The sleek convertible drifted smoothly through the dusk to a silent halt before the marble-columned Morgan mansion. The lights flicked off to shroud the immaculate grounds in deeper shadows of gathering night. Inside the car the young man drew the golden-haired girl abruptly to him, smothered her mouth with his. She instinctively returned the kiss five seconds before jerking free.
"Ben! We mustn't!" she gasped. "You know I'm marrying Mark right after the elections."
She caught the wrist of his impudent hand, pushed against it firmly till he unclasped her thigh above the knee. He resisted only briefly, then pulled his hand into sight.
"The cabin," Ben said, voice thick with passion. "Your father's retreat back up in the mountains. Where he's to make a political speech in a few days. Let's go spend the weekend up there. Just the two of us."
Stacy was appalled by his proposal. Despite his youth Ben Spencer was her father's campaign manager and a most astute political advisor who kept well-informed not only on matters politic, but on those of her future as well. Or so she thought. Perhaps he had misunderstood her.
"Ben dear, didn't you hear me? Right after the elections-"
"I heard you!" he gritted savagely. "You're to marry plaster saint Mark Yoeman."
He wanted Stacy Morgan so bad he ached all over. Most of his life he'd known her; she had been a prime factor for his joining Edward J. Morgan's political camp. Stacy the nymphean girl-goddess with large soulful green eyes and hair the natural hue of the rising sun.
"Ben." She laid a soft hand on his arm. "We've been friends such a long time. I'm so very sorry it has to be this way."
"Oh, all right, Stacy," he groaned wearily. It was always the same. He always gave in. Perhaps he should have concentrated his attention on her older sister. Whispers among his male friends hinted Rene Morgan delighted in a bedroom romp now and then. But he wanted Stacy, had always wanted Stacy, and when you wanted a girl as much as he wanted her a substitute simply wouldn't do. Yet soon now, even before she entered college, she would marry Mark Yoeman.
Mental images of her lithe body entwined in lustful embrace with that of her intended husband while the two of them struggled in sexual thralldom tormented him day and night. But he might as well erase the images if he could. Stacy belonged to another through choice and with her high moral standards it was ridiculous to even hope she would spend a weekend alone with him at her father's cabin secluded in the mountains. Stacy wouldn't do that with any man. Not before marriage. But a fellow had to keep trying, damn it. With an effort he got hold of himself, forced a calmness into his tone he did not feel.
"You never did tell me why Mark left the rally early tonight."
"An important phone call," Stacy said. She hoped it wasn't more of that ghastly business about the man named Rafe Turner whom the papers and TV labeled a mad-dog killer. Years ago, when her father was a judge, he had sentenced Turner to life imprisonment for murder and Turner had sworn to kill Edward J. Morgan in revenge. Only this morning the State Capitol had called to warn her father Turner and some of his cellmates had escaped prison. "Mark promised to return to the rally but something must have held him up."
"Must have," Ben replied absently, wondering what the real reason was behind Yoeman's leaving a vitally important political rally of his future father-in-law. A phone call, of course. But what was back of the call? Who made it? Strangely enough his father, Sam Spencer, had left the rally with Yoeman. Without knowing why, he asked, "Where's Rene this evening?"
"Off somewhere on a date, I suppose. I remember she mentioned one." Selfish, self-centered Rene Morgan couldn't be diverted from her personal pleasures by such a drab thing as politics, even when they directly involved their father.
Stacy definitely felt uncomfortable seated here beside Ben in the summer darkness, which had now closed in completely. Not uncomfortable because of Ben's presence, but because she was all too aware of the effect her nearness had on him, had always had on him. It hurt her to cause him anguish, yet there was nothing she could do about it. There was, of course, but she had no intention of doing that. Not with Ben Spencer, whom she loved as a brother, or with anyone else not even Mark, till after their marriage.
On her death bed her wonderful mother had made her promise faithfully to remain chaste till she was a wife, and Stacy was determined to keep that promise. Sometimes she wished she'd been born a dingy wallflower so her men friends maybe wouldn't be so persistent. And Mark was among the most persistent, despite their wedding scheduled within a month. Her darling Mark was mistaken in saying her refusal was something pathological. It wasn't. She knew this as fact. At times her body was consumed by a screaming hunger for the physical intimacies she was sure a man could offer, but there must be something in such a relationship besides raw unadorned sex. But poor dear Ben Last month when she graduated from high school his present had been five dozen American Beauty roses.
"What do you honestly think of Dad's chances of becoming elected?" she asked in hopes of distracting his thoughts from her.
"He'll win. The incumbent hasn't a chance and the nation knows it. Will I ever see you after you make it to Washington ? "
"Pooh." She smacked his arm playfully. "You'll be around. Dad'll make you the secretary of something or other. You know that, Ben Spencer. After the brilliant way you've handled his campaign he'll have to. He says you're a genius at organizing."
"Funny, my genius at organizing a campaign to get you never paid off. I thought I was making headway till six months ago when that damn Yoeman made the scene. Where's he from, anyway?"
"Wisconsin I think he said Wisconsin. Or maybe it's Minnesota. But wherever it was he was only born there. He's lived all over the world." She breathed a deep sigh of relief. Maybe Ben was forgetting his immediate need for her then his hand found her knee in the darkness once more.
"Please Ben, don't start that again." She reached for the door handle.
Damn it Stacy!" he groaned in despair. "You drive a man out of his mind. I can't keep my hands off you!" He grabbed for her but she eluded him by scrambling from the car.
"Good night, Ben. And I'm awfully sorry. Thanks for bringing me home."
The night seemed to turn even darker from his bitter curses of frustration when she slammed the door and turned toward the entrance of the mansion behind her. The convertible's powerful motor exploded to life, tires screeched, the smell of scorched rubber reached all the way to the veranda where she watched the taillights swerve crazily down the long driveway.
I've hurt him deeply again, she thought miserably, leaning against the door. Why couldn't I be ugly and fat and maybe even cross-eyed ?
Inexplicably her mood became lighter, a wry smile touched her sensuous lips as she mounted the broad stairway leading up to her rooms, marveling at the effect a beautiful woman's body had on a man. He'd do anything to touch it, caress it, possess it, to get his thing between her legs so he could pump away.
At least she assumed that was the way the sex act between a man and woman took place, she mused some thirty minutes later while she dried the golden length of her body with a thick towel. The rally tonight, along with her subsequent hassle with Ben had exhausted her, but the shower had done wonders. She cast a critical eye at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door of her bedroom.
Nature was truly a most peculiar phenomenon. Especially human nature and specifically that of the male of the species. She saw nothing in the slender nakedness of her reflection that could cause poised, self-confident men of the world to suddenly stammer in confusion over discovering her present. Yet it had happened. Many times. True, her body was superbly formed, though her pink-tipped breasts were a bit overly plump for one of her youth, and her hips below the tiny flat waist were so narrow they looked like a boy's. Then too, as her father often proudly said, she was 'healthy as an ox', but for this she gave credit to plenty of tennis, swimming and horseback riding. Maybe the effect she had on men was in the scheme of things. She didn't know. She did know whatever she had that caused men to act foolishly around her she was saving for Mark on their wedding night. To him alone would she submit this precious, mysterious treasure of hers when he made her his wife.
Dear, dear Mark. What a darling he was. So attentive, so kind, so gentle. When first he'd volunteered his services on behalf of her father's political campaign she'd thought him a little odd due to a strange glitter that occasionally showed in his eyes when he was avidly discussing some finer point of campaign strategy, but this was soon forgotten when she learned how shy and reserved he ordinarily was. She looked forward to making him a good wife. Was determined to be no less.
She smiled dreamily, dropped the towel, smoothed her hands down over the taut plane of her tummy to the golden-hued triangle of fleece at the apex of her thighs, then shivered deliciously. She also looked forward to the moment when Mark would make her a complete woman. She lifted her arms like a ballet dancer, raised one knee straight out, did a dainty pirouette. Light from the bed lamp shimmered in soft radiance over her flexing thighs and buttocks as she turned. She giggled happily, facing the mirror once more, feet spread and bending slightly from the waist, one hand on her hip while she playfully wagged an admonishing finger at her reflection.
"Ah, me proud beauty," she said, unable to contain her bubbling mirth. "Twill nay be long ere ye've tasted the rare delights of marital bliss."
So there! Then Mr. Mark Yoeman wouldn't be able to claim a pathological aberration prevented him from getting what he wanted from her. After they were married he could have all he wanted and more too. She'd see to that.
Without knowing why, she suddenly wanted a drink to celebrate she wasn't sure what. Perhaps it was the wholesome physical purity she felt at the moment. At times her father had permitted her a sip from his glass, but right now she wanted a real big wallop of the stuff. Automatically she reached for the house phone, then remembered it was the servants' night out. All except cook's. And cook was so old and grumpy Stacy didn't want to disturb her. She was probably asleep by now, anyway.
Very well, she'd go downstairs and mix the drink herself. She belted the light housecoat about her small waist, slipped her feet into a pair of bedroom pumps, reveling in the thoroughly wicked feeling of going about the house so nearly naked. At the door she paused, hand on the knob, remembering what her father had told her this morning when the phone call from the Capitol had informed him Rafe Turner had escaped prison.
"I'm sure Turner and the other convicts will be apprehended within a matter of hours, pigeon," her father said. "But in the meantime you and Rene are not to go wandering around alone. If Turner tries to revenge himself upon me, he might try to do so through one of you."
Pooh on old mad-dog Rafe Turner, she thought airily. She wasn't wandering around. She was at home, wasn't she. She stepped through the doorway into the hall and froze dead still.
A chill of nauseous fear trickled up her spine. She was alone in the house . . . Wasn't she?
Then who was making those peculiar noises that came from Rene's rooms down the hall? Was it Rene? It couldn't be. The noises seemed the labored breathing of excited animals. An overwhelming curiosity seized Stacy, curbed her budding fear. She simply had to know the source of those sounds. The other door! The back one. That was it. The door leading to Rene's rooms off the back stairway. She whirled, ran silently.
After circling around via the lower floor she stood in the darkness just outside the rear door of her sister's rooms a couple of minutes later. She stood motionless, catching her breath, listening intently. A low, sobbing moan reached her ears. Rene's voice! She recognized the timbre.
My god, Stacy thought, Rene's hurt, in pain. Her first impulse was to jerk open the door and rush to her sister's rescue, demanding to know the cause of her distress.
A harsh bray of lustful male laughter stopped her cold. A man in Rene's bedroom? A man? That vile Rafe Turner and the convicts who'd escaped with him. They were in there. Somehow they'd gotten into the house while everyone was at the rally and were torturing Rene. Stacy backed from the door. The police. She must phone the police. She retreated another step, was about to turn toward the stairs when Rene groaned again. On its heels came meaty, slapping sounds.
"More," her sister sobbed. "Deeper and faster. Do it. Do it."
Stacy paled, stood immobile with uncertainty. Obviously one of the men was hurting Rene, though she didn't exactly seem to be objecting. Stacy rubbed a hand over her face. Oh, what should she do? She was about to descend to the phone when she heard her sister's voice again.
"It's good," she whined. "It's good. It's good." The words were uttered in unison with the meaty slaps and served to firmly convince Stacy that whatever was taking place in that bedroom, her sister was all for it.
But what about the police? She couldn't have them charging out here without just cause. That was for sure. Best she determine what was going on in her sister's bedroom before she made a decision about phoning them. There was only one way for her to find out.
She got hold of her muddled thoughts and returned to the door.
Silent as a shadow she took firm grip on the knob. It made a minute click and she stood with baited breath, knowing those inside had heard it. Yet they hadn't because the strange noises not only continued but grew in intensity, became distinguishable as the smack of flesh against flesh mingled with impassioned animal grunts of lusty pleasure. The door gave under soft pressure and a slice of light knifed through the tiny crack, blinding her till her eyes became adjusted, then revealed a portion of the bedroom.
Merciful God!
Thunder boomed in Stacy's ears at what she saw. Breath choked in her throat. Ben's father Sam Spencer!
He sat in an easy chair facing her from across the room, huge and naked, rigid penis between thumb and forefinger of one hand, the other toying with his testicles in lascivious anticipation. His lust-glazed eyes were on the couple atop the bed, which Stacy could not see. His mouth was loose and in tempo with the animal noises he stroked his blunt instrument. Slack-jawed with surprise, Stacy stared in bug-eyed fascination mixed with horror as he paused and thumbed back the rubbery snout of his loathsome foreskin. The bulbous, purplish knob of his penis popped forth evilly like a ravenous one-eyed reptile seeking some hapless prey to devour. Light gleamed dully off the gooey lubricating seepage oozing from it.
She was close enough to note rib-like ridges outlined against the sheath-skin and the great throbbing vein underneath.
Terror gripped Stacy's heart. From pictures under the heading of anatomy in the encyclopedia she knew reasonable well what the male sex organ looked like, but this was the first time she had ever actually seen one. And it hard at that. At sight of it a painful, frightening ache beat in her vagina. No woman could accommodate such a lewd monstrosity between her legs. It would split her apart. It would kill her. She continued to stare as Sam Spencer once more began rhythmically masturbating himself, a yangy rope of saliva dropping unnoticed from his lips to a thigh.
Stacy eased open the door a fraction further, was still unable to see the couple on the bed. Another chill zigzagged the length of her spine as Ben's father surged to his feet, eyes protruding in their sockets from the internal pressures of primitive lusts. He lurched toward the bed, giving Stacy a quick opportunity to widen the crack in the door and follow him with her eyes across the room. Her throat tightened with increased fear at what she might see.
She was still not able to discern the identity of the man because his face was buried against the pillow on the far side of his partner's head, but this partner she recognized readily enough. Rene! Her twenty-year-old sister.
The foot of the bed was angled toward Stacy and she could make out the man's thick hard penis plunging in and out of Rene's body. Her sister's legs were splayed on the bed, but each few seconds one, and sometimes both, would jerk into the air to hang there a quivering moment before she locked them behind his undulating buttocks and pulled him to and into her with spastic abandon.
Stacy could see the furrowing muscles of Rene's inner thighs as the girl struggled like a sex-crazed machine. The man's hands kneaded her pliable naked buttocks with brutal strength. He spread and pressed them roughly to angle the hot tunnel between Rene's thighs in line with the axis of his marauding penis. Her sister's passage seemed to suck hungrily at the rigid meat each time he withdraw it, to gulp greedily at swallowing the glistening shaft to the very utmost into her belly at each thrust. Stacy could see the thin spray of pubic hair edging the ragged lips of Rene's vagina cling teasingly to the semen-bloated vein ridging the underside of the man's penis.
Desperate sobs and mewls of excruciating bliss began gurgling from Rene's throat, her hips commenced a wild, weird sort of mad gallop, lunging against the impaling penis with insane fervor. Stacy could not remove her eyes from the lewd, obscene point of coupling. A hypnotic magnetism held her gaze fixed on the big, vulgar prick pistoning voraciously into her sister's pussy.
