her body suddenly quaked and threshed about. She crushed her fleshy love lips against Diane's revolted mouth, but the frightened heiress did not dare withdraw her face, and thus the incredible reversal of fate made this haughty Negro-hating patrician heiress gamahuch the mulatress mistress of the man who had brought her to this pass!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An hour after Diane Wilson had been returned to her cell following the exercise" in the "rumpus room" opposite her own narrow cell, she began to feel an excruciating need. And this time, with shame and horror, she realized that she couldn't very well use the washbasin. Her digestive system demanded outlet and she needed a toilet badly.
Sweat began to break out on her forehead and in her armpits as she twisted her handcuffed wrists frantically and squirmed on the edge of the hard, narrow cot. She tried to clamp her thighs tightly shut, but gradually the cumulative pressure inside her bowels grew and she groaned aloud in her despair and humiliation. And then, frantically, twisting her face towards the wall, she found the little black buzzer which would summon aid. Tears of resentment and frustration glistened in her dilated eyes as she pressed her nose against it with all her strength.
A few moments later there was the sound of footsteps, and Joe appeared, clad as before in only a jockstrap and sandals, wiry and sensual.
"What can I do for you, Diane baby?" he jocularly demanded.
"Oh please, I-I have to go to the toilet so badly-there isn't one around here-please!" she whimpered.
"Sure, honey. Only, like Mr. Torrance told you, you gotta pay for every little favor we boys do for you. 'Specially after you called us dirty niggers, you know."
"Oh, but I apologized yesterday, you know I did, J-Joe! oh, for God's sake, this is terrible!" Diane squirmed frantically, her heart pounding wildly as the agonizing pressures intensified.
"I know you did. But still, you gotta beg me real nice.
Go down on your knees and ask me real humble-like to take you so you can have a shit for yourself. Go on, say it just like that. And then tell me you're gonna do whatever I ask when you're done. You see, you still wear those cuffs, and somebody's gotta wipe your ass when you get finished, and I don't do that for no broad, baby, not for nuttin'! "
Pondering her despairing shame, because the urgent physical need over powered everything else, the brown-haired heiress at last gasped, "Oh, all right, but for God's sake hurry!" Then she sank down on her knees and faltered in a faint voice, "Please, Joe, please take me to the toilet so I can sh-shit ... I'll-I'll be awfully grateful and I'll do what you want-only please hurry please!"
"That's good enough for me. Okay, honey, here we go." The Negro unlocked the cell door and Diane hastily walked out. He took her by the elbow and led her down the other end of the corridor, where there was a black metal door. This he opened and shoved her inside.
Diane saw a toilet, a long, low bench, a leather padded footstool, and then, through a sliding glass door, a shower stall and tub combination. With a gasp, she hurried over to the toilet and sat down, then gasped, "Oh please-won't you get out for a minute?"
"Sorry, can't do that. It would mean my job. You just go ahead-I'll take care of you, don't you worry."
Groaning in shame, she closed her eyes and clenched her thighs frantically together, to show him as little of pussy as she could. Then came the easing relief, and she winced and groaned as she heard the telltale sounds of her ejection. But the blessed relief almost compensated for the moment for her humiliation. Yet as soon as it was done, she began to tremble at the thought of what "payment" he might exact.
He now strode forward, bent to the roll of toilet paper beside her and tugged off a wad. "Now raise up that cute ass so I can wipe you good," he ordered.
Diane Wilson thought she had fallen to the very lowest abyss of human degradation that could exist for her anywhere, as she half-rose from the toilet seat and felt the Negro's left hand palm her belly while the right hand began to wipe her deftly and efficiently. Then he flushed it down, took another wad and completed that hygienic task.
"Now, I bet that feels better, baby, don't it?" he grinned. "Now you gotta pay me. Git down on your knees."
When Diane Wilson obeyed, he slipped down his jockstrap and revealed his massive prick. "Go on and suck and lick it now," he instructed. "That's the payment I want now."
"No! Oh for God's sake, Joe, I couldn't ever do a thing like that-for God's sake, Joe, be merciful-I'll pay you well-I've got lots of money-"
"I don't want your money, bitch. You said you'd say me-well, that's the payment I want. Now if you won't do it, you're gonna git yer ass whupped good and hard. Well?"
Tears flowed down her flushed cheeks as she shook her head. The nauseating thought of putting her mouth to a Negro's prick was absolutely anathema to the pampered heiress.
"Okay by me. I'd just as soon whup ass anyway," he chuckled. Then, putting down the cover of the toilet seat, he seated himself on it, reached for her and lifted her up, then hauled her over his lap.
"Oh, don't! Please don't whip me! Oh, for God's sake-please-I'm a decent girl-I've never had a man-I can't do a thing like that to you-"
"You're going to learn to do a great deal more than that before you leave here, bitch. Now shut up and take your whuppin' you got comin'! " he jeered.
Clamping his right leg over her stockinged calves and tucking his left arm around her waist, Joe began to spank Diane Wilson's upturned, naked behind. Although the marks of her previous spanking and the additional strokes of the dogwhip had largely faded, it needed only about five or ten hard smacks from his palm to revive the brilliant hue which turned her white skin to bright crimson. She wailed and tried to kick and struggle, but he held her in a vise-like grip and his hand continued to rise and fall while her hips began to weave and lunge and she screamed for mercy. The pain was indeed intolerable, and her words, intermingled with her screams, were unintelligible by the time he had administered almost forty solid spanks.