Rene's actions were now more desperate as she slapped upward at the man with her belly flesh, her limbs flailed about without pattern, her face drawn in harsh lines of lustful torment.
Stacy felt faint from lack of breath, recovered by swooshing air into her lungs, spellbound by the awful nightmare of watching her sister being fucked more viciously with each passing second. Both Rene and the man were struggling wildly now and Stacy could see shiny streaks of sweat pouring off them as he drove his hungry meat into her belly His backstrokes were of such length his buttocks flared each time to reveal his tightly gripped anus.
Then the anus began to blink angrily, accompanied by Rene's unearthly shriek of achievement as their climaxes exploded simultaneously.
Stacy heard her sister's triumphant cry, saw her buttocks cease their wild cavorting and segue into small spasmodic jerks and starts as she massaged her clitoris against the penis buried between her legs. The man above her groaned helplessly, surged into her with all his strength, his thick meat staff pulsating as it pumped its sticky fluid deep into her spasming cunt. The milky fluid filled Rene to overflowing, spilled out around the shaft and the tender pink lips of her passage. Stacy gasped in horror at the creamy abundance creeping down the fleshy cleavage of her sister's buttocks to spot the bed below.
It was too much. Stacy leaned her forehead against the door--facing in the darkness and gagged in silent agony. Yet she could not force her eyes to remain from the scene in the bedroom. Her nerves quieted somewhat and the gagging stopped as once again she found herself staring at the couple on the bed. They still jerked against each other, but with less vigor. Finally, they lay still.
Sam Spencer stood over them in a half-crouch, massaging his genitals in evil anticipation, a repulsive glob of gray matter clinging to the snout of his horrid instrument. Stacy gulped to keep from retching. Then the man between her sister's legs rolled to the side, free from the yoke of her thighs, and at sight of his face a sound issued from Stacy's throat. It was not a large sound. None of those in the bedroom heard it. Nor was it to be classified, except that it could have been the sound of a person falsely accused on hearing his death sentence pronounced.
The man who had just finished fucking her sister was Mark Yoeman!
Stacy clutched at the wall for support, the world crashing about her. Time passed. She never knew how long. Stunned beyond tears she withdrew from the door and stumbled down the stairs in a mindless vacuum. When the sharp edges of reality came into focus once again she lay across the bed in her room, staring blankly at the wall in numb misery.
"Why?" The question burned through her brain in a silent scream. "How could Mark do such an awful thing to me?"
She shuddered with revulsion at memory of the self-satisfied smirk on his face when he's pulled his thing out from between Rene's legs. What caused him to be so pleased with himself? And Rene. Her own sister who'd shown such enthusiasm in the wedding plans. How could she be partner to such ghastly betrayal?
CHAPTER TWO
Again time passed without Stacy being aware of it. She was only aware of a blind need to run, to escape, to get away someplace where she could take a solitary look at her shattered dreams. There was no hope of ever assembling them again. Marriage with Mark was now impossible. But she needed to get away for time to think, time to collect herself.
If she could only cry. If only tears would come, perhaps . . .
Her father's cabin! She would go there alone. A few days of quiet seclusion in the deep fastnesses of the mountains might give her strength to face life again.
She dressed in stretch slacks and blouse with movements like a zombie's, unable to erase from her mind the picture of Mark and her sister. What had happened when she left the crack in the door? Rene had maintained her splayed-leg position and Stacy recalled vaguely that Mr. Spencer had crawled upon the bed over her. Stacy felt the shudder of revulsion course through her again as she let herself out the side entrance of the house into the garage. Would Mr. Spencer also do it to Rene? If not, why not? Why else was he there? Rene's intimacy with Mark was bad enough, but for her to make love to one man right after the other was too horrid to contemplate. It placed her sister in the same category as the common street-whore. Stacy sobbed in heart-rending despair. Oh Mark Rene! How could you do this inhuman thing to me?
She was barely conscious of tooling the little MCI down the long driveway. Her mind was beset by countless conflicting emotions as she turned into the road bordering the Morgan estate and in her over-wrought condition failed to notice the panel truck that picked up her trail when she left the estate and commenced following her at a safe distance.
She drove robot-like, instinctively obeying road signs and speed limits due to the absence of late hour traffic making good time. Even so, the better part of two hours passed before she entered the foothills of the mountains. By that time the mad pounding of her heart had quieted. Her thoughts were more rational. Within thirty minutes she would be at the cabin which wasn't a cabin at all but a huge five-room structure of native stone which her father had acquired before she was born and converted into a hideaway from the pressures of public life. He kept it well-stocked with canned and frozen foods and there she would stay till she felt like facing Mark and her sister.
Tomorrow she could phone her father to post him on her whereabouts so he would not worry. Yet he would worry. She knew that. The escaped convict Rafe Turner was a mountaineer. These mountains had been his home prior to going to prison but after her soul-searing experience of watching her fianc' make love to her sister, the threat of Rafe Turner seemed insignificant. More than-likely the police had recaptured him and the other escapees by now.
She glanced automatically into the rear view mirror. The car which had been behind her since she'd left home was still back there, yet she thought of it as nothing more than a coincidence. This road was the only one in the region leading directly through the mountains. The car was probably headed over to the coast.
Even though the initial shock of seeing Mark and Rene squirming naked on the bed was wearing off, Stacy felt dead, wooden inside. Her mind sought frantically for an answer but found none. She arrived repeatedly at the same stonewall conclusion. With her own eyes she had watched Mark work his thing around in Rene's belly. It had happened. An explanation was not really important. It had happened.
Men! Damn them all! There was not one alive she would ever trust again. Unconsciously a hand went to her straddle. Absently she fingered at her pussy through the thin material of her slacks. What was the irresistible magnetism of the thing a woman had between her legs that caused men to act like animals? Thank god she hadn't given in to any of Mark's demands that they enjoy each other sexually before marriage. Now they would never enjoy each other. She wouldn't let Mark Yoeman touch her now if he were the last man on earth. Of this she was positive. Nor any other man, for that matter. All of her young adult years she had saved herself, and given her body meticulous care, all for the purpose of offering to a husband something unused, something not shop worn. But now there would be no husband. Not ever. Of this she was equally positive.
The little MG bored through the night, climbing swiftly into the wilderness at a steep angle. This angle became more pronounced when Stacy left the main highway for the sparsely graveled road leading to the cabin a mile further on. The highway was only a few hundred yards behind her when the MG gave a warning cough. A minute later it sputtered, the motor died. Stacy wanted to scream curses at it for running out of gas, but instead switched off the ignition. The cabin was only a short distance ahead and her father had prepared for just such an emergency as this by storing a number of five gallon cans of gasoline in a shed behind it. She collected her purse and stepped out into the night.
At once the icy hand of fear gripped her heart. There was no mistaking the sounds reaching her from the direction of the highway. An automobile had left it, was coming up the driveway to the cabin! Instinct shouted for her to flee into the surrounding forest, but she squelched her fear and ignored the warning. Anyone coming to the cabin at this hour must surely be from her father, probably a member of his campaign staff, by coincidence arriving the same time as she. That was it. Her father had forgotten something at the cabin on his last visit and had sent one of his workers to get it. She breathed a quick sigh of relief.
She stood beside the MG till the other vehicle, which appeared to be a panel truck, pulled up to within a couple of yards of its rear bumper. The lights went out and a coarse voice spoke into the darkness.
"Miz Morgan?"
"Yes." She had never heard the voice before.
Hurried whispers came from inside the vehicle, then both doors burst open and dark figures plunged out. Stacy was seized roughly from either side, a calloused hand clapped over her mouth. Hard hands shoved her against the rear of the MG, pushed her backward into an awkward position. The sweat of fear broke out all over her. She stood with feet wide apart to keep her balance, eyes huge with fright. Her fear grew enormously when the man gripping her from the right rasped, "We got 'er, Rafe. Switch them lights back on, if you want."
The lights came on, almost blinding her, and she heard another man get out of the truck. A moment later he stood before her, the thin, steel sliver of a wicked-looking switchblade knife flashing in his hand.
"Well, I be dogged," he chortled evilly. "Looky what we done ketched us, boys. Old
Judge Morgan's youngest gal. 'Member back in stir when we see'd the Judge come on television with his two gals when he said he was aimin' to run for public office again?" He tweeked Stacy's pallid cheek. "I been a-knowin' about you for a long time, leetle gal. Yo're name's Stacy, ain't it? Ain't that what they call you? Well Stacy, me and the boys here aims to see that you get a real good fucking!"
Dumbstruck by the staggering change of circumstances, Stacy could only cringe in mute terror. The convict on her left removed his hand from her mouth and spoke. Only then did she realize the man was a Negro.
"We gonna fuck her here, Rafe?"
"Huh-uh. We got to get her car and that panel job up to the cabin out of sight. Ain't nobody-likely to see 'em here, but that's no cause for takin' chances. But I reckon we got time for a mite of sport first. Hold her fast whilest I skin 'er out of them imagine duds." His eyes gleamed malevolently at her. "You scream just once, gal, and I'll gut you like I would a butcherin' hawg." He rolled the knife in his fingers. Light glittered off the slender blade.
"Please," Stacy whispered, voice hoarse with fear. "Please let me go." Because of the light shining directly into her eyes she was unable to distinguish Turner's features clearly. They were a dark blob against a brilliant background. Only his eyes showed.
"Gal," he drawled, "I been rottin' in a god damn stinkin' prison cell for years dreamin' of what I aimed to do to the great Edward J. Morgan and his family once I broke free, so they ain't nothin' on God's green earth you can say what'll change things. I reckon it'd be best for you to just go along with us quiet-like; else I'll have one of the boys break that purty leetle neck of yourn."
He extended a hand and felt of her pleasure-mound which, because of her position, was clearly outlined against the front of her slacks. The Negro beside her guffawed lustily. The convict on her right sniggered. In the poor light Rafe Turner's teeth showed in a wolfish, unwholesome grin.
Terror paralyzed Stacy as the knife in the man's hand flashed, darting this way and that, slicing through the soft material of her slacks. Before she fully realized what was taking place she felt a rush of cool mountain air envelope her loins and thighs and a moment later the solid metal of the MG against her naked buttocks as Rafe Turner gave a mighty tug and pulled free the garment he'd cut off.
"Now look at that, boys," he chuckled, throwing the ruined garment aside, and gazing lustfully at her pubic area. "She ain't even wearin' none of them there step-in things. I doggies!"
Only then did Stacy learn she'd neglected to put on panties when she'd dressed before leaving home. She wanted to scream for mercy but her fear-constricted throat refused to function as Turner continued.
"Ain't it a purty thing, though. Don't reckon I ever did see a cuter pussy than what you got, gal. How old are you, nohow? Seventeen? Eighteen?"
Stacy did not answer. She was unable to do anything from the terror that gripped her. As a hypnotized bird watches a snake, so she watched in fascinated horror as Turner once more extended a hand toward her loins and this time there was not even the thin material of her slacks to protect her from his lewd fingers. She attempted once to draw her legs together, but he shifted his feet to prevent it.
"Easy now, gal. Just stand still or I'll turn you over to that big black Jute. He-likes white meat, don't you, Jute?"
Jute didn't answer. Nobody expected him to. All eyes were on Turner's hand. A sound of loathing managed to escape Stacy's throat as his fingers began toying with her cunt.
What horrible nightmare is this? her brain screamed soundlessly. The man who had sworn to kill her father was fondling a part of her body no man had ever touched before. She tried to avert her face to prevent herself from watching the dastardly thing she suspected was about to happen, but some mysterious power forced her to watch.
Rafe Turner had been confined in prison and thereby denied the company of the opposite sex, for twelve years; since shortly after his twentieth birthday. As he stood there in the glare of the panel truck's headlamps before the semi-nude girl, he knew for a certainty he was about to reap a measure of revenge on the man who had sent him to prison. Not all the revenge he wanted, to be sure, nor all he meant to have, but enough for the time being. Enough till Edward J. Morgan himself came into these mountains to deliver one of the last political speeches of his campaign. And hopefully, the last of his life. Until that time, Turner told himself, he and the two who'd escaped with him would enjoy the fleshy delights of Morgan's young daughter.
Very gently he played with her golden-fleeced cunt. The girl was scared half to death. He could see that and it pleased him immensely. The more fear she knew, the more obedient she would be, the more fucking she would take before she cracked. And he intended to see she got plenty of fucking. A man has a lot of catching up to do after twelve years in stir. Besides, there were three of them.
"Why don't you go ahead and screw her now, Rafe?" the big Negro asked, his voice tight with excitement.
"Ain't a bad idee, Jute." Turner smiled, reminding Stacy of a ravening wolf. "But I never was no shakes at doin' it standin' up. How long's it been since you had a real he-stud atwixt your legs, gal?"
Stacy made no reply.
"Let me fuck 'er, Rafe," the man on her right begged. "I don't have no trouble stand-in' up."
"You're too anxious, Flub. Besides, this leetle gal ain't no corn fed mountain cunt. She's real choice poon, ain't you Stacy? Sassiety stuff, I reckon. Her kind don't fart. They perfume."
He worked the end of a finger into the top of her cleft and was rewarded by her trembling. It took all his control to subdue the raging lust in his loins. Twelve years he'd been patient. He would be patient a bit more, figuring the longer he kept the girl in suspense, the greater would be her debasement when they did take her.
Stacy again trembled with loathing from the touch of his invading finger on her sensitive flesh. Her teeth came together with a click when he began stroking her clitoris.
"You like that, gal?" he chuckled. He traced the finger back and forth through her labia, searching for the mouth of her cunt. Stacy gasped harshly in protest when he found it. Merciful God-
"Damn!" Turner said, half to himself. "Boys, it looks like we got us one of them virgins on our hands." He jerked his finger free. "Let's get her up to the cabin. That truck can squeeze around this leetle car of hers. We'll get it later. Let's move."
Fifteen minutes later they stood in the cabin's main room. Turner threw Stacy's purse and keys on the table and the three convicts stood looking about the room in open-mouthed wonder.
"Boy!" the one called Flub, a hulking, blank-faced lout in his mid-twenties, marveled. "This is some lay-out. Electricity, radio, television, even rugs on the floor. I ain't never seen nothin' this here imagine, Rafe. How come you knowed about this place?"
"I knowed," Turner said bitterly. "Only it was Labe what told me it was all fancied up like this."
"When's Labe comin' up?" Jute asked.
"He'll be here," Turner said confidently. "Don't worry none about that kid brother of mine. Right now we got us some other fish to fry." He smelled of the finger he'd probed into Stacy's cunt with. "And it shore does smell like fresh fish. Come here, gal."