"All right," he growled. "Now you just get right down on your knees and thank me for spanking you. I could have used a whip, and Mr. Torrance wouldn't have minded none, seeing how bitchy you are and don't keep your word after you say you will. Go on, lemme hear you thank me good!"
Dying of shame and pain, she stumbled down to her knees and, bowing her head, hysterically faltered, "Oh God, th-thank you, J-Joe, for sp-spanking me. Oh please, please don't hurt me any more!"
He laughed brutally. Putting his left hand on her head and twining his fingers in her hair, he raised her to her feet while she shrieked in pain, and applied a stinging slap to one of her titties, making it rebound.
"Back to your cell, baby," he growled. "This afternoon, you're gonna have visitors!"
And once more back in her cell, lying on her side, Diane Wilson wept hysterically as she was left in the darkness to ponder over her martyrdom and humiliation and to dread with growing anxiety what would happen to her next. . .
It was not, actually, until about five o'clock that afternoon that the lights went on and the sound of footsteps was heard. She had had no lunch, nor water, and she was both hungry and thirsty. She sprang up from her cot, her eyes huge with apprehension. Then she saw Gregson Torrance, Myrna, Ben and Joe, and a newcomer.
Accompanying the familiar group was a lovely blonde, long-legged, a saucy and provocative face, wearing a black minidress and smoke-colored pantyhose and high heeled pumps. At Gregson Torrance's sign, Ben unlocked the cell door and gestured for Diane to come out. Blushing scarlet, head bowed, the naked heiress walked hesitantly out into the larger basement room.
"Do you recognize your visitor, Diane?" the banker asked with a cynical smile.
Slowly Diane Wilson raised her eyes, then uttered a gasp of horror. It was Betty McDonald, the girl who had brought her the airline tickets and reservations for her Los Angles trip, the trip into fatal downfall.
"Hi there, Princess!" Betty McDonald greeted her derisively. "I like you better this way, you know." Then, turning to the banker, she asked, "You mean I can really help train her, Greg dear?"
"Of course you can. You and Myrna are going to get to do it. Well, Myrna, you're not too jealous of my little fling with Betty, are you?"
"Of course not. She's a darling. In fact, I'd like to go to bed with her myself," the lovely mulatress slyly declared.
Betty McDonald giggled. "I think that can be arranged. Perhaps we can both go to bed together at the same time with Greg. That'd keep him busy!"
All this time Diane Wilson stood before them, head deeply bowed, wrists manacled behind her back, her face crimson with shame.
But now Betty McDonald's voice grew crisp and authoritative.
"Get down on your knees when you're in my presence, bitch!" she snapped.
"Oooohhhh!" Diane groaned.
Betty McDonald turned to Gregson Torrance with a questioning look: "Has she been taught anything about obedience, darling? "
"Quite a good deal, considering the short time we've had her. I think she's found out that if she doesn't obey, she gets the whip. Have you learned that, Diane?"
"Y-yes," Diane sullenly muttered.
"Ben!" Gregson Torrance looked at the squat Negro. "Give Diane's ass five swats with that leather paddle. She forgot to call me master."
"Oh no! Please don't let them-I'm sorry-I forgot-please, master, don't have me beaten anymore-I just can't stand it-help me-oh please, won't someone help me-please-aiiiiiawrrrr! Oh, it hurts me-oh, no more-oh, you're killing me-aiieowwwwwww!! ! "
For, disregarding her agonized entreaties, the smirking Negro had seized her with his left hand by the scruff of the neck and, forcing her to bend down still more towards the floor so that her naked bottom stuck out at the most vulnerable angle, he applied five stinging smacks with the ovalshaped paddle. Under these, Diane shrieked and twisted, wriggling her hips lasciviously, her titties bounding and jiggling excitingly. Betty McDonald watched, her eyes blazing with sensual pleasure. When the spanking was over and Diane crouched there, weeping bitterly, shifting about on her knees and twisting her hands behind her back, Betty commanded, "Now crawl over here and lick my pumps and tell me you're going to obey your new mistress, bitch!"
And Diane Wilson obeyed, whimpering and trembling, her bottom burning and the cheeks involuntarily contracting and yawning, for by now pain and terror had superimposed their mark upon her and begun to drive away all thoughts of insolent superiority and arrogance which had always characterized her carefree life, until this moment.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"You know what I'd like to do with her, Greg?" Betty McDonald looked at her gray-haired lover. "I'd like to take her and Myrna too, and the two of us could have lots of fun with her and get her ready for you tonight."
"Not for me yet. I think the boys have earned a chance at her. And besides, there's another guest arriving tomorrow. We'll have to save some of Diane for him, you know."
"Oh yes! I nearly forgot. Excuse me. But may we borrow her for a couple of hours? She could help serve our supper. You can manage eating by yourself just this once, lover, until we come back," said Betty MacDonld with a candid wink, and reaching up to the banker, she gave him a hard, stinging kiss on the mouth as Myrna looked on indulgently.
The two women had already discussed ways and means of further humbling Diane Wilson, and Myrna, once over her initial jealousy at the discovery that Gregson Torrance had taken an additional mistress besides herself, now looked forward to a kind of fusion of talents in this collaboration which would bring about the complete subjugation of the haughty heiress.