Stacy cringed in the center of the room, naked from the waist down except for a pair of flimsy canvas slippers. The three sets of lust-filled eyes covered her body in waves of shame. She stood slightly bent, thighs clinched, trying to protect her privates from the lewd stares with her hands. It was hopeless.
Since they'd entered the cabin and turned on the lights she had desperately searched the brutal faces of the three men for some sign of mercy, of compassion. She found none. From their conversation she learned Jute and Flub had been in and out of one prison or another most of their adult lives. They were hardened criminals. She could expect no mercy from them. And, of course, none from Turner because of his hatred for her father.
"I said come here, gal!" Turner snarled, lunging across the room and lashing her savagely across the face. The blow sent her sprawling toward the couch near the fireplace and brought roars of laughter from Jute and
Flub. "When I say move, god damn it I mean move! You hear ? "
Turner hauled her to her feet, tore the light blouse and bra from her body, wolfish face mottled with rage. He threw the shredded garments into the fireplace, then stalked around her slowly, checking her over as a horse-trader might a prize filly. Suddenly, wildly, Stacy wished she were dead.
"She sure is good lookin' poon, Rafe," the simple Flub said in awe. "Who gets to fuck her first?"
"I do," Turner replied coldly. "She's got a a cherry I aim to bust and that's gospel. You boys'll get yourn, but I fuck her first."
Stacy's face blanched to the pallor of death. She kept trying to cover her nakedness, telling herself this was all some kind of weird, out of joint dream. But she knew it was no dream.
"Just one thing, Rafe," the giant Negro grinned.
"What's that, Jute?"
"I think you ought to let me and Flub watch you take her cherry."
Turner guffawed heartily, slapped his thigh. "I god I hadn't thought of that. That's a prime idee."
Even in her terrified condition Stacy knew there was something odd about Turner instructing Flub to get a can of gasoline from the shed back of the cabin and go after the MG, and then telling Jute to check the food and look for the weapons and bring a quart of Lem Motlow from the store room off the kitchen. How could Turner, who had never been in the cabin before, know these things even to the brand of whiskey her father kept at the cabin?
The two convicts left the room and Turner began removing his clothes. Stacy felt faint, wanted to vomit.
"Don't worry, leetle gal," Turner said. "I ain't aimin' to bust your cherry right yet. I been locked up for a long spell and I need to unload good, so when I ram it up into your belly I can frig for a while without comin'. "
He traveled his gaze over her slender, golden nakedness as she leaned weakly against the mantle wiping blood from her mouth. He gloated in the plump breasts, pink-tipped and soft and ripe, the smooth grace of her tiny waist and the superbly-molded thighs. Again he was forced to exert tremendous effort of will to restrain the ravenous demon of lust in his loins. Holy balls on a rattlesnake! This gal was the choicest piece of poon he'd ever been able to imagine. For twelve long years he'd had nothing to screw but round-eye afforded by the more or less communal punks at the prison, and the prospects of now tasting the sweet flesh of a beautiful virgin, and Morgan's daughter at that, was not easy to endure. But he could manage a little while longer. He meant to do exactly as he'd promised Jute and Flub frig her the first time with them as witnesses. Anyway, they might have to help him hold her, unless he beat her unconscious, and he didn't want that. He wanted her in complete awareness of what was going on. Her humiliation and pain would be greater that way, and thereby his revenge the sweeter.
He moved toward where she stood with her eyes clenched. She was praying silently.
"Open your eyes and look at me," he ordered quietly. "Bein' a virgin, I reckon you ain't never see'd a real naked he-stud before."
Stacy obeyed. She was afraid not to, afraid he would strike her again and the side of her face was still numb from his previous blow.
"Don't do this to me," she begged piteously. "Please. Have you no mercy ? "
CHAPTER THREE
"Nary a drap for no Morgan whelp," he growled. "Now, jack me off."
She looked at him in puzzlement. Once she had heard a boy use the term 'jack-off' to another, but had no idea what it meant. She continued to stare at the naked convict. Prior to this evening she had never seen a nude male. First, there was Mr. Spencer, Ben's father, then Mark Yoeman, and now this man called Rafe Turner.
He was tall and lanky with heavy bones and ropy muscles. Angling sharply upward from his loins, his vile instrument almost reached his navel. It was longer, thicker than Mr. Spencer's, and Stacy knew if he drove it into her body as he promised, she would surely die. Gorge rose in her throat at sight of the two large hairy appendages dangling from his crotch, but fear forced her to speak.
"I I don't know how," she gulped.
Turner was nonplussed. "You don't know how to jack a man off?"
She shook her head in mute misery.
"like this." He grabbed her hand. A repulsive wave of loathing broke over her as he clamped her fingers around his rigid obscenity and demonstrated how she should do. The gorge threatened to return, to boil over, yet a small hushed voice far in the back of her mind kept repeating that to survive she must submit. And just as repetitiously Stacy kept wishing she were dead. But it was only a superfluous wish. In her young heart the will to live was far too strong.
She faced the fireplace, head bent, one hand on the mantle, the other grasping the naked convict's revolting instrument. He stood in close beside her, his body touching hers from calf to shoulder. An involuntary tremor of disgust flushed through her when he slid an arm about her waist, drew her to him tightly, nuzzling behind her ear as his free hand caressed her ripe breasts.
"Jesus but that feels good," he rasped against her neck as she went through the rhythmic procedure of masturbating the man. "Better than any round-eye I ever got from a prison punk."
Stacy wanted to scream her anguish to the room, the mountains, to the world. Never could she have dreamed of any girl undergoing the utter debasement to which she was being subjected. Were there no limits to human degradation ? A few short hours ago she stood before the full-length mirror at home, preening her lovely body, dreaming of the moment she would offer it to the man she hoped to wed. Now she stood naked, deep in a mountain wilderness, masturbating an escaped convict who would later defile her by forcing his huge penis into her virginal treasure. Furthermore, she was masturbating him for the express purpose to partially abate his sexual hungers so that when he did fuck her he could do so leisurely and for a long time before shooting his vileness into her. Was there any wonder she wanted to scream in frustrated despair?
An inner compulsion made her look down at what she was doing to the man. His stiff prick was hot in her hand. Un-like that of Mr. Spencer's, this one did not have a rubbery snout of foreskin. In tempo with the movement of her hand the bald knob of the repulsive thing appeared and disappeared. The end glistened with a sticky substance secreted from the single aperture, and below the two testicles jounced in a vulgar dance as she stroked him.
A gusty grunt sprang from Turner's lips. He sagged against her, clutched at the mantle for support with the hand that had been fondling her breasts. Stacy felt, rather than heard, the silent turmoil rupture inside the man and a moment later stared aghast as gooie globs of semen exploded from the bulbous head of his prick. Since watching Mark fuck Rene she'd wondered about the source of the milky fluid she'd noticed seeping from around the tightly drawn lips of her sister's prick-stuffed cunt. Now she knew.
The horrid stuff belched in yangy spurts from Turner's genitals into the fireplace, though several slimy globs of it got on her administering hand and wrist. The man's long sigh of relief signaled her ordeal was over. But she knew the respite was only temporary. There were other and more horrifying ordeals in store for her. She sensed she must undergo the next one very soon. And she was correct in this.
Shortly thereafter the blank-faced Flub returned with her MG and Jute returned to report there was enough food in the cabin to feed Cell Block-9 for a month. Also there were two hunting rifles and a shotgun, with plenty of ammunition for all three.
"I knowed that," Turner said expansively. "That kid brother of mine cased this hide-out down to the nail heads."
"Labe is a good boy," Jute replied.
The three of them stood guzzling from the several bottles of whiskey Jute had brought from the store room, their lustful eyes fixed on Stacy crouched near the fireplace. She felt like a helpless sheep staked out as bait for ravening tigers.
"Purty, ain't she?" Turner smacked his lips. This whiskey was his first in twelve years and was delicious. It purled in warm waves from his stomach to spread all through his body. The others evinced like enthusiasm for the fiery liquid, never taking their eyes off Stacy. "Gives a dang good hand-job, too."
Jute said, something akin to awe in his tone, "She sure is pretty. The prettiest I've ever seen."
"You like white meat, Jute?" Turner asked. The giant Negro nodded. "But I ain't never had none."
"You ain't never frigged a white woman?"
Turner was amazed. "Well, you and Flub come first right after me."
"You ain't fucked her yet, Rafe?" Flub asked, face slack with passion. The front of his pants, as well as those of Jute's, bulged threateningly.
"Hell now," Turner laughed, the sound reminding Stacy of a wolf's snarl. "She only give me a hand-job. I told you boys I aimed to let you watch me bust her cherry." He strode toward Stacy, placed the bottle from which he'd been drinking on the mantle, and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, gal. You're about to get that fuckin' I promised you."
Inside Stacy's tortured mind something snapped. All fear left her. The warning snarl of the enraged feline tore from her throat as a holocaust of raging emotions shattered her control. She leaped at Rafe Turner like an avenging lioness, claws spread, teeth bared, green eyes glinting fiery sparks of hate.
"Gawd o'mighty!" Turner blurted, taken aback by her sudden move. He ducked aside, reached out as she threw herself past, hooked powerful fingers in her golden hair and pulled. Such was her speed Stacy was jerked off her feet to land on her back on the floor with a bone-jarring thud.
"Grab her, boys," Turner barked, seizing her ankles. "Help me tote the leetle bitch to that table over yonder."
The fall stunned Stacy. She recovered to find herself spread-eagled on the table. But now Rafe Turner was not the only nude convict in the room. Jute and Flub were also naked.
The tears came then. Great scalding washes of them streamed from her eyes. Oh God, she prayed in silent terror. Don't let them do this to me. Don't let me be defiled this way.
If her desperate prayer was heard it was ignored.
She tried to twist about to see who held her wrists over her head, but it was impossible to see. At the foot of the table and between her spread knees stood Rafe Turner, his wolfish face cast in lines of evil lust. Looking down over the flat plain of her belly she could see the foul knob of his prick protruding upward.
I'll die! she thought desperately. It'll kill me if he puts that huge thing in me. Oh God, have mercy . . . mercy . . . mercy.
Again the desperate plea was ignored.
"All right, boys," Turner gloated. "Shove her down this way a mite so I can get at her cunt."
Rough hands shoved Stacy toward the convict leader.
"Let me smell her just once Rafe, before you fuck her," Flub begged. "I ain't smelled a fresh cunt since I don't know how long."
"Go ahead," Turner told him. "Only I ain't movin' on account of she'll bring her legs together."
Stacy raised her tear-streaked face, looked toward the apex of her splayed thighs in time to see Flub thrust his face at her pussy, breathing deeply.
"Oh Jesus," he moaned in fierce male agony against the lips of her vagina. "If you don't let me at her soon my balls'll crack wide open."
"Then get up," Turner told him roughly. "When I finish you can have her, only I can't fuck her and you with your head in the way."
Flub snatched his head back, eyes bulging, face swollen with lust. "God, but she smelt good."
Stacy cringed, sobbed raggedly from the touch of Turner's fingers delicately feeling about the tender flesh of her vagina. He spread the lips of her cunt, stared in rapt admiration at the pink slit of sensitive flesh soon to accommodate his aching cock. Between thumb and forefinger he rolled her clitoris, was pleased when it grew firm and stiff under his touch. In her agony Stacy hated herself because her body responded to his ministrations. She flailed her head from side to side in despair, tasting the bitter dregs of deepest shame because the nauseous creature standing between her thighs hanging over the end of the table could make her respond against her will. Yet respond she did. Between Turner's thumb and finger her clitoris grew into a tiny passion peak.
"Mercy," she cried. "Have mercy."
"Huh-uh," Turner said absently, too enthralled by sight of her helpless, exposed straddle to pay full attention.
"Jesus," Flub said from the side. "Get it over with, Rafe. I'm dyin'. "
"Go ahead, Rafe," Jute said urgently from back of her, his big hands holding her wrists immobile over her head. "Throw the meat to her."
"Huh-uh," Turner said again, looking up, the ravenous wolf-grin on his face more pronounced than ever. "I aim to take it slow and easy. Twelve years I been in stir dreamin' of somethin' like this. It ain't the onlyest way I aim to get back at Edward J. Morgan for sendin' me up, but for right now it'll do. So I aim to take my time. Prop her up, Jute. I want her to see it happen."
The Negro hoisted Stacy roughly to a half-sitting position. Her green eyes were twin pools of utter despair. Her brief attack on Turner was her only show of resistance. What was the use of resisting? To even dream she could escape these three lust-filled brutes was ridiculous. From deep inner reserves she drew strength and determination to suffer her defilement as stoically as possible.
She was held tight back against Jute, who now gripped both her hands in one of his, her buttocks rested on the edge of the table, her legs spread wide around Turner and angled downward.
"Raise your knees up and pull 'em back," Turner ordered. When she failed to comply at once he gave the soft belly flesh above her pubic floss a vicious pinch. Her knees snapped up, far back and wide.
" 'At's more like it," he muttered, thoroughly absorbed in his purpose. "Now keep 'em that way."
From far down in her chest Stacy loosed a tremulous moan of despair as Turner depressed his up-angled cock and stationed the blood-bloated knob of it firmly against the opening within the parted lips of her vagina.
"Don't fret so, gal," he continued almost conversationally. "This ain't goin' to hurt much. You might be a virgin but woman was made for man to fuck."
Stacy missed the point of his vulgar observation. She did not believe there would be little pain. True, she was of the age when nature has prepared most women to receive a man without inordinate or prolonged discomfort and since Rene had taught her how several years ago, she had douched regularly with the rubber bulb squeeze-type syringe with the large spray nozzle, but that nozzle was nowhere near the size of this animal's menacing shaft. She stared in fascinated horror at the rigid meat-tube pressing against her cuntal opening. Any woman who could comfortably take such an obscene enormity into her body was deformed.
"Okay Jute," Turner breathed hotly. "Hold her steady now." With this he slipped his hands down around her thighs to clamp them about her wasp-like waist. In this position, with the Negro pressed against her back, she could hardly move.
Turner leaned into her. Pressure of the prick-head against her opening increased. Fresh tears stung her eyes. Breath caught sharply in her throat and she bit her lip to fight against the expected pain. With all the strength she puckered her vulval sphincter in effort to ward off the impending invasion. Eyes on the point of assault, she saw the tender pink flesh of her cunt lose color under the force of the glans hard against it. This swollen glans itself changed color, turned a duller red and was blunted at trying to enter her protesting flesh. The overhead light clearly showed her softly bristling cunt hairs bordered about the end of Turner's cock as he applied yet greater pressure with his loins.
"She's either got one of them snappin' turtle pussies or she's a heap leetler than I first thought," he said, as though to himself. Then he snarled at her, "Quit fightin' it, damn you! It ain't no use."
Flub gave an impassioned snort. "God a'mighty," he wept. "I ain't never see'd nothin' gooder'n this."