A few minutes later, Diane found herself in the "rumpus room" across the way, and the two Negroes and Gregson Torrance had left the basement. Diane kneeling, head bowed to the floor, was busy kissing Myrna's boots, for the mulatress dominatress had changed into her spectacularly lascivious costume of the day before, with shoulder-length gloves, thigh-high boots, and all her voluptuous chocolate-skinned nakedness between.
Meanwhile, lovely Betty McDonald pulled off her minidress and short, custom-made slip beneath it, and stood in black nylon bra ail her smoke-colored pantyhose and pumps. Myrna's eyes smoldered with lust at the sight of this blonde siren. Betty intercepted that look and giggled.
"I can hardly wait to get you in bed, too, Myrna darling. But first, let's take care of little Diane here. First, we're going to have her eat her supper like a good little bitch, aren't we?"
"We sure are. Here it comes now."
Myrna went to the door and opened it to admit Joe, who was carrying a tray. On it were two bowls, containing in one some shredded bits of beef swimming in a sort of gravy, and in the other something resembling butterscotch pudding with crumbled bits of cookies stirred in.
The two bowls were set down on the padded floor, and then Joe reluctantly bade them both good evening and left the basement.
"Now then, start eating," Betty commanded, as she went to the panoply on the wall and took down a three-fingered black leather tawse. It was about two feet long, the last four inches being split at the ends to form the three "fingers" of this traditional Scottish whipping instrument, used in many British schools and private educational institutions on boys and girls alike.
Thus armed, Betty McDonald supervised the lapping up of the food in the bowls in the prescribed animal-like manner, applying an occasional flick of the fingers of the whipping instrument whenever Diane seemed to hesitate, and the flurried little cries of pain and pleas for mercy, together with Diane's squirming and convulsive weaving of her bare ass and the display of her pink pussy framed by the soft brown cuntcurls made both young women violently aroused.
Finally Betty McDonald removed her pantyhose and pumps, and then her bra, and stood naked as the day she was born. Myrna's eyes laved that white-skinned body and she watched avidly as the naked blonde now commanded, "All right, Diane, now crawl on your knees up to me and start kissing and licking my pussy. I want you to make me come. Myrna darling, take this tawse and give Diane a good spanking to make her efficient. That's it, Diane, you're going to get your ass whipped until I cream, so you'd better do it fast and good!"
"Oh please don't whip me-oohrrrr! Oh, that cuts and burns so!" Diane suddenly shrieked as the tawse smacked wickedly and diagonally all over her already reddened ass-cheeks. In frenzied despair, she put her mouth to Betty's cunt and began to kiss and suck noisily.
"That's good, but use your tongue. Mmmmmm-that's nice! Give her a couple of spanks, Myrna darling. Mmmmmmm-that's the way mmmmffffgggg that's goodoooohhhhh-"
"Oh, pl-l-l-"
"Shut your mouth and keep on gaming me!" Betty McDonald panted. She was cupping her titties and looking at Myrna, standing there with her legs straddled, While Diane hastily licked and sucked her voluptuous pussy. Again she nodded, and once more the tawse wickedly cracked over Diane's flaming and swollen posterior. With a muffled shriek, Diane dug deep in with her tongue and began to slush it back and forth until finally Betty McDonald uttered a cry. Her fingers twisted in her victim's disheveled hair, she reached her climax!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
But Diane Wilson wasn't finished for the evening, not by any means. After blonde Betty had recovered from her furious spend, she languidly lay down on the padded floor and beckoned to Myrna to come to her. The mulatress knelt down, bent over Betty and kissed each of her titties, her gloved hands roaming all over the lovely young body, as Betty sighed and squirmed and arched herself in yearning.
"Get back between my legs, bitch, and suck my cunt until I get ready for Myrna," Betty commanded, and Diane had to obey, her bottom still throbbing agonizedly from its encounter with the three-fingered Scotch tawse.
But after a few minutes, Myrna became envious of this performance and decided to take a more active part in the evening's entertainment. "Now you come here, slave, and open up the cheeks of my bottom and lick my ass-hole!" she ordered.
"Oh no-I can't do that-not that-Oh please, Mistress Myrna, please don't make me do that!" Diane shrieked.
"Let's make her ride the sawhorse and whip ass," Myrna suggested. "I think she's forgetting what little she's learned, and we'd better start reminding her right now."
"Oh my God, don't whip me any more, isn't there any mercy for me? What have I done, to make you torture me so?"
"You know that better than I do, ofay bitch. Seems to me you do forget pretty easy, unless there's somebody standing over you every minute to keep your memory working. Now do you obey, or do you go over that sawhorse and get your cunt rubbed raw and your ass flued raw to match?" the mulatress demanded.
"But my wrists-I can't-I can't-" Diane whimpered.
"That's right. I plumb forgot. Betty lover, hold my ass open for me, would you, darling? There now, Diane, it's all ready for you. Put your tongue to my ass-hole and tell yourself you're giving a trip around the world to a girl you called a nigger bitch just yesterday. Go on and do it, or I'll whip the shit out of you, so help me!"
Terrorized, Diane had to obey. Closing her eyes, she bent her head to the spread bottom-cheeks of her tormentress and obeyed, her tongue slaving at its unaccustomed task until Diane herself was drenched with agony-sweat and profound loathing. Then, panting and gasping, Myrna flung herself down upon the naked body of her blonde rival, and the two girls began to pussy rub frantically, their hands fondling here and there, their tongues digging into each other's mouth.