From behind, Jute's sweaty black flesh leaned into her back, his free hand kneaded her breasts and pinched their nipples while he sucked voraciously on her ear.
Impatience suddenly overcame Turner. He forgot his resolve to drag out this act of merciless rape as long as possible. In a fever of anxiety he commenced working his hips in small rotating-undulating movements. The blunt head of his prick against her cunt almost flattened as he again increased the pressure, and Stacy, at the same time, by sheer force of will alone, strove to strengthen her resisting flesh. Her efforts were futile. Such was not in the nature of things.
The pain sustained in her vaginal area grew rapidly, like the groundswell of an incoming tide, till it became a blistering sensation where Turner's flesh contacted hers. For one fleeting instant the image of her dead mother flashed through her mind and in the extremity of her despair she cried out piteously: "Mama, help me!"
None of the convicts heard her plea. Or gave no sign they heard. All were spellbound at sight of the thick hard prick gradually bludgeoning its way into the hot moistness of her defenseless, virginal cunt.
Turner lost all restraint and surged forward mightily.
A piercing shriek of the lost and damned ripped from Stacy's throat. The groundswell of pain burst into a blinding flash of raw, searing agony. She bucked and lurched in frenzied desperation to break free, but her struggles served only to deepen her impalement. Clammy sweat covered her golden body, glistened in the light. She though her brain would burst.
Then, suddenly, there was no pain. As quickly as it arrived it departed. She fell back against Jute, breasts heaving, conscious of a strange, expanded sensation in the region of her vagina as though someone had stuffed her with a large warm sausage. Her green eyes focused on the point of coupling. A wounded-animal whimper fluttered from her lips.
Turner's hungry prick was buried to the hilt in the dark mystery of her tender young cunt.
A hurricane of cataclysmic emotions gathered inside her, but vanished as quickly as had the pain.
That which happened to her then she was never to fully understand. She only knew it happened. Under less trying circumstances she would have been shocked, even revolted, by the serene calmness which descended without warning upon her. As it was, now that she need no longer be concerned with her virginity, she discovered she had a steel-trap grip on her emotions.
In the frequently inexplicable way the human mind at times functions in order to preserve its existence, this sudden change reconstituted and began to lift her shattered spirits. Once again the small voice far in the back of her mind insisted vehemently her survival, and now also the protection of her beloved father, were paramount. Then, strangely, in conjunction with this miraculous inner transformation, her subconscious mind presented her with a plan for her survival and her father's protection. She accepted this plan instinctively, without question. In truth, all the animal instincts of her healthy young body acquiesced immediately.
These things passed through her intellect with the speed of light. Little more than a second had passed since Turner had rammed the white-hot poker of his merciless obscenity into her vagina. During this brief time the convicts, even Turner, ogled in stupefied rapture at the pair of loins fused in lust. In her calmness and growing confidence, Stacy flicked her gaze over the trio, though Jute's face she could see only from the corner of her eye. The intelligence this quick glance gathered was exhilarating to the new Stacy, told her in no uncertain terms she could in large measure control these three savage, depraved beasts if only she played her cards carefully, if only she followed in detail the plan proffered by her subconscious.
It was the simple-looking Flub who broke the breathless silence.
"Ho holy Jesus-God," he mumbled inanely. "Goon, Rafe. Fuck her."
Without a moment's hesitation Stacy launched her plan stepped, as an accomplished actress, into the role which she believed would, in the end, help her outwit and destroy these three molesters.
"Shut up, Flub," she said casually, yet with the right amount of authority in her tone. "It's Rafe doing it. Let him fuck me the way he wants to."
The magic appearance of a dozen armed guards come to return the convicts to prison could not have produced a more vivid reaction. Flub boggled. Turner stared at her in sharp surprise. Behind her the powerful Jute cursed under his breath in wonder. To further shake their composure she turned her head, spoke over her shoulder in the same tone to the Negro.
"Turn me loose, Jute. There's no need to hold my wrists any longer."
Too dumbfounded to do otherwise, Jute promptly obeyed.
Next she exposed the man with his prick in her cunt to her most fetching, gamin smile, a smile that spoke of delicious secrets and amorous delights, the same smile she had in the past used, though in her innocence then, unconsciously, with devastating effect on other men. It now had little less effect on the brutal, prison-hardened Rafe Turner.
Stacy's heart soared. The plan was working! Oh please, most holy God, make it work!
Turner began recovering first. A glimmer of suspicion sprang into his eyes. Stacy moved to counter that suspicion.
"Well Rafe," she whispered intimately, chiding him. "Don't just stand there. Do you finish what you started or shall I call on Jute or Flub to finish it for you?"
In the urgency of the circumstances Turner did not answer. His bursting balls, his aching prick sunk in the well of her maiden juices, forbade an answer. He removed his hands from her waist and ran them under the bend of her knees, cradling her calves on his forearms, and began fucking into her.
Stacy, braced by her palms against the table top since Jute released her, worked herself further upright, gazing raptly on the fleshly coupling that joined her body to Turner's in a display of intense interest, which her new role demanded. For one tiny pinpoint of time her whole being was steeped in a silent scream of revulsion. But she caught the scream. Quickly, coldly strangled it. Protest had no place in her plan. Only compliance.
"You like this, leetle gal ? " Turner grunted, tone thick with increasing passion.
Stacy smiled dreamily, purred softly. "Mm-mmmm."
Strange that I feel so little, she thought. Nothing but his huge vileness sawing back and forth into me. Shortly before, immediately prior to her actual rape when Turner had stroked her clitoris, she had experienced an entirely different, even pleasurable, sensation. Now she felt nothing. Only the rhythmical mechanics of the big prick stuffing her vagina. She knew it wasn't supposed to be like this, but secretly she was glad. It gave her a sense of elation, of power. Despite what these three horrid monsters were forcing her to submit to, she was holding something back, preserving something of herself, for herself, for another time.
Even so, the interest she evinced was not all pretense. The visible functionings of the sex act itself held her enthralled. Sight of the ribbed, veined penis pistoning into her belly was close to stupefying in its effect. Each time Turner drew his hips rearward the tender flesh lining her passage clung to his hard meat as though reluctant to let it go, and when he advanced, gliding his root solidly to the innermost recesses of her body, this tender lining flowered about the invading shaft in greedy acceptance. The hard flesh of his marauding cock glistened under the light during each in-out stroke, lubricated by her lymphatic secretions. Down below the shaft she saw his balls swinging in measured cadence with his hip action.
A thick silence had settled over the room, a silence broken only by Turner's lustful grunts as he fucked her avidly.
Again, suddenly, Stacy wanted to scream in protest at this unspeakable defilement of the golden body she had always cherished and pampered, but again she quickly stifled the impulse. Patience and submission were the keys. She must endure. Her plan required it. It also required something else.
Into the forepart of Stacy's mind there was shoved the memory of Rene's enthusiastic response to getting fucked, and she knew if she were to be totally convincing in her pretense she must respond with no less fervor. She was also sure Tier reasoning in this was infallible. Once she had read a marriage counseling book which stated that during sexual intercourse the male's psychological satisfaction was determined largely by the uninhibited physical display of erotic pleasure he was able to produce in the female.
So be it, she told herself with icy logic. She could play that part too. As well as Rene and maybe even better.
In keeping with this decision she threw her head back between her shoulders, grimaced in passionate abandonment at the ceiling, repeating her sister's own words.
"It's good," she gasped. "It's good. It's good."
The effect this had on the man fucking her was startling. Turner gnashed his teeth in a surge of sensations, began pounding into her with the speed of a runaway rivet gun. His loins smacked her open crotch forcefully, his hands squeezed her belly flesh. Veins bulged on his muscle-corded neck and he had trouble with his breathing.
Stacy at once embellished her grisly masquerade with whines and mewls that fluttered from her lips as her body writhed and squirmed as if in an agony of passion, her forelegs beating the air all of which served her purpose very well.
Turner's horrendous cry of explosive relief smote the room. He stiffened, quivered, eyes protruding, and leaned against her while a puzzling warmth formed in Stacy's belly, blossomed quickly into a cozy hotness. Then from the spastic throbbing of the prick thrust into her cunt she realized the man was pumping his discharge into her womb, was flooding her secret places with his obscene fluid.
Gorge rushed to her throat, almost choked her. Now her total defilement was complete and absolute. She wondered vaguely if death would not be a blessing. But she dared not reveal this thought or even entertain it. Though she might reach a level of degradation where she lost concern for her own welfare, there was always her father's to consider. She had no inkling as to the extent or by what means Turner planned to revenge himself on her father, but her short association with the convict told her he was devoid of all compassion.
Therefore, when Turner sighed gustily with satisfaction, relaxed and made to sever the coupling, she gave him her most engaging smile, clamped her thighs about his waist, planted her heels against his naked buttocks.
"Surprised?" she queried happily.
He regarded her in amazement. "I shore am. What come over you all of a sudden like?"
"I'll explain later." She nudged him from behind with her heels. "Right now, hit it a few more licks before you take it out. Just for good measure."
She purred contentedly when he did as she asked and, seated straight as their position allowed, looked down from directly above to see his rigid meat moving slowly in and out of her vagina once more, felt the warm wetness of his copious discharge overflow, ooze out from around the shaft and crawl down the fleshy valley of her buttocks. She circled his neck with her soft arms, pecked at his lips with her own, and forced admiration in her tone and the look she gave him.
"I don't have anything to really judge by," she said softly, intimately, but loud enough for the others to hear, "but I'd say you are a lot of man, Rafe Turner." She placed her palms against his chest. "That's enough for now. We've worlds of time. And I must take care of Jute and Flub." She released him with her legs and he stepped back, pulling his cock from her body with a delicately sucking sound. She stood down at the end of the table, felt the twin rivulets of semen begin creeping down the inside surfaces of her thighs.
"Now me!" Flub croaked, passion impeding his normal speech. "I'm next!" His eyes had a wild look about them and his meaty face was splotched with unappeased lust. He reached for her but Stacy adroitly evaded his grasp.
"Shut up!" she snapped, green eyes flashing. "Keep your hands to yourself!"
This was the first test of her plan. She must know how much influence, if any, her pretended change in attitude had given her with these vile beasts. It might be a bit soon to tell, but at least she could try.
"What kind of man are you?" she stormed at Flub. "Will you enjoy yourself in another man's leavings?" She drew herself up proudly, stared him coldly in the eye. "No man touches me till I go to the bathroom and cleanse myself."
Flub fidgeted uncertainly in the agony of his need, not doubting a second he would do as this poon said. The sudden aura of authority about her he knew only too well, had submitted to it all his life because he was by nature of the lowest form of civilized society. Most of his life he had been told he was little better than a dog and had come to believe it. All of his life he had been treated like one and had accepted it. And now, had he been a dog in fact, he would have groveled beseechingly at her feet. Prison-programmed lout that he was, abject servility was a condition of existence with him.
Stacy's heart swelled with exultation at the effect her haughty demeanor had on the dull-witted oaf as she shifted her gaze to the man who had just screwed her and whose yangy sperm at the moment gorged her womb and matted the hair of her straddle.
From the first she had sensed Rafe Turner was the acknowledged leader of this despicable trio, and as their eyes met her expression changed to one of warm and tender intimacy. Their eyes held till she gave him her gamin grin, wrinkled her nose at him playfully, threw an impish moue at him through her smile.
"Am I not right, Rafe?" she asked in throaty innocence. "Is it not proper that I go clean up after each time?" Her gentle supplication had no less effect in degree on Turner than her hauteur had had on Flub.
" 'At's right," Turner agreed promptly. His thoughts were still in befuddled turmoil at the change that had come over the hated Judge Morgan's young daughter. It was downright mystifying. Yet even more flabbergasting was the gut-churning, earth-quaking orgasm she had given him. He'd had good poon before, but never any like hers. She'd sucked him dryer than a parched hog turd. He couldn't understand it. To veil his confusion he whirled on the cowed Flub.
"You ignernt son of a bitch!" he snarled savagely. "Mind your manners else I cut your god damn throat!"
"Aw, Rafe, I didn't mean nothin', " Flub began weakly. "Honest. I just thought . "
"Shut up!"
Flub seemed to diminish in size, to shrink inside himself, reminding Stacy of a whipped cur.
The look she gave Turner expressed a far greater gratitude than any mere words could have done. She turned her green eyes on the silent Jute, seated at the far end of the table, missing nothing, but saying nothing and sipping often from the bottle of whiskey before him. Her soul shivered in terror at thoughts of the coming moment when she must submit her body to that giant Negro. But submit it she must or . . .
Not one of the three pairs of eyes noted any evidence of her true feelings as she walked with queenly poise from the room. They saw only the regal posture, the seductive sway of her boyish hips, the maddening enticement of her superb buttocks. Nor could they note her furtive glance toward her father's gun case on the wall of the hallway leading to the bathroom. It was still there her father's favorite hunting rifle that he had taught her to use with enviable expertise a fifteen shot .30 caliber M-l carbine.
But the time was not yet.
First, she must have sex so often with the three convicts back there that they became satiated with it, must also convince them she was having the time of her life doing it. Perhaps then they would relax their guard. And after she gained their confidence she must convince each one individually, and secretly, that he was her preference over the other two.
She reached the bathroom and closed the door only a second before her steel-trap control shattered and reaction set in. She lunged toward the commode, fell to her knees beside it and remained there, insides churning with nausea as she vomited and gagged violently.
This could have been blessed relief, and in a manner, refreshing, were it not for the fact she must soon return to the naked, lust-inflamed convicts and be fucked repeatedly. She knew this was going to happen. Yet she would return anyway. She had to. There was no other way to save herself or learn Rafe Turner's plans regarding her father.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Fetch more whiskey, then get in the kitchen and fix us a mess of vittles," Turner told Stacy roughly when she returned to the three convicts. "I ain't et nothin' since them candy bars where we robbed that service station."
"Aw god, Rafe," the dull-witted Flub whined. "You said after she cleaned her cunt me 'n' Jute could have some. You done fucked her and busted her cherry and had her give you a hand-job, and me 'n' Jute ain't had nothin'. "
Turner looked at the escaped convict who had been the outstanding dunce of Cell Block-9 where he, Rafe Turner, had been block boss a position among prison inmates gained and held only by vicious animal cunning and merciless brutality.
"Shut up, Flub," he said dispassionately. "I may not let you fuck 'er at all. Now get in the kitchen with her to make sure she don't go out the back door whilst me and Jute are busy drinkin' a passel of her pappy's store-bought likker."
A chill of icy terror shot through Stacy at these words. The fact that Flub was being sent to guard her while she cooked meant her hasty ploy of a while ago had been less effective than she thought. Nausea moved greasily in the pit of her stomach as Turner, his dangling cock puffy and pinkish-looking from its recent invasion of her body, stepped close, leered arrogantly down at her and tweaked her cheek between thumb and forefinger.
"I reckon you liked that fuckin' I give you right well, didn't you, leetle gal?"
Stacy forced a bright smile on her stiff lips, nodding enthusiastically. Again, and with greater clarity than before, she realized there was no longer any sense in a hopeless resistance. Her one main chance for survival was to keep close to Rafe Turner. She felt sure the harsh tone he used on her when she'd returned from the bathroom was just a reminder to the others he could be cold and cruel.
One of the Morgan family's rules regarding their cabin in the mountains was to leave it spic and span following each visit. Therefore Stacy was in no way surprised to find the kitchen spotlessly clean, with everything neatly in its place. Flub followed behind her, his lust-bulging eyes fixed on the provocative action of her young ass.
Son of a bitch! If he didn't get his prick in this tasty little poon before long he'd be climbing the fuggin' wall. Five years he'd been in stir, five long, miserable god damned years without any poon at all without even any round-eye from the fiesty-assed little gal-boys in prison because they had pegged him as a dumb-john. But he was out of stir now, and the delicious little poon walking in front of him was anything but a gal-boy. Maybe she'd let him suck her while he jacked-off, he thought blissfully. But Rafe had said no, and if Rafe caught him even sucking her . . .
"Now you do like Rafe done said and fix us up a mess of vittles and don't do no monkey business," Flub said to Stacy when they reached the kitchen. "You try to 'scape and Rafe'll get mad. And you ain't never seen nobody get mad till you seen Rafe get mad. Remember, now." He ran a lascivious tongue over his lips and glutted on her naked beauty with his eyes. By god Rafe Turner had better . . .
"I'll remember," Stacy said in a low voice, the fetid lust-stench of the convict almost choking her. Despite this, in turning to commence her task she, seemingly accidentally, caused the smooth flesh of her hip and buttock to graze Flub's protruding cock.
Flub started from the electric shock of their flesh contacting, sucked air noisily into his lungs and all but grabbed her. Stacy gave him a lazy, fetching smile that rocked him back on his heels. A more astute person might have suspected her ruse then and there, but Flub only saw that she smiled at him. He fumbled his way into a chair at the table, giddy with visions of lust.
Stacy lent herself to her task of preparing a meal from the plentiful supply of canned foods with as much energy and zest as she could gather after the horrible beating her body had taken. She was a bit surprised the soreness between her legs was not more pronounced, considering her brutal ravishment, but she had always been a horse-back riding enthusiast, and perhaps that had something to do with it.
The dense Flub's glutting eyes followed her about the kitchen as though she were some powerful magnet that held him in its grip. He gouged at his nose and dug at his crotch as she took an apron from a drawer and donned it about her tiny waist.
" 'At's right," he grinned oafishly. "Don't want no grease to pop out and burn that cute little pussy of yourn." He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder toward the front room, from which came the sounds of Rafe and Jute talking quietly. "Come here a minute."
"What do you want?" Stacy said, a trickle of fear creeping up her spine. "I don't think Rafe would like you bothering me now."
"Piss on Rafe Turner," Flub said with a quiet viciousness that suddenly made her heart sing. "He ain't god. 'Sides, I only wanted to smell you again."
The greasy nausea in her stomach lurched frighteningly, but she smiled at the dolt with interest. "Is that all?"
Flub nodded loutishly, sent another hasty look toward the front room.
"Do you promise?" Stacy insisted, moving toward where the convict sat. Her throat was thick with revulsion from what she was about to do, but she meant to do it, nevertheless. It might help her later on.
Flub nodded, his look hang-dog. "I promise."
"Then here; but just one smell." With this Stacy flicked up the ruffled apron and stepped close, naked loins an inch from the seated man's face, and closed her eyes in disgust as he leaned forward and buried his face in the golden fleece of her vagina, breathing deeply. Her soul cringed as he nuzzled hungrily at that part of her sex he could reach without her lifting a leg.
"Hey!" came Rafe Turner's strident call from the front room. "It's mighty god damned quiet in there. How's them vittles comin'? "
Stacy backed away quickly, dropping her apron while Flub clutched at his genitals in male torment.
"She's fixin' 'em real good, Rafe," he called over his shoulder. For a moment Stacy thought he would begin masturbating in his distress.
Stacy didn't look at him as she went about her work, knowing very well his eyes were glued to her naked body.
"Hurry it up," Flub at last said impatiently, after watching her open several cans of Salisbury steaks. "Can you? Ain't none of us et much since the break. I'm starvin'. "
"It'll be ready in a minute or so," she answered coldly. Not only had they ravished her helpless young body till she was almost beyond shame, but now they were forcing her to act as a servant. "We'll eat in here in the kitchen," she continued in the same vein. "Tell them to come on."
She hurried as fast as she could in setting the table and getting the food on it. When they had seated themselves and began wolfing the meal amid accompanying slurps and grunts of animal appreciation she remained standing in order to serve. It was really the first time she had seen all three of them when her mind wasn't befogged by terror or shock, and she could feel a cold, harsh chill run quickly the length of her spine as she studied the escaped convicts in silence.
Jute, the huge Negro, was heavy-shouldered and not so tall as she had first assumed him to be. Yet, anything he lacked in height he made up for in breadth. He was broad, with ropes of bulging muscles, and as she studied him she remembered the way he walked. It reminded her dimly of an ape with his long, swinging arms that were out of proportion to the rest of his body. It almost appeared as though he could touch the ground without bending over much farther than his natural stance. His face was thick and his broad, flat nose, of the Central African Negro type, set deeply between his cheeks.
Flub was one of the most repulsive persons she had ever seen. His build was completely out of proportion. He had a little, undersized head that seemed as though it belonged to a body many times smaller than the hulking one he possessed. When he walked the head was carried forward aggressively, as though he were about to shove it into or through something. His eyes were almost tiny, and sunk deep into his head, and usually the semi-moron's typical half-smile was always playing across his mouth, even when he was trying to concentrate.
Rafe Turner was a powerful, well-built man in his early thirties who carried himself with an arrogant confidence befitting his position as leader of the deadly trio. He had powerful, thick-fingered hands that she could still remember coursing over her body as he had ravished her on the table in the other room. His nails were closely trimmed and she still winced slightly each time she moved from the marks his fingers had made on her body while he was fucking her. There was a certain aloof independence mingled with savage animal furious-ness about the man that terrified her. In her heart she knew he possessed nothing whatsoever in the way of human compassion. There was no doubt of the tremendous strength he had; she could still feel the imprints from his fingers on her hips and upper thighs where he had grasped her flesh when he raped her.
She feared him much more than the loutish Flub or the silent Jute. There was about the man an aura of controlled savagery one is prone to associate with a wounded tiger. She felt positive there would be no reasoning with or mercy from Rafe Turner should the dormant, destructive forces inside him ever be unleashed. God have pity on that person against whom those forces were directed.
Stacy felt the icy hand of death touch her heart. Could Rafe Turner be planning to use these forces, this power, to harm her father?
Her wonderful, magnificent father. A hard little ball of ice gathered in her stomach.
She kept the plates filled and stood back a few feet from the table, watching them eat as silently as their swinish manners allowed. There could be little question as to what their thoughts were about. She could detect each of them in turn staring at her out of the corners of their eyes with animalistic gazes that could mean only one thing. Dear god, have mercy!
She kept her eyes on Rafe Turner as she cowered back from the table. Out of necessity she had accepted him as protector, and for the first time in her young life began to understand the reasoning behind the survival of the human race. A few short hours ago she had been a sheltered and innocent girl who believed in all the things she had learned about the inviolability of the virgin female form, and how it should be protected at all costs. Now, suddenly, she shared a deep sympathy with all the abducted and violated females since the beginning of time the tender young vestal virgins of Rome who were ravaged by the Huns from the north; the pioneer women forced into subjugation by savage Indians; the ravished women of Europe following World War II. All of them, each one, from want of food and protection from greater indignities, had accepted protectors they otherwise would have been repulsed by. The weakest had to choose the strongest for survival's sake.
Providing, Stacy thought dismally, the strongest wanted them.
Rafe wanted her; they all wanted her, but if she were to survive, learn of the trio's plans against her beloved father and somehow, thwart those plans, she must lean toward Rafe. She had no illusions this would save her from the lustful attentions of the other two depraved animals, but she could think of no other way at the moment.
It was apparent Rafe Turner felt the power he possessed over the naive young daughter of Edward J. Morgan. He ate with a quiet confidence, albeit smacking his lips and occasionally rendering a noxious burp, but never once raising his eyes to look directly into hers. He knew she was there and knew she was his by virtue of his leadership over the trio. His hold on her, he reasoned, was his strength and cunning, and whatever protection he might choose to offer.
"Bring whiskey." He spoke to her for the first time since beginning to eat. "And fetch four glasses. I aims to see how the great Senator Morgan's leetle gal can stand up under a big jolt of likker."
"Duh," Flub blurted. "Morgan ain't no senator."
"Not yet he ain't," replied Turner caustically. "But he will be. He always did know what side of the bread carried the sweetest butter. My old friend, Edward J. Morgan, the sneak-in'est, low-downest, motherfuckin'est son of a bitch what ever walked the face of god's green earth and that's a fact."
Stacy stared, aghast that a man of her father's stature might know a vile beast like Rafe Turner. In the nick of time she caught herself, with gut-wrenching force brought her emotions and expression under control as she went to get whiskey and glasses. She gave Turner the same slow, lazy smile she'd given Flub earlier.
She watched silently by his side as he poured a drink for each, hers a bit more full than the others. He pushed it over the table to her.
"Drink it all without stoppin', " he commanded, apparently gloating at demonstrating his power over her.
"How come you say her Pa was a friend of yours?" The words came from Jute's massive chest like the rumble of distant thunder.
"On account of it's true. When he was hossin' to be judge he used to come back here in these mountains to fish and hunt. That's when me and him come to a knowin' of each other. I got to thinkin' of him as the finest man in the whole fuggin' world. But that was then. That was before he frigged me."
"In the ass?" Flub wheedled. "Did it hurt?"
"You ignernt son of a bitch," Turner spat. "He took my home and land and sent me to prison for life. If that ain't a friggin' I'd like to know what is."
Stacy looked at the small tumbler of whiskey Turner had ordered her to drink. With all the horrible lies she was hearing about her father, perhaps it was best she drink it quickly to shore her self-control. She raised the glass and took a small sip, feeling the liquid burning all the way down. It made her feel slightly sick. Then she saw Turner's eyes glued on her and she lifted the glass again for a larger swallow. She almost coughed it up. A light-headedness swirled through her senses as she tilted the glass and turned it bottom up, finishing it to the last drop.
"She done it!" Flub marveled, a gleeful ring in his voice.
"Naturally," Turner said pridefully. "I told her to. She's my poon and nary one of you bastards touchin' her without my say-so."
"Aw god," Flub said. "'At ain't right, Rafe. She's got enough poon for us all."
"What you acting so protectful about, Rafe?" Jute asked. "It don't make no sense what with the thing you plan on doing to her father and all."
Stacy spun toward the sink to conceal her expression at mention of her father, and busied herself with rattling cooking utensils, heart pounding with anxiety. Perhaps, at last, she'd learn what plans these animals had concerning her father. She prayed silently she was right.
She wasn't. Not exactly. She only learned something terrible was about to come to him, the final details of their plan to be worked out with the arrival of Labe, Rafe Turner's young brother.
"He's a smart'un, that Labe," the older Turner mused into his whiskey glass. "Give me the plans on how to break out of stir and the god damned screws right there lookin' down the back of my neck. Them folks out west what adopted him when I was sent up sure fetched him up right. Weren't nothin' but a nubbin when they got him, and they did him fit and proper." He raised his eyes to Stacy, facing the trio now, leaning against the sink. "Come here, leetle gal. I'm needin' me another piece of poon."
"Aw god," Flub groaned. "Whyn't you aim-in' to let me and Jute get none of it. We all took her together."
Turner did not answer him. When he spoke again it was Stacy he addressed, and she was not aware of a certain quiet deadliness in his tone.
"I told you to come here, leetle gal."
All three convicts had gorged themselves on the meal she had prepared, and now sat with chairs pushed back away from the table. Dumbly Stacy went to stand beside Rafe Turner's chair. With a single motion he reached behind and jerked free the small apron she had been wearing. She gasped, tried instinctively to cover her exposed sex while groping on the floor for the flimsy covering.
"Leave it be," Turner commanded roughly. "And get back up here beside me. Jute ain't never seen no white ass before and I aims to show him what he's been missin'. "
Stacy hesitated, still hunkered on the floor where she kept vainly trying to cover herself. Her arms folded tightly over her firm, overdeveloped breasts that swayed voluptuously from her bending torso. Her legs were clamped tightly together in effort to hide the silken, golden-hued treasure between her thighs. For the moment forgetting her resolution of submissive compliance, she began to tremble.
"Get up, leetle gal," Turner growled. "Me and the boys want another good look at what sort of fuckin' material Ed Morgan brang into the world."
Stacy's heart skipped a beat when she rose and looked from one escaped convict to the other, her eyes coming to rest on Turner. Why had she ever dreamed she might depend on this vile beast for protection from the others ? Was she mad? There was no compassion in the hard, cold stare he gave her. No mercy. Nothing but a look of animal lust.
Turner got slowly to his feet and so did the others. He took her by the arm.
"Let's all go back in the big room," he said, drawing her after him. "Light in there is better for fuckin'. "
"Rafe," Flub whined when they reached the area of the front room where she had been brutally raped. "You just ain't got no right to keep us offa her." His piggish little eyes bulged as they followed the ripe contours of Stacy's curved hips to the soft, silken fleece at the juncture of her thighs. "We all in this together, ain't we, Rafe?"
Turner knew his dull-witted cohort was correct. He had no right to keep him and Jute from fucking the girl till they got their bellies full. As leader of the trio he could command them not to touch her and they would obey for a time. When they decided to disobey the command it would cost him his leadership, which in turn might prevent him from wrecking vengeance on the girl's father. And by god nobody on the face of the earth was going to prevent that. He'd suffered too long and too bitterly. So he'd have to let Jute and Flub fuck her to keep them content, but he meant to make them work for it. He stepped up close behind Stacy, his upangled cock coming to rest in the cleavage of her buttocks, and reached around to cup one of her breasts in each horny palm.
"I reckon you're right at that, Flub." He fondled her nipples and Stacy cringed inside her skin. "You boys really want a little touch of this poon?"
Flub's eyes locked greedily onto Stacy's naked body and his tongue lashed out to whip around his open mouth. Jute stared in silent lust.
"You mean you're goin' to let us at her?" the big Negro asked.
"At all depends," Turner said slowly, savoring the suspense. "How much money you boys got from that service station hold-up?" He leered at them slyly.
"You aimin' to sell her to us?" Flub blurted.