At midnight, both of them naked now, while poor Diane was at last sleeping in her cell, exhausted, Betty and Myrna lay together on the huge bed in the master bedroom, the bed usually occupied by only Gregson Torrance in this North Hollywood house. Betty was on his right side, Myrna on his left, and they crouched now above him, tonguing him in concert from his chest down to his prick. His eyes were closed in a kind of peaceful ecstasy which, as they worked, gave way to gathering excitement. He opened his eyes at last, pulled Betty atop him, and said, "Myrna honey, open up her bottom and lick her ass. Just enough to get her hotter-you'll get your turn-ah, that's better-" His arms clenched around her, his tongue dug deep into Betty's avid mouth as she squirmed and crushed against him in mounting passion.
Suddenly Myrna withdrew her face from Betty's brown hole and with a deft gesture thrust his swollen sword deep into Betty's moistened, squirming cunt, and Betty's buttocks rolled and heaved as she felt him slip into the haven of her love hole. With a groan, he arched deeper into her, and burst his load with a final gigantic thrust of his manhood.
Then it was Myrna's turn, and both girls went back to tonguing and coaxing until he was ready again, but this time Betty plunged her lips and mouth deep over his swelling prick as Myrna licked and sucked at his nipples, until he was once more couched in the temple of love and found his relief from torment of joy ...
* * *
It was noon, and Diane Wilson had already had to go to the bathroom again for the same purpose as the other afternoon. This time it had been Ben who had wiped her clean and who had compelled her to lick his cock, and this time the crushed, terrified naked young woman obeyed, and once again she had to summon all her self-control to keep from vomiting and retching as her mouth and tongue gingerly accepted a Negro prick
Ben had left her in her cell and turned out the lights, telling her that she would have a visitor at lunchtime. Now the lights had come on again, and she had sprung up from her cot, pressing herself against the bars of her cell, panting and trembling in apprehension as she heard footsteps coming closer. Then she uttered a cry of consternation. Walking beside Gregson Torrance was Paul Jasmer, the man she had gone out with for a date and who had told her he was in love with her, and whom she had so insolently rejected.
"P-Paul! Oh, my God, save me! They're keeping me a prisoner here-they're beating me and torturing me-Oh my God, Paul, help me, darling!" Diane cried.
But Paul Jasmer was wearing a bathrobe and sandals, and now to her utter horror and stupefaction, she saw him take a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of the robe, light one, then unbutton the robe and let it fall in a heap on the floor at his feet. He was naked under the robe, and his prick was in savage erection.
"So we meet again, Diane," he chuckled, as he puffed at his cigarette and peered at her through the bars of the cell.
"Paul-what does this mean?"
"use your eyes, baby. It means I've got a hard-on for you. I had one before, when we took that little ride up the Hudson. You didn't seem to think much of it then. Maybe you've changed your mind now," he laconically retorted.
Lovely blonde Betty McDonald and beautiful Myrna followed him into the basement room. Both were wearing dominatress' costumes, with shoulder-high gloves and thigh-long boots, and both beauties wore gusseting corselets, Myrna's of red leather, Betty's of blue, which touched them at the mid-point of their bubbies, descended as far as their hips, and then sent a narrow, snug band over their cunts, but left their bottoms bare. Gregson Torrance was also clad in bathrobe and sandals, and the two Negroes wore their customary jockstraps and sandals. At Gregson Torrance's order, Ben unlocked the door of Diane's cell, drew her outside, sobbing and pleading for mercy. She flung herself down on her knees and turned her face up to Paul Jasmer's handsome, coldly indifferent face.
"Oh please, darling, please save me from them!" she entreated.
"This sudden conversion of yours isn't too convincing yet," he remarked. "You say she's been trained a little?"
"She has indeed, old man," Gregson Torrance laughed. "She's learned to French a Negro for the privilege of having her patrician bottom wiped after a good shit."
"Well now, that at least is some improvement," Paul Jasmer laughed, while Diane bowed her head and turned scarlet down to her earlobes and throat, from very shame. "But if you'll French a Negro, dear, maybe you'll do the same for me-that is, if I decide to save you."
"Oh Paul, how could you treat me this way if you really loved me?" she sobbed.
"That's not the attitude of a properly trained bitch," he countered. "I want to see this girl whipped and made to submit, before I take her back, Greg."
"Of course. Now what about the estate?"
"I haven't the least interest in her estate. I told her then that I have plenty of money of my own, and I make a pretty damn good salary in addition from my ad agency. I'm on vacation now-I've got a week left. It's up to her whether I take her back to New York with me or leave her here to do with as you wish," Paul Jasmer explained.
"Oh don't-don't leave me here! How can you, Paul?" Diane Wilson wailed.
But again he ignored her and addressed himself to the suave gray-haired banker. "Of course, Greg, taking a part of her estate for your services is quite proper. But I don't exactly go along with robbing this haughty little bitch of every cent she has. You can't really blame her parents for not knowing what she was, and you can't defraud them, not when you were their best friend at one time."
"I know. Of course, I've got expenses."
"There's plenty of money there to cover your expenses," Paul Jasmer interrupted. "Besides, I'm sure Diane can be persuaded to give you a very handsome fee for this new education to life which she has had coming for such a long time."
"Yes, yes-I told him I'd pay him if only he'd let me go. Please, Paul, please make him let me go!" Diane whimpered. "I'll be such a good girl!"
"We'll see about that later," Paul Jasmer brushed her plea aside. "Greg, why don't you prepare a waiver for, say a hundred grand, which I'm sure our charming little heiress will be very happy to sign, after due persuasion. That ought to content you, unless you're greedier than I thought."
Gregson Torrance shrugged as he lit a cigar. "Well, to tell the truth, I did have hopes of getting a good deal more. But so be it! After all, this has been a wonderful experience, and I've acquired another lovely consort along the way-" he put his arm around Betty McDonald, and then, so Myrna wouldn't get jealous, put his other arm around her waist, too. "I think the two of us and myself can get along very nicely on that hundred thousand. I'll go do that right now. Meanwhile, Ben and Joe are at your disposal, as well as the girls-but don't be too greedy with them, old man, not if you don't want me to be greedy with your little princess there."
The two men laughed, shook hands, and Gregson Torrance went upstairs to prepare the waiver.
Paul Jasmer stood before the woman he wanted to marry, naked, his prick rigid and thrusting out, clearly visible to Diane. He watched her cringe and avert her eyes, her head bowed, her wrists still shackled behind her back. He thought he had never seen a more delicious and piquant female than she was at this very moment.
"Well, as you heard, Diane, Greg and I have come to some sort of understanding. You'll sign the waiver and give him a hundred thousand dollars out of your estate. On those terms, he'll release you to me, if that's acceptable."
"Oh yes-oh th, thank you-oh my God, I'll be so grateful!"
"I expect you to be. But before I take you out of here, before I accept that deal, I want some proof of your sudden and newly found humility. Start by sucking my cock!"
"Oh please, darling, don't-don't disgrace me-don't shame me in front of them-"
"You see? You still aren't thoroughly converted. I'm afraid you'll have to be punished first. Myrna, Betty, let's take her into this nice wide cell with all the equipment and find out just how willing our heiress can be when she's faced with necessity," Paul Jasmer said.
And while Diane wept and pleaded for mercy, the two beautiful young women, giggling delightedly, seized her by the arms and hauled her to her feet, then dragged her into the "rumpus room."
This time they unlocked the handcuffs, but only to tie her wrists to the whipping post in cross, stretching her tightly. Then, squatting, each girl seized an ankle and dragged it out as far as it would go, tied with a cord and made the other end of the cord fast to a metal ring set into the padding of the floor of this coercional chamber. Thus Diane's loins were lewdly exposed, the ambery-shadowy groove between her ass-cheeks widely distended, and a full view of her pink virgin cunt was on display.
Betty McDonald studied the handsome advertising man, her eyes feasting on his stiff, dark-veined prick. She was a little envious, for of course Paul Jasmer was younger and handsomer than Gregson Torrance, and he just might be a better lover. But she understood also that he had a fixation about this brown-haired heiress, and there wasn't much she could do about it. However, there was something she could do right now, and she did. She went down on her knees and cupped his prick in both palms, then deposited a tender kiss right on the bulging lips which were puckering to hold back his gismic outpouring.
"I hope you don't mind, Paul dear," she cooed.
"Not at all, Betty. But now, let's teach this naughty slavegirl a much-needed lesson. Would you like to give her a spanking? I understand Myrna did the other day."
"I'd love to!"
Diane Wilson turned her contorted, tear-stained face back over her shoulder to implore mercy, but already Betty McDonald had approached, thrust the fingers of her left hand into Diane's brown curls and began to yank them, while with her right palm she started to spank the voluptuous, jutting bottom, so defenselessly offered up to her vengeful sadism.
And soon Diane's cries were ringing out in the cell as she wriggled and twisted, trying to weave her bottom away, but the huge straddle of her bound ankles prevented her avoiding a single slap, and soon her abused behind was again a flaming crimson, and she was begging brokenly and hysterically to be spared.
"Here's a paddle, Betty," Paul Jasmer said helpfully, as he took one down from the panoply on the wall. "Now then, Diane, you're going to get the paddle until you agree first to French Joe and Ben and then me. But with me, you're going to swallow all my spunk. Is that understood?"
"Oh my God-if you love me-oh no-no!"
"Start spanking," he ordered.
Nothing loathe, Betty McDonald drew the paddle back and then landed it, holding the handle with both hands so that it crashed and landed against the jutting, flaming summits of both Diane Wilson's crimson ass-cheeks. A wild scream rang out, and the young woman arched and twisted and struggled in her bonds, jerking at her bound wrists which were drawn out at either side in cross, tilting her head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling and blinded with tears.
"That was a dandy. Give her another just like that," Paul Jasmer demanded.
"Oh no-ooowwweeeeowwwouuuu!! ! ! I'll do it-I'll do anything you want-anything-only make her stop spanking me-I'm dying, oh I can't stand it any more!" Diane shrieked.
"And you'll French the Negroes and me, to finish up? Answer quickly, or Betty will keep paddling," he warned.
"Oh yes, I'll do anything, anything, only put that awful paddle down-I'm dying-I'll do it, I'll do it!"
She was released by Myrna and Betty, although the latter was most reluctant to leave off after such a successful start with getting back her revenge on this haughty heiress who had treated her like a mere flunky back in New York.
Then down on all fours, sobbing as if her heart would break, Diane Wilson was compelled to lick and kiss and suck first Joe's swollen prick, and then Ben's though both moved away at the critical moment and clapped their hands over their organs to hold back the flow of spunk.