"Who said 'sell,' lame brain?" Turner retorted. "I'm thinkin' about five-card draw, or maybe a leetle blackjack."
"But you always win, Rafe," Flub replied. " 'Sides, the whole kitty at that service station didn't come to more'n a hundred dollars."
"I don't always win," Turner said. "I just been lucky." He juggled Stacy's breasts from behind. "Take a look at these fine titties, Jute. They pure white meat what ain't never been sucked."
Stacy shrank back at the man's words. He was offering her as prize in a game of chance. It wasn't possible! Dear God, where are You? This inhuman beast was going to use her as stakes in a card game.
"Please don't," she stammered. She had never imagined she could bring herself to beg from such a degrading position, but she had no choice. It was total subjugation in return for survival and a hope of learning their plans for her father. But she tried instinctively. "Please don't do this to me."
"Shut up," Turner said blandly. "You thought when I finished fuckin' you on the table and you jerked Flub up short that things was goin' to be better, didn't you? Well, they ain't. Now just keep your trap shut and let me concentrate on the game. We'll make it blackjack, boys."
"How much money I gotta have?" Flub asked. Visions of the poor, helpless white body of Stacy Morgan rolling and tossing while speared on his hard, driving cock flickered through his mind like a pornographic film.
"You got to have however much you got,"
Turner said. "The man what cleans house gets this leetle gal for the night. Morgan keeps his playin' cards in that small table yonder in the corner." He shoved Stacy toward the corner. "Fetch us a deck. Okay, boys. Gather round. We'll cut high card for the deal."
CHAPTER FIVE
Stacy stumbled toward the table for a deck of her father's cards, remembering Rafe Turner had been given advance information concerning the cabin; a knowledge he had displayed when he'd ordered Jute to check on her father's firearms and specifying by name the brand of whiskey he knew the Judge kept on hand. This advance information must be in even greater detail than she assumed. Again, who had collected this information ? Who knew her father the Morgan family intimately enough to know the location of playing cards at their mountain retreat?
Under the lustful eyes of the three sex-starved convicts she carried a deck of the cards back to where they sat around the big table on which she had been ravished. Maybe the game would go on all night. At least they wouldn't be fucking her and playing at the same time. She hoped.
"Awright," Jute said. "I go along, only the winner gets to do whatever he wants with her. Is that right?"
"Right," Turner said. "Only don't plan on nothin', ary one of you. I aim to win the whole kit and kaboodle and keep her to fuck all by my lonesome."
There was no further discussion and Turner made Stacy bring whiskey and glasses as the game got underway. It was obvious he was enjoying the lustful, covetous glances the others cast her naked white body, and decided to extend his domination over them as far as he deemed feasible. So he forced Stacy to stand by him and keep their glasses full. She knew nothing of the game of blackjack, but watched each hand with growing consternation, and could feel her heart quicken with apprehension each time a large pot changed hands. Then she caught herself. What difference did it make to her who won ? Either way she would be forced to submit to unspeakable defilement repeatedly. Briefly she had imagined she might somehow, someway, ally herself with the leader of this murderous trio and thereby obtain a measure of protection. She could not have been more mistaken. She knew this now.
Turner made her take another glass of whiskey, and she found herself sipping more heavily as time passed with agonizing slowness. The light-headedness she felt from the other glasses she'd been forced to drink in the kitchen returned with this second glass. She needed the whiskey, needed it to give her courage to keep from fainting as she watched the three lust-swollen animals decide her fate with a deck of cards. She could feel her legs wobbling slightly as she lifted the glass more and more frequently to her lips. Turner, who had lost the deal to Jute's blackjack, was losing steadily.
Jute's thick lips were broadening in a smile as the game continued. He was whittling more and more money away from both Turner and the stupid Flub. Winning anything from Flub was no great credit. Back in stir the ignorant bastard didn't have enough on the ball to afford a piece of prison round-eye from the gal-boys and had to satisfy himself with jacking-off. Winning from Rafe Turner was another matter entirely. The man was not only an expert, but played with the furiousness of a hammerhead shark. Jute meant to be cautious of being too cocky at winning from Rafe Turner. More than once he had witnessed a display of Turner's insane fury when crossed or bested. Nevertheless, he meant to fuck that little golden-bodied white gal before sunrise.
After another quarter hour of intense play Flub groaned in mortal anguish. He was out of the game, busted wide. He rose, threw his cards to the table with a disappointed flourish, and slumped dejectedly in a chair across the room, licking his lips noisily as his beady little eyes fixed on Stacy's vagina.
Despite herself her spirits rose somewhat at this minor turn of events. At least the dim-witted beast wouldn't be fucking her tonight. This lift of spirits was short-lived, however. A few minutes later Turner stood pat on seventeen and the ape-like Jute made twenty-one, which took most of the gang leader's money. She poured another round of drinks, purposely filling all glasses, excepting hers, to the brim. She hoped the alcohol might dull their minds and thereby prolong the game, or even put them to sleep. This hope was quickly dashed when she recalled the enormous amounts of Lem Mot-low the three had already consumed. And even now, over the card game, the two players absently quaffed from their tumblers as though the whiskey was water.
Stacy tilted her glass in a long swallow. She had to steady herself against the back of Turner's chair to keep from reeling backwards. With the greater impact of the additional whiskey she had taken, her nakedness and that of her captors was almost forgotten. Her eyes were slightly out of focus now and she had trouble keeping them riveted in one spot. The table seemed to be revolving slowly round and round, and she wondered if she'd manage to stay on her feet. The alcohol helped cushion the stark reality of her predicament, but deep in her mind she knew nothing but total unconsciousness could blot out the horrible truth of her immediate circumstances. She was nothing but a pawn in the hands of three subhuman escaped convicts, whose leader had a rabid lust for revenge against her father that was a sickness.
"Gotcha!" Jute suddenly chortled gleefully, flipping over the ace of clubs and the queen of spades. "Blackjack, by god!" He added hastily, "And it was all fair and square, Rafe, and you know it."
"That breaks me," Turner said, forcing a wry grin. "You the luckiest son of a bitch tonight I ever did see."
Jute sat quiet for a moment, as though still unable to believe his good fortune, then sprang wildly to his feet.
"Eeeeeeyahaaaaa!" he screamed, clapping his massive hands and doing a little jig. "I know a yellar-hair white gal that's gonna get fucked tonight like they ain't one never been fucked before." He did the jig again. "You can have some too, man," he said to Rafe. "On account of I knowed you was just foolin' me and ole Flub when you said we couldn't fuck her."
By way of gratitude Turner offered his wolfish grin. He was still top dog; in so many words the big Negro had just told him so. All along he'd known he would fuck the girl whenever he liked, regardless of how the game turned out.
"What about me?" Flub charged from his chair. "Ain't nothin' in the rules that says you can't let me fuck 'er a few times."
"Why sure, Flub, ole buddy-buddy," Jute said expansively. "I reckon you can dip your stick in her if you want."
Flub almost blubbered his gratitude.
"And now," Jute said, getting to his feet, his eyes on Stacy, "it's time to fuck." He crooked a finger in her direction. "Come here, white gal. I'm gonna give you a full ration of strong he-stud black meat."
Stacy poured herself a glass almost full of the sour mash whiskey and drank in large gulps without stopping until the glass was empty. Her mind ran to all sorts of ways she might escape the cruel ravishment she knew she was going to be subjected to by the huge Negro, but none were plausible. Her situation was hopeless. As her mind raced in desperation she thought of death, but there was no way to kill herself, even if she had the courage to do so. She gagged on the whiskey, thought for a moment she would be sick; but even that was denied her. Nothing could come to her rescue. No one even knew she had gone from the Morgan home. And even if they missed her, they wouldn't know where to begin looking.
She filled the glass again and downed as much of it in one swallow as she could. She gagged, but forced the rest down against the rebellion of her stomach. The dulling effect slowly began to take over her body. She could feel her sense of touch deadening in the tips of her fingers as she clung to the glass. Her eyes rolled slightly in her head and she slammed the glass down on the table, almost breaking it. She wished desperately that she could be sick. She wished anything would happen that might make her less desirable to the three animals watching her; anything to save her from the awful fate she knew was coming. It had been bad enough to be raped on the table, but now the raw edge of shock had worn thin compared to what she at present felt. Before her rape she had only suspected what it might be like, but now she knew. Now she was conscious and fully aware of what they were about to do to her, of the indignities they would force her to accept from them. She reached for the bottle to refill her glass yet again.
"Hold it!" Jute was around the table in a flash, his naked black body gleaming in the light. "You had enough," he boomed. "I don't want no dead piece of white meat under me when I'm gettin' my kicks. Hear me?"
Stacy nodded dumbly, the reeling in her body intensifying with each passing second. Not till that moment did she realize how pointless, how hopeless, how utterly naive had been her plan to pit these beasts one against the other till they killed each other off.
Nor would it help for her to show resistance. They would probably enjoy it, actually, as school boys deriving sadistic pleasure in tearing wings from a beautiful butterfly simply because it was beautiful. No, fighting back would only make matters worse and she couldn't endure the situation long without losing her mind. Yet she must bear up till she got a chance to escape. She knew that chance would come. It had to come. Her own willpower and courage were the only things she had in the world. She was alone.
"You sure got a neat-lookin' little pussy there, white gal," Jute grinned.
Stacy automatically jumped back as his massive hand reached out and began stroking the soft, resilient pubic growth at the base of her tummy.
"Freeze, bitch," he snarled suddenly.
The cruel, unyielding tone of his voice immobilized her. She stood cringing next to where he had slouched down in a chair. Her face crimsoned at the indignity of having to stand there unable to move as his huge black fingers coursed around the secret protective parts of her genitals. She was aware of the lustful snickers of the imbecilic Flub as he watched. She moaned softly in shame when she felt the tip of a finger part the golden fleece and push itself into her labia. It was still moist from her earlier fucking and she heard Jute's mutter of approval as he explored her openness.
Rafe Turner still sat slumped over the table, eyes gazing coldly around as he watched the jubilant Jute working himself into a sexual frenzy that he knew would soon erupt in a volcano of rape. With all his soul he wanted to get up and smash his fist into the Negro's face till there was nothing left but a bloody, unrecognizable mass of flesh because of what he was doing to Stacy Morgan. Not through any particular feeling for the girl far from it, the little Morgan slut but because he had possessed her and in so doing had possessed something the others had not, and now they would have it too. Come to think of it, he'd probably have to kill Jute, and Flub too, as well as the girl, after they'd knocked off her old man. Labe had said the fewer witnesses left behind, the fewer chances of getting caught, and Labe was smart, that boy was.
"Flub," Jute said, pointing to a long couch beyond the end of the table. "See if that ain't one of the sofa things that folds out into a bed." He looked up at Stacy, finger still probing her vulva. "I'm goin' to slide my cock right up in this little hole of yours nice and easy like."
"Yeah, Jute," Flub said excitedly, hopping about behind his hard on as he pulled the couch out into a full-sized double bed.
"Ah," Jute breathed, getting to his feet and gripping Stacy's arm. "Come on, baby. That's where you get fucked the rest of the night."
"You promised I could fuck her, Jute," Flub whined.
" 'At's right, ole buddy-buddy. But later, man, later. I fucks her first and that's a fact."
He twisted Stacy's arm behind her back, pushed her toward the bed. She clinched her teeth tightly against the pain in her twisted arm; and it was almost with relief that she felt herself being forced down on the mattress, for it made him release his cruel grip on her wrist.
She lay unresisting before the three convicts, slim and voluptuously curved at the buttocks that flowered out teasingly from her narrow waist. She moaned in a half-daze, intensifying the erotic picture her innocent, almost un-fucked body presented to the leering eyes around her.
She lay trembling, face pressed into the bed, teeth closed solidly on a mouthful of sheet as in defense against agonies to come. She was cowed, unable to resist and not caring to move. She had resisted as best she could, and whatever they took would only be the spoils of a greater physical strength, not the conquering of her soul.
Let them fuck her, damn it. Let them rut into her beaten body, but not one of the vile, unwholesome monsters had ever better turn his back on her if a weapon was handy.
Suddenly, she felt Jute's hands moving over her back and she quivered. Dear god, it was about to begin.
"Turn around here, white gal," he rumbled lustfully. "Turn around here and get a look at what a real he-stud nigger cock looks like."
She didn't want to turn around. She already knew what his penis looked like. Each time her eyes had come in contact with the thing she had quickly averted them, shuddering. Then she felt Jute's hands tangling in her hair.
He jerked her head up and around a few inches off the bed. Her eyes opened automatically and her face contorted in horror at a close-up view of the long, thick black prick he wagged over her head. It was monstrous, and webbed all along the underside with heavy, throbbing veins, giving grim warning in advance of his lustful state. Her eyes trailed a slow path up the length of his torso to his face, a piteous and useless plea in their depth asking for mercy. There was no mercy. Nothing but a cold and unyielding black face staring down at her.
"Get her arms and hold 'em out wide, boys," he said. "Just in case she tries to get cute."
Stacy felt her arms seized; one each by Flub and Turner, and drawn out to the side so far her joints hurt.
" 'At's it. Now hold her like that." Jute's voice quivered from the salacious thoughts of what he was about to do to this young, golden-bodied white poon, and his thick black cock ached as it had never ached before in his life. He dropped to the bed and rolled across the full length of her back, his face pressed into the clean soft odor of her hair.
Stacy winced from his weight and struggled weakly, but unseen hands forced her hard into the mattress. Jute's knees behind her were slowly forcing her knees apart with a relentless pressure that hurt the tender backside of her thighs and calves.
She strained with all her power to keep her legs closed, but it was no use. With a surge of breath from her lungs her resistance broke and Jute dropped down between her legs, which were spread out so wide her toes hung off on either side of the bed. A low, helpless sob escaped her tightly closed lips as she felt the hardness of his penis make wet contact with the soft inner flesh of her thighs. He moved forward, ensconced the full length of his cock along the widely stretched crevice of her buttocks. Her shoulders were so tight against the bed her struggles were limited to her lower torso. Her ass squirmed and twisted beneath him, inciting his lust to the utmost.
"Get up on your knees," he breathed into her hair.
She tried to stiffen her body by pressing tighter into the mattress. Bitter tears of anger and fear welled from her eyes, wetting the sheet under her face as she felt his hot skin pressing against her, covering the entire length of her prostrate body.
When she did not obey his command to raise to her knees, powerful hands seized her hips and pulled them high off the bed. Other hands pushed against the back of her neck to hold her head against the bed.
She relaxed as best she could. There was nothing left now but horrible, humiliating submission to the three convicts' every obscene desire. Her body was a helpless toy to be used as they chose in their quest for lustful gratification--gratification that would only cease when they had pumped all their fuck-liquids into the dark softness of her belly.