And then Paul Jasmer advanced, bent down to her and cupped her tearstained, contorted face in his hands and hissed, "Now we'll see just how good you are in obeying, bitch, and on this is going to depend how I decide whether to take you back to New York and let you try to behave yourself, or whether I leave you here for a little more training."
At this, Diane Wilson forgot all her patrician upbringing, all her breeding, all her wealth and arrogance. She opened her mouth and took all of Paul Jasmer's prick into it that she could manage, and then she began to slurp and suck noisily, her eyes rolling as she looked fearfully up at his face to study the effect her abject servility was having on him. He clenched his fists, his face stern and taut, letting her see nothing except his own brooding, menacing authoritativeness. But the expert Frenching she performed on him, born out of desperation and fear, took its toll of him, and he suddenly uttered a shout, a bellow of joy, and gushed his spunk deep into her mouth.
"You better swallow it, honey, or back on the flipping post you go," Betty hissed into the young woman's ear.
Gagging and retching, Diane at last managed to swallow Paul Jasmer's gism. Then, putting her hands to her face, her shoulders heaving with sobs, she wept disconsolately over her degradation, knowing that now she had sunk as low as she could ever sink.
"Now, that wasn't too bad. I'll give you a chance, Diane. I'll take you back with me-when the week of vacation is up-and all that time you're going to get paddled and you're going to get taught to do new things to please your husband. Maybe your husband. And then back in New York, I'll give you another week of probation. If you please me, if you've completely lost your holier-than-thou attitude, I'll marry you. Otherwise, I'll send you right back here-and you know I mean it," he laid down his ultimatum to her.
"Oh Paul, I'll do just anything-you know that-only please get me out of here-I'll be the best wife, the best slavegirl-anything you want!" she panted.
"I'm going to ask the supreme test of you right now, baby. I'm going to ask you to beg me to fuck you," was his answer.
She gasped, her eyes huge with astonished consternation. But when she saw the two huge Negroes moved closer to her, when she saw the mulatress and the blonde take a step towards her, she shivered and gasped, "All right-I'll do it, I'll do anything!"
"Then stretch out on your back, spread your legs, and ask me to fuck you. Sweetly and humbly, Diane Wilson," he commanded.
Trembling, blushing, in a hardly audible voice that broke with sobs and gasps, Diane Wilson uttered the formula which completely spelled the end of her haughty regime as a prickteaser and dominatress over men: "Pl-please darling, I beg of you-I entreat you-I'm asking you please to f-fuck me, Paul darling!"
Seeing her there straddled and offered had raised his prick to new vigor again. He knelt down between her thighs, his hands kneading her titties, and then he lowered himself over her.
"Now put your arms around me and lock your legs around my thighs just as soon as you feel my prick in your cunthole," he directed.
Diane obeyed, and then gasped and stiffened as she felt his ramrod press against the virgin barrier. But, disregarding her plaintive sobs at this imminent virgin loss, Paul Jasmer ground his teeth and thrust vigorously, bursting the membrane and hilting her to his very balls.
Then, as she lay sobbing, her legs and arms still wrapped around him, he began to fuck her slowly. And when at last he had jetted his essence into her, he rose from her and said, "All right, Diane, I'll take you back to New York with me at the end of the week. But the next time we fuck, I'll expect a little more life and animation, and a little more attempt to please your master. Because, even though you're going to be Mrs. Paul Jasmer, you're still going to be my little slavegirl and you're still going to get the whip every time you don't obey your lord and master."
"Oh yes, darling, Paul, yes!" Diane Wilson breathed.
And thus it was that the humiliation of Diane
Wilson came to its happy, if harrowing, end!
* * *
"Greg old man, this is Paul Jasmer."
"Well, how are you, Paul boy? Glad to hear from you. How time flies-it's been six months since I last saw you and your charming bride-by the way, how is our little Diane?"
"You wouldn't recognize her, Greg. That's why I'm calling you." Paul Jasmer, handsome advertising executive, lolled in his den in a leather-padded armchair, clad only in an open satin bathrobe, his feet bare. Brown-haired Diane Jasmer, kneeling humbly before him, had her arms circling his sturdy thighs, and was cradling her head on one of his knees. She was naked except for red leather high-heeled pumps, black opera-length hose and purple rosette garters high on her long thighs, and her nipples were tinted a deep scarlet with lipstick-at her husband-master's strict order.
Gregson Torrance was at the little house in North Hollywood-for his "client" was none other than gorgeous mulatress Myrna Johnson herself. He had purchased the house for her for a song, after Diane's signing the waiver along with ceding him a good deal of her trust fund and found her a job with a friend of his a divorce attorney who needed a lovely, exotic receptionist. Betty McDonald had moved to the North Hollywood house also, and was working as a secretary to a noted stag-movie producer who occasionally used her as a model. She had developed a furious Lesbian passion for Myrna, and the two young women were virtually inseparable. Gregson himself visited four or five times a year on business, and would spend a hectic week or two locked up in the master bedroom of this house with both beauties servicing his every sexual whim, from Frenching to buggering. Their polyandry extended to his fucking one while she gammed the other girl who would kneel astride her. Or again, he would watch as both pussy rubbed or did sixty-nine, and then when his lust began to boil in his veins, he would seize either or the other and fuck her to a fare-thee-well.