Kneeling behind her, Jute gazed down at the full white moons of her naked ass stretched up in sacrificial offering to him. His eyes bulged with uncontrolled lust. Jesus-God! He'd never seen anything like it. His balls felt like they would explode. He wanted to thrust forward at once into the narrow, teasing slit before him, but he held himself back, purposely torturing himself with anticipation of the moment when he would thrust forward and slide his throbbing black cock deep between the full white moons of her proud little ass. She was an arrogant little bitch, and he wanted to break her more than anything else in the world right then. He wanted to feel her squirming beneath him, needing him as much as he needed her. That would be the ultimate conquest; a proud, white bitch who was repulsed and horrified by the thought of a black convict cock fucking into her suddenly turning animal and losing all control, forgetting who she was, where she was, forgetting everything but the overpowering need to be fucked till she couldn't walk.
By god, he would make the little white bitch squirm one way or the other and like the fucking she was about to get whether she wanted to like it or not.
For a few torturing moments he ground his cock around the narrow crevice of her ass, pressing the soft, quivering cheeks together to enclose it like a warm, closely fitting glove. He leaned forward and planted a moist kiss with his big rubbery lips along the center of her spine, and felt her shiver beneath him. She groaned slightly as her body shook from the wet contact at her loins and back.
Then he withdrew a bit and ran his tongue slowly, wetly down the full length of her back until he reached the tightly clenched cleavage of her ass, high off the bed. Her shoulders were still held down hard against the mattress by the two other convicts.
Jute dropped his hands to the satiny-textured, rounded buttocks, placed his thumbs on either side of the soft, resilient cheeks, and pressed outward gently. He knew this was the time for patience. This little white poon had passed the first stages of submission by violence and fear, but now the conquest needed a change of tactics. The unexpected switch from pain and brutality to one of tenderness and caressing of her sensitive flesh could well catch her off-guard.
Stacy had subconsciously programmed her mind to fight the pain and humiliation, and therefore was not prepared for gentleness and sensuous pleasure. Her buttocks clenched together against the pressure Jute exerted with his thumbs, and he eased off slightly, yet kept up a constant easy tension until the straining muscles of her inner thighs slowly tired and relaxed. His face was couched on the same level with her pink cunt-flesh and as he watched, eyes protruding with lust, the lips of her vagina slowly parted before the almost imperceptible outward pull of his thumbs. From his vantage point he could see a slight moisture forming and glistening on the velvety insides of her thighs as she relaxed more, letting her backside spread wider and wider apart.
He moved his face forward, careful not to shake the bed or disturb the seeming trust his gentleness was building inside her. His face was a few scant inches from the soft pubic floss covering her tender young cunt, and the aphrodisiacal perfume flowing there--from flanged his nostrils and all but cracked his reason. He gulped noisily as his thumbs pressed outward and her cherished secret flowered open to his frozen gaze until suddenly it was completely open and the soft inner-flesh of her tantalizing young cunt came into view. It was pink and smooth and the moisture of her secretions was much heavier; glistening and wet on the inside surfaces of her thighs.
Jute took a deep breath, then exhaled softly into her. She squirmed, and he could hear a faint groan slipping from her lips. She tried smally to move, but Turner and Flub held her firmly in place. She was becoming quiet now, and her movements were not one of escape or fear, but of reflex from his breath on the softness of her secret parts. She sighed, and let her muscles, which had been keyed against brutality, relax into a loose tranquility.
Then there was something warm and wet making strange, magical circles along the length of her naked, unprotected back. She shivered slightly as it worked its way slowly down to the rounded globes of her ass, widely exposed behind her.
"Ahhhhh!" she sighed, and relaxed further with a great feeling of warmth and peace as suddenly her straddle felt open and wet as it had never felt before, with some mysterious, outward pressure pushing against her. She did not resist, and another long, low mewl escaped her as she let herself be pulled open wide. She tried to move her shoulders, but they were locked tightly to the mattress by unseen hands.
Jute, kneeling behind her with his thumbs holding wide the cleavage of her buttocks, grinned an obscene grin. He sensed her thoughts and knew he had won his battle of patience as the cheeks of her ass slowly relaxed in front of his excited face. He pulled them wider apart till all her crotch stood open and unprotected before him.
Slowly he raised his head and pressed his face forward, pushing his open mouth hard against the slit of her cunt. She squirmed slightly and he tightened his grip on her buttocks so she could not slip away, and with one quick rush of his thick tongue, thrust it forward into the warm, fleshy folds of her pussy.
Because of the extent to which the whiskey had dulled her awareness, Stacy only gasped from this unexpected entry into her body, and a surprised sigh smothered itself against the mattress She had jerked forward with the first hot, teasing contact in an involuntary spasm of delight, then screwed her buttocks hard back against his face. Her cunt contracted, opening and closing tightly around the long, smooth length of his tongue sunk deep inside her. Her breath exploded down into the bed in small, quick gasps that muffled themselves into tiny mewling grunts. She began twisting her face harder and harder into the bed as he began a sudden purling and flicking of the wet, moist tongue imbedded inside her. He pushed his lips closer and began to work at the entirety of her backside, sucking and licking at it crazily while her buttocks throbbed and swayed around his face.
"Holy balls on a rattlesnake!" Flub gasped in open-mouthed wonder as he watched with unbelieving eyes her sudden and complete surrender to the wildly licking tongue in her cunt. His simple, prison-nurtured intellect did not bother to inform him the molested girl had withdrawn slightly, briefly, from reality because of alcohol.
Rafe Turner said nothing; only held Stacy's arm out straight and inwardly gloated that this was happening to the daughter of the son of a bitch who had sentenced him to imprisonment for life for killing a man he didn't know; a man he had never even seen or heard of.
Behind the kneeling Stacy, Jute worked slave-like, his tongue withdrawing and plunging in a manner that produced a sucking, sluicing noise with each cycle. The girl's cries were one long, low continuous moan now, as he pulled his tongue from the juicy warmth of her trembling cunt, found the hard, erect little clitoris and licked it avidly. Then he pushed his face farther under her crotch and began to suck and tease it gleefully with his teeth. Stacy began to writhe and buck her buttocks above him in a lewd dance of desire.
"Ahhhhh!" she chanted. "Ahhhhh!" her body and mind completely out of control from the whiskey she had drunk and from the delicious sucking of her straddle. With a lewd and triumphant satisfaction Jute could feel the muscles of her buttocks hollowing and contracting around the sides of his cheeks as he licked and sucked her with a wild and ravenous animal lust that threatened to drive him crazy.
Her cunt flowered open wider and wider, and her juices increased with each additional second his sucking mouth worked on her inflamed flesh. Her fluids ran in warm trickles down the sides of the Negro's cheeks, which pressed tightly into the warm softness of her ass enclosing his face, and down the inside of her smoothly hollowing thighs.
She was about to come!
CHAPTER SIX
Jute sensed this from the wild, abandoned tempo of her body and knew it was time to fill her belly with black, he-stud cock. He wanted to feel her cunt throbbing around his plundering sex-meat when she climaxed; wanted to explode inside her white belly, him in rhythm to her cries of fulfillment. He wanted to fill her so full of hot, black-man jism she would not forget this night as long as she lived. Little white bitch! He'd show her what a convict nigger's cock was like and how good it could be. He'd stretch her so wide she'd never be able to feel a smaller prick inside her again. All the years he'd spent in prison, all the bitter subjugation he'd been dealt by a society that wouldn't even try to understand began to bubble over in a boiling cauldron of lust mingled with a desire for revenge.
His long thick cock ached with anticipation while he worked at her vagina with his mouth. Then he slithered up to his knees and worked his hips into the wet, glistening opening of her buttocks. On either side of his kneeling legs he could see her white thighs tapering down sharply to her small, well-formed knees, then blossom out again to the fullness of firm, shapely calves. He envisioned her lying on her back with the dainty strength of those white calves locked tightly behind his ass, pulling him into her in a savage burst of passion that only the mind could conjure.
His prick and balls ached as they had never ached for any woman before, and he had to ram his rigid meat into her before he emptied his load all over the white buttocks kneeling before him.
There was no more than a finger's length between her open and fully exposed pussy and the end of his famished cock now, and he pressed her buttocks wider apart to see it more clearly. His prick perked, unable to restrain itself, when the tiny puckered brown ring of her anus came into view just above the hot moist-ness of her vagina. For a moment he was tempted to take her in the rectum, but the idea passed as seminal fluid oozed from the end of his rod. He had to fuck her quick or it'd be too late.
He moved forward, inched his knees as far up between the inverted "V" of her widely spread thighs as possible, and with thumb and forefinger, guided the long thick length of his cock toward her cunt, gently parting the soft pubic floss with the throbbing head. He felt the warm, wet, soft folds of her cunt close hotly over his glans.
He groaned in sweet male agony.
Never in his whole life had he experienced anything so soft, so tender. He let the glans lay throbbing for a moment. Sight of his black, veined cock in contrast with the whiteness of her flesh broke storms of lust in his loins.
God! Holy Jesus-God!
He flexed his buttocks, feeling all the frustration he had built up over years in prison suddenly surging forward with him into the juicy hotness of the girl on her knees. He gasped harshly as he felt the hot, tight sheath of her cuntal passage slip smoothly, sweetly over his sex-meat, enclosing the rock-hard length of his tortured cock.
"Oooooohh!" Stacy grunted beneath him as he surged into her. Her body trembled and shook before this sudden assault that took her completely by surprise because, under great emotional stress, the effects of alcohol fade swiftly. Gone now were the tender, slippery probing into her vagina, which had somehow seemed unreal and far away. Gone were the whiskey vapors that had captured her mind briefly and taken her into a world of semi-conscious ecstasy.
Suddenly she was hurled back into the brutal realities of her situation, and her shame and humiliation returned with a vengeance as she felt her vagina expand and contract from the huge cock of the Negro fucking her mercilessly from behind. She heard a desperate, raspy gasp spit through the room.
"God, but she's tight," Jute breathed hotly. "God, what a pussy."
She squealed suddenly, but not from pain. There was no pain. She was wet and open from the teasing ministrations of his tongue. She squealed from the sudden and degrading realization she was hopelessly pinioned to the bed and a thick, rampaging tube of male meat was pistoning into her vagina with lusty gusto. She screamed for him to stop, helpless tears of rage and humiliation again flooding from her terror-stricken eyes. But there was no respite.
The intrusion into her dilated passage continued before his uncontrolled assault till she felt the heavy pressure of hard male loins crushing against her buttocks, sweeping them even wider apart as he lunged repeatedly with all his strength to sink his prick as deep into her tremulous white belly as it would go.
"God damn!" Jute gasped joyfully, lips drawn back in a lusty snarl. "I'm in all the way!"
Stacy sobbed piteously beneath the huge Negro, face pushed so deep in the mattress she could hardly breathe. Her vagina felt drawn and stretched as though she were being impaled on a stake. She clenched her buttock muscles tightly to prevent the hard, fleshy staff from invading her farther, but her efforts were in vain. Her struggles only excited the escaped convict more because her inner-cunt muscles, protesting against the unwanted plundering, massaged his huge cock and made it grow inside her till she felt stretched and filled in her belly and loins beyond all possible imagination. Her back ached with a dull, numbing ache from the cruel position she was forced to maintain.
Kneeling behind her bent and trembling form, Jute's nostrils flared and he began fucking into her with long, lunging strokes. His massive hands held tight to the rounded curves of her hips, slipping the moist sheath of her stretched and throbbing cunt back over the veined thickness of his black cock as though he were thrusting his hand into a greased glove.
"Move your ass," he hissed passionately, with a vicious pinch to her hip. "Move it good."
Stacy complied without hesitation, knowing the initial pinch was the first of a series if she refused to obey. Her buttocks rotated slightly with her first cautious experiment with erotic movement, and feeling no discomfort let herself join his lustful rhythm, grinding and twisting her ass back hard against his plunging pelvis.
"'At's it, baby," Jute gobbled through clenched teeth as he felt her respond to his command. " 'At's it! 'At's it! Do it good for daddy!"
"Oh, oh, oh," she gasped over and over as she bucked before him. The sounds were muffled and indistinct due to her face hard against the bed. With each lunge his thick black cock filled her cunt to bursting, flung her forward against the restraining hands of Rafe Turner and Flub, who continued to keep her shoulders pressed into the mattress. She felt as though she were being fucked by some giant ape with a monstrous, ever-growing cock.
Jute's fingers pawed and squeezed at her buttocks in a wild frenzy of lust, and then, with a cruel thrust, he drove one of them into the yielding, rubbery depths of her anus.
"Aaaghh!" Her mortal scream went unheeded.
He fucked into her with a growing wild abandon. She could feel him thrusting more sadistically than ever, sight of her bucking body inciting him to greater, more frantic effort. She let out a continuous moan, face now sideways on the bed. Her lips opened and closed in torment, fish-like, and in humiliation and shame from the sudden, uncontrollable feelings surging through her.
Behind her Jute began to fuck faster and harder, his climax on the way. He battered mercilessly at the cheeks of her quivering ass with driving hips. His hands gripped her waist hard, squeezing the soft flesh into random, crazy shapes. His lips curled back from his teeth and he was unable to close his mouth. His breath came in short, stuttered, machine-gun blasts that cracked obscenely through the room. He stared down wildly at the slender, lurching body of Stacy Morgan, and hot chills of electric-like sensation shot through his huge frame. He tore at her buttocks, stretching the twin moons of her ass as far apart as he could and watched his long black cock disappearing into the pink flanges of her cunt in an exciting contrast of black and white.
"Jesus! Jesus!" he whined inanely in a frenzy of ball-splitting lust. "Oh sweet little dear little Jesus Christ."
Stacy felt her thighs and buttocks swept wide apart in one last ass-bruising crush as Jute, fucking like a fiend from Hell, rammed his vile instrument to the utmost depths of her belly and began spasming great globs of yang into her womb.
His eyes bulged dangerously, his big mouth flew wide and he squealed like a castrated hog as he filled her vaginal passage with sticky fluid. She could feel it flooding hotly into her, filling her belly till she thought she might drown. There were numerous convulsive jerks of his pelvis against the soft cheeks of her ass, a desperate digging of fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, then he fell forward over her back with a gusty, animal sob of exhaustion.
There was no sound in the room save from the imbecilic Flub curled on the bed fucking his fist in wild-eyed fury. Then there was a movement of bodies and Stacy could not repress a large feminine grunt of relief when Jute withdrew, hauling his long, thick tube of black sex-meat from her cunt with a slurpy plop. When Flub's frenzied masturbating brought results he began chittering like a happy baboon and spewing his sperm in all directions till, in his orgiastic enthusiasm, he rolled off the bed and bradded his cock against the floor. He cursed bitterly till he realized Jute was no longer fucking the delectable prize on the bed. In a flash he was on his feet.