Back in New York, meanwhile, he had replaced Betty McDonald with Kathleen Purcell, a tall, willowy, auburn-haired girl of 20, with a mournful, sweet face, extremely shy-except in bed. Kathleen had tripped over a folder one day and spilled an inkwell on his suit, burst into tears and been frantically apologetic because she was only three months on the job and afraid of being fired. He had questioned her, learned she lived with an elderly, very strict aunt, that she was a virgin but eager to break away and lead a life of her own. By dint of telling her that she really should be fired and that he had a good mind to give her a sound spanking for her carelessness, Gregson Torrance had turned the accident into a brand-new bed partner for himself while he remained in New York.
For Kathleen, turning scarlet to her earlobes, had stammered that she wished he would spank her and forgive her and not fire her, so he had had her stay after office hours, then locked his private office door, made her hoist up skirt and petticoat and lie over his lap. Tucking his left arm round her waist, he had lectured her sternly, then begun to spank her ripely curved, oval ass-cheeks over her panties till she was sobbing and wriggling deliciously. Then, on the pretext that the spanking was only half over and that if she wanted to save her job by proving her total submission, he lowered her panties and finished the spanking till she forgot her pride and virginity and shame and kicked wildly and tearfully implored mercy, wailing "Ohh-oww, ohh, Mr. Torance, I'll do anything in the world if you'll only stop and let me off, p-l.-l please, owwouuuu!"
He had lifted her to her feet, her panties tangled round her calves, and, his hands squeezing her flaming pale ivory-tinted ass-cheeks, had subtly questioned her. She flung her arms round his neck and kissed him, and from then gently he had pushed her back on the couch, hoisted skirt and petticoat up to her heaving uptilted, wide-spaced titties, and thrust his prick into her twitching cunt, while his hands squeezed the resilient, warm spank-reddened globes of her naked, wriggling bottom as he taught shy virginal Kathleen how to become a passionate woman. After the first twinge of cherry-loss, the half-nude young beauty moaned and sobbed in delirious ecstasy, clamping her arms and legs round him and giving him back kiss for kiss, and even wanted him to fuck her again after he had gushed his violent spend into her tight churning womb. The next night, he took her to dinner and then to his swanky apartment, where he made her strip naked and then loved her gently, finally coaching her in how to French a man and cuddle his prick between aft ivory-satiny titties. So by now, Kathleen here in New York and Myrna and Betty back in the little house in the North Hollywood hills furnished Gregson Torrance all the cunt he could handle.
This weekend, however, while Kathleen was sighing nostalgically for her missing lover and having a hard time keeping her mind on the details of handling his office detail during his absence, Gregson Torrance was living riotously with Betty and Myrna, Indeed, just as Paul Jasmer was being homaged by his beautiful light-brown-haired wife and love slave Diane, so Gregson Torrance, naked in sandals, was returning the long-distance phone call lying in the huge bed (in the room he had walled and ceiling by mirrors) with Myrna and Betty lying on each side of him fondling his prick and learning over his paunchy naked body to exchange French-kisses.
"Well now," the banker chuckled huskily-for by now Betty's pert pink tongue was rubbing his balls in a most demanding way that was bringing his spunk up to pucker the lips of his meatus and remind him that fucking time was very close "what can I do for you, Paul boy?"
"You know, it was in your house that I first found my wife," Paul Jasmer looked down at the blushing nude light-brown-haired young woman crouching at his feet-"and it sort of an anniversary for us both. Six months tomorrow that Diane and I became master and slave, or, if you prefer, husband and wife. And we'd sort of like to spend it out there in the place that really brought us together.
"Hey now, boy, that's a terrific idea! I'm all for it. I've got another week out here winding up my business before I get back to Manhattan, so why don't you and Diane fly out here and join us?"
"Great, and thanks! Only, there's one thing."
"What's that, Paul?"
"You remember Ben and Joe, the two Negroes who helped convince my uppity little girl that she had better behave herself?"
"Of course I do. Why do you ask?"
"Think you could find them again and have them out there when we arrive, Greg?"
"It's possible. I've kept in touch, and they both have jobs as actors in a suburban restaurant-theatre. Why do you want them?"
"To put Diane through her paces again so she can show me what a welltrained eager little bitch she's become, that's why."
"Now that I'd like to see myself. I'll put in a call to them both this evening. Then you and Diane will arrive tomorrow?"
"Right-and thanks again!"
"Thank you, Paul boy." Gregson Torrance laughed as he hung up. Then, turning to his two naked mistresses, he gasped, "Now, one of you, for God's sake, get on me and fuck!"
It was svelte chocolate-skinned Myrna who pushed Betty playfully away, and wriggled on top of the naked banker, who lay on his back, his swollen prick pointing up in the air. Swiftly grabbing the tip with right thumb and forefinger and opening her twitching pink quimlips with the fingers of her left hand, Myrna impaled herself and sank down with a moan of bliss as she felt his hard rooting ramrod gouge the volutes of her sensitive lovechannel. Betty, miffed, crouched behind the mulatress and applied a stinging little handspanking, which made Myrna groaned and writhe furiously as lust soon swept her to the cataclysmic burst of passionate climax with her banker lover.
"That's not fair," Betty pouted.
"Just for that, young lady, over Myrna's lap you go for a paddling till you can suck my prick back to life for your itchy impatient little cunt,"
Gregson Torrance decreed.
And so, with a sigh of feigned dismay, blonde Betty crawled over Myrna's thighs as the latter sat up on the bed, and was soon gasping and wriggling her velvety bare seat as Myrna's palm smacked rapidly down all over the huddling globes while her mouth frantically sucked Gregson Torrance's limp, greasied ramrod till it began to throb and swell with vitality once more. Then with a squeal, she told Myrna, "Cut it out, it's my turn for a rogering now!" and hastily straddled him and impaled herself the same wanton way. Thus Gregson Torrance could look up and see Betty's jiggling titties and the sight of her pink cunt lips gaped apart by his swollen tool as she arched and sank, speeding the tempo till at last she came.....
Paul Jasmer closed the door of the secluded North Hollywood house behind him and stared coldly at his blushing bride. "Get ready, bitch," he said, as he opened his leather briefcase and took out a pair of handcuffs and a dog collar and leash.
"Y-yes, master," Diane blushed adorably as she hastily began to undress. "Should I keep my garter belt and stockings on?"
"Hm. well, all right."
"Thank you, master." Diane was down to panty and bra set, husked them off and knelt down before him, her nipples still lip stick painted and the marks of a quite recent switching showing in crisscross patterns on her shapely white ass.
Paul Jasmer calmly and expertly attached the dog collar, fixed the leash to the metal ring, and then ordered her to put her wrists behind her back.
As soon as she had done so, he handcuffed her. Then, gruffly, he ordered, "Crawl on your knees to Greg's bedroom. There are some friends of yours waiting."
"Yes, master. I promise to be awfully obedient here, you know I will," she murmured.
"You'd better. That switching I gave you before we got on the plane last night was just to remind you who's master."
"Oh, I know! I'll be so good, you'll be proud of me," Diane avowed.
He led her down the carpeted hallway to the last room at the right, and there he chuckled as he saw Gregson Torrance lolling naked on the bed, with Myrna and Betty naked beside him, and Joe and Ben, in just their sandals, standing off to one side.
"Greet your masters and mistresses, bitch," Paul Jasmer told his beautiful young wife. He bent to unlock the leash.
Promptly Diane Jasmer crawled towards the two Negroes, bowed her head and kissed their feet humbly, then lifted her face to them and requested, in a tiny little-girl voice, "Please, may I suck your cock?"
"Shonuff, honeygal," Ben cackled, with a nudge to his crony ribs. "Lookit dat little ofay gal make up with ol' Ben head. . remembah how much trouble I had wid the l'il prickteaser last time she was here?"
"Sure do," Joe laughed.
Diane had reverently cupped Ben's prick and balls in her soft palms, and began to whisk out her nimble pink tongue, to flick the scrotum, balls and shaft. Then, after a few minutes of that devotional, she began to mouth his cockhead, which grew swollen with lust. He squinted down at her, licking his lips, then put his fingers in her light brown hair, which was now coiffed in a thick pageboy with curls turned under, and, tensing his hold, snarled, "Ah'm gonna gib you all mah spunk, ofay bitch, so drink it down and don't miss a drop, you head me?"
"Mff-ahh-y-yes-m-master," Diane gulped, looking up with humid dilated and humble eyes, then went back to cocksucking for all she was worth.
In a few moments, Ben uttered a bellow of delight and his squat body jerked violently as his gism drenched the walls of Diane's throat; feverishly, she swallowed and managed to down the copious load, and then thanked him humbly for the privilege of servicing him. . moving now to Joe, she begged permission to French him the same way, was granted it, and began to lick and suck and nuzzle his cock. But as a variance, Joe demanded that she take his prick between her bubbies and "milk me dry that way, baby," and the young woman instantly obeyed. Grabbing hold of her bubbies, she clutched his tool between them and began to wriggle about, while he pressed himself to and fro to get the fictional feel of a glorious tittie-fuck. When he spurted, he let the gism spatter her face and throat and chest, then ordered, "Now ask your hubby to unlock your handcuffs."
Diane turned crawled to Paul, who was being pleasantly welcomed by Betty McDonald, who had slipped out of bed, knelt down, opened his fly and was fondling and licking his cock, and begged her husband to unlock the handcuffs, which he did. Then Joe ordered, "Now you jist take your li'l white hands and scoop up mah spunk and gibble it down, "and she did.
Next, she was obliged to crawl to Betty McDonald, and ask permission of the latter to gam her, which Betty gleefully agreed to; Paul watched his brown-haired wife grip Betty's white ass-cheeks and suck pussy till at last the blonde inamorata of Gregson Torrance moaned and wriggled and gave down her love essence to that expert mouth and tongue.
And then it was Myrna's turn. The mulatress looked down at the heiress, who was busy pussy lapping, and smiled over at Paul, "Mr. Jasmer honey, that's the best-trained gammer and bitch I've ever seen. You did a great job."
"Thanks, Myrna dear, but you're really the one who started her in the right direction. If you hadn't taught her to get over her stupid bigotry, I'd really have had lots more trouble with her," Paul Jasmer smilingly replied.
And after Myrna had come, and then Diane had paid respects to Gregson Torrance by opening his ass-cheeks and giving him a trip around the world, Paul ordered, "All right, bitch, time to take care of your own master. Crawl over here and French me while Myrna and Betty paddle your naughty behind good and hard." And Diane obeyed, moaning and sobbing and wriggling as the two naked beauties each applied a leather paddle to her naked behind, one to each cheek, but she didn't forget to make her lord and master come furiously, after which he pronounced himself satisfied with her conversion.
And for a week, Diane Wilson Jasmer serviced all the occupants of this house where she had learned the lesson of humiliation!