When Jute dismounted Stacy rolled to her back and lay still, unable to move and not caring. She had never felt so debased and lost in her life as a horrible picture formed in her mind of what she must have looked like being fucked by the big Negro. Her body ached, and she dimly felt Flub's hands crawling over her thighs, slick and gooey from Jute's abundant releases. She did not move when she felt the lips of her vagina drawn apart, but looked up through slitted eyes to see dull-witted Flub kneeling between her spread thighs, his hard cock poised in his hand for entry into her. She closed her eyes again, not caring anymore, and drifted into semi-consciousness. Then a weight descended upon her and Flub was adjusting his body to hers in sexual embrace. A moment more and his hot sex-meat glided through her cunt into her belly. Then she felt him buck his genitals into hers. She quivered.
He was already spasming his loathsome semen into her belly and muttering curses because his culmination had been so quick.
After a gaspy pause he commenced a slow, measured fuck-rhythm and Stacy drifted down into a welcome protective cloak of sleep and exhaustion, too battered and forlorn to care had she known she would be fucked by one or another of the convict trio most of the night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There was little sun next morning, and mountain mists hung low in the forest, like vaporous harbingers of death, which created an atmosphere that permeated the cabin with a feeling of impending doom.
Stacy sat huddled in one corner of the room, a blanket from the bed whereon she had been brutally, repeatedly ravished, about her shoulders. Her body ached horribly. She wondered vaguely how many times she had been fucked. Rafe Turner had awakened her at dawn and allowed her to bathe. Stacy shuddered at remembering. Dried male sperm had encrusted her crotch, the cleavage of her buttocks and the inside surfaces of her upper thighs. She made her way to the bathroom on shaky legs, wishing she were dead.
This attitude had, apparently, flowed down the drain with the filth from her body, for when she emerged from the bathroom an hour later her jaw was clenched in a new determination to survive the depravity of the three beasts and when she passed her father's gun case in the hall his .30 caliber M-l carbine was like a powerful magnet to her eyes. The small lock on the gun case had been snapped and her father's twelve gauge goose-gun was missing.
Rafe Turner was admiring it when she entered the main room.
"God a'mighty," he marveled at the shotgun, holding it up as though he were placing it on exhibition. "What a gun! Thirty-six inch barrel, full choke, bolt action and special five-round clip. A gun like this and a sack full of double-aught buckshot and a man could stand off a fuckin' army. With double-aught buck this god damn gun'll tear a grisly bear's head clean off its shoulders at fifty feet. Haw!"
The others had awakened shortly after that and Stacy, wearing a terry cloth robe left at the cabin from a previous visit, had prepared the trio's breakfast. During this time she had not looked any one of them in the eyes, though she could feel their eyes on her as she went back and forth from kitchen to main room, where they ate.
Her determination to best these three hardened criminals; a determination reborn while she showered, neither wavered nor slackened during the meal, but grew more resolute and case-hardened. There are things worse than death, she told herself, yet she did not seek death as an alternative. She would live! She would survive! If death was involved it would be death for the depraved animals who had befouled her the night before. If she failed well she would know she had done her best. And her father would understand and approve. He had always told her it was better for one to die on one's feet than for one to live on his knees. The axiom had never really made much sense to her till now, as she stood watching her three jailers bolt down the food she had prepared.
Her father had also taught her few undertakings could be successful without a definite plan of action which she did not have. Last night, immediately following her initial rape on the table from which the convicts were now glutting themselves, she had thought she had a plan, but hopes for it were soon dashed by the realization Rafe Turner would not be taken in by it; would not accept the role of protector. Her father had further taught both her and Rene all he knew of firearms, which was considerable, and especially his .30 carbine. If only . . .
The idea surged into her thoughts with an abruptness and violence and she gasped. Of course! That was it! She didn't need a gun. She had a weapon to use against these animals; a weapon that had conquered nations and tottered empires, a weapon women had been using to achieve their purposes since the creation of Mother Eve. A sharp streak of raw exultation shot through her as she untied the belt of her robe, shrugged free of the garment and tossed it in a chair against the wall. Sex and the female was a combination few men had ever been able to resist.
She did not remove her robe unnoticed. From the table Turner regarded her with thoughtful surprise, a wolfish half-grin on his cruel face. Jute made a strange sound in his throat at sight of her gesture, and the lamebrained Flub boggled joyously, face loose, and dropped his coffee cup.
"You clumsy, ignernt son of a bitch!" Turner spat, the comment a forerunner of the savage back-hand he lashed across Flub's face.
"Now whad'ja do that for?" Flub shouted in angry indignation. He half-rose from his chair, but collapsed back into it, his anger fleeing when he saw Turner's eyes. He knew the look and so did every last con in Cell Block-9 back in stir. When Rafe Turner got that look he was more dangerous than a blind rattlesnake in dog days.
"You riled me," Turner snarled viciously. "A dumb-assed cunt strips naked in front of you and you go all to pieces. You better get somethin' straight. Nobody goes to pieces on Rafe Turner." He chuckled evilly and stroked the twelve-gauge shotgun leaning against his chair. The gun had not been away from his side since he had taken it from the gun rack. "Lest I decide to blast 'em to pieces with Baby here."
Jute said nothing. For all his physical strength and prison cunning he wanted no part of Rafe Turner when the mountaineer's blood was up. like Flub, he too had seen evidence of Turner's inhuman, merciless savagery. So he sat mute, eyes feasting on the naked charms of Stacy Morgan.
God, how he had fucked that girl last night. But then, all three of them had, with Flub taking a lion's share which was probably the real reason Rafe had just slapped hell out of the stupid bastard.
Stacy minced forward, treating them to her most disarming smile, and, starting with Turner, kissed each on the cheek as she circled the table, hoping she could convince them of the lie she was about to tell.
"Now what 'n hell's that for," Turner growled suspiciously.
"That, sir," Stacy said, striking a fetching pose as the tinkle of her merry laughter rippled over the room, "is for the simply marvelous fucking you boys gave me last night." She went to stand behind Flub's chair, not unaware of the suspicion now in Jute's eyes.
"You didn't seem to be gettin' many enjoys out of the fuckin' while it was takin' place," Turner said.
"I did the first time and you know it, Rafe Turner; when you fucked me here on the table. But my goodness, no girl-likes to be used as chattel in a card game, like a stack of chips, or a pig."
This shook Turner, for he believed her. His jaw dropped.
"You mean you carried on against gettin' fucked like you did last night all on account of we used you as stakes in a blackjack game?"
Stacy preened herself archly, heart pounding with excitement. She knew she was walking on thin ice, but she also knew she was making progress.
"I did," she said. "But I had also drunk a lot of whiskey. Besides, a girl-likes to be asked.
You see, no girl-likes to think of herself as being bought or sold, or won in a card game."
Turner gaped. So did Jute. Flub sat hunkered with back turned, nursing his bruised jaw.
"Can't you understand," Stacy continued, adopting an attitude of great patience and the tone one might use while instructing small children. "Fucking is not an individual thing. I mean, a man doesn't simply fuck a woman; not really. At least, he shouldn't. Fucking takes two. A man and woman should fuck each other." She studied their faces, heart singing. She was on a subject that occupied their low intellects most, and she had their complete attention. "Can you not understand that?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to sound-proof a thrashing machine.
"I reckon I do?" Turner said reflectively at last. "I had me a woman once. Mountain woman she was, and she loved to fuck better'n a hog loves slop. Her name was Bertha Rudd and with her fuckin' was never a one-sided thing. We always fucked each other."
Stacy moved in close behind Flub, who was rapidly recovering from his leader's unexpected blow, and began combing her fingers affectionately through his unkempt hair. Flub started with surprise, his cloudy brain not able to absorb the significance of the act except that he felt good because of it.
"Now you take Flub here," Stacy continued. "Last night he fucked me-" She bent forward in intimate seriousness: "How many times did you fuck me last night, Flub?"
The question, plus her tone, plus her change of attitude acted on the dull-wit like a miraculous tonic. He straightened in his chair and beamed proudly about.
"Ten times, I guess," he said with awkward pride. "And it was good, too."
"That's what I mean," Stacy said. "Any fuck is a good one, but last night wouldn't you have enjoyed it more if I'd been eager and willing and helping you out, instead of just laying there like a drunken hussy?"
Flub did not answer for two reasons. He was too flabbergasted by the sudden attention given him by this delicious young poon, and never had a woman come to his bed willingly and for sex alone.
"Duh," was the best he could do at the moment. "Duh."
Stacy bent forward, goading the moron gently. "Wouldn't you, Flub?" she pouted prettily. "Wouldn't you rather we fuck each other, instead of you just fucking on me?"
The possibility a woman, a real, live, beautiful woman wanted him to fuck her put tremendous strain on Flub's limited faculties. Nevertheless, he shivered from instant ecstasy, bobbing his small head.
"Duh, I'd like that."
"Then come on." She tugged at his shoulder. "We'll go into one of the bedrooms and see how much you like it."
Flub couldn't believe his ears. He screwed around in his chair, blinked at her with his little eyes.
"You mean it?" he blurted, gulping. "You actually want me to fuck you?"
"Now there you go again, silly," Stacy chided. "No, I don't want you to fuck me. I want us to fuck each other."
It was too much for the foggy-witted Flub. But he understood this sweet little poon wanted his prick in her belly and that was enough for him. He lurched to his feet, face split in a grin of idiotic delight.
"Hold it, you two," Rafe Turner snarled from the end of the table. "You two ain't goin' nowhere."
"It's only in yonder to fuck!" Flub protested, hysteria suddenly edging his voice. "Christ!"
"You want to fuck, you fuck right out here where I can keep an eye on her. She get you alone in one of them bedrooms, you simple-minded son of a bitch, and she can talk you into anything. She don't fool me worth a damn."
"Aw god, Rafe-" the distraught Flub began.
"You think I'll try to escape?" Stacy interrupted, giggling at Turner. "With no clothes on, no car, miles from the nearest house?" Later she puzzled over the flash of inspiration which forced itself into her mind. "Or is it," she continued, "because you plan to avenge yourself upon my father and think I might get a chance to use the phone ? " She stared Turner squarely in the face, forced anger into her voice. "Then go ahead and avenge yourself," she said bitterly. "Don't mind me. I couldn't care less, even if you killed him. All he ever did to me was make my life a living hell on earth." She took Flub by the arm. "Come on." Over her shoulder she said to a slit-eyed Turner and a thunderstruck Jute: "We'll leave the door open so your mind will be at ease."
They had reached the doorway of the bedroom when the snarled command lashed through the room like violent death.
"Stop!"
Stacy obeyed without thinking. So did Flub. The word held a timbre that forbade either of them to do otherwise. To Stacy it actually seemed as if the single word had such force it jerked her to a halt and spun her around.
Rafe Turner had squared his chair around to face them, the long shotgun across his knees. His face and neck were swollen with rage.
"You want to fuck," he told them again, struggling to keep his voice under control, "you fuck out here." He looked at Stacy and her heart plunged to her feet. "I got your number, leetle gal, so don't play with me. I know exactly what you think of that no-good Pappy of yourn. Labe done told me how you're his pet and that you worship the ground he walks on. So don't give me no bullshit about not carin' what I do to him. I know you're lyin' through your teeth. As for learnin' what I aim to do to him, I aim to kill the son of a bitch; aim to shoot him right between his god damned eyes when he comes back here in the mountains in a few days to make that last political speech of his campaign; and the last speech he'll ever make in his life. You know why I aim to do that, leetle gal?"
Stacy remained motionless and silent, spirit broken that Turner had seen through her ruse again, and knowing the man would answer his own question without any comment from her. He was gloating, enjoying himself.
"I aim to kill him on account of the great Edward J. Morgan sent me to prison for life so he could get my land and this here cabin for almost nothin'. 'At's right. This cabin. It wasn't no imagine buildin' then, with phone and electricity and all these do-dads, but it was a good solid cabin and home to me and leetle Labe. But my old fishin' and huntin' buddy, Judge Edward J. Morgan decided he wanted it, so I got sent up for killin' a man I hadn't never see'd and ain't see'd yet." Turner's face darkened with the conjested blood of anger. "So I'm killin' your Pappy, leetle gal me and Labe is and killin' anybody what tries to stop us."
The leer on his wolfish face sent a chill of terror straight through Stacy's heart. For one tiny moment she almost hurled herself at the convict leader, not from lack of fear, but due to a plethora of it like the Christian martyr who, facing certain death, commits an act that hastens the end. Stacy stared at the man, spellbound, her soul screaming protest over the lies he had just told on her wonderful father; her fear mounting higher because in her secret heart she sensed they were not lies. Yet how could her beloved father . . .
"Rafe, all we want to do is fuck," Flub protested.
"Then fuck out here!" Turner spat. Flub looked hopefully at Stacy. She shook her head.
"The only way I'll fuck before an audience again is to be forced, like last night," she said with finality. Suddenly all the fear left her, was replaced by a silent prayer. Could that which she had attempted to scheme for be about to happen anyway; and so soon?
"Aw god, Rafe," Flub said. "Let us go in the bedroom. Otherwise she ain't gonna do like she said."
"Tough," Turner grinned. "Real tough. Then you'll just have to put up with the stone-ache Perfessor."
At that moment, when Turner called the dimwitted Flub "Professor," the great hulking Jute, seated at the far end of the table, knew the former block boss of Cell Block-9 was going to kill the idiot member of their trio. It had not taken Flub's cellmates in prison long to discover that calling him "Professor" threw the usually docile, submissive character into a screaming, murderous rage. In a passing moment of benevolent good-fellowship the prison psychiatrist had once given a precise, detailed analysis which nobody understood con-cerning'Flub's peculiarity, but it had something to do with playmates teasing him for being stupid when he was a young boy.
"Rafe I I-" Flub shook his head like a stunned ox, apparently not believing his ears.
"How's 'at, Perfessor?" Turner grinned evilly.
Jute stared at the remains of his breakfast in the plate before him. He did not want to watch Flub die. Stacy saw everything. Unaware of what was about to happen, she saw it all with crystal clarity.
Flub glared. A thick rope of saliva drooled from his slack mouth. His little eyes saw red. He lifted his hands as might an attacking gorilla, and with a deep-chested bellow of insane rage, flung himself at Rafe Turner.
The shot pattern of a twelve gauge, full-choke shotgun with a thirty-six inch barrel, and loaded with double-aught buckshot, is eighteeen inches in diameter at fifty feet. At twenty-five feet the shot pattern is eight inches in diameter. At five feet it is three inches. A double aught, twelve gauge shotgun shell has fifteen little round lead balls the size of fat English peas. These, traveling at twenty-nine hundred feet per second, can wreck hell on a man.
They did on Flub.
Rafe Turner chuckled gruesomely as he shifted the angle of the gun's muzzle and caressed the trigger.
From a distance of five feet, the three-inch shot pattern of fifteen lead balls caught Flub full in the face and blew the face out the back of his small head.
Stacy screamed a piercing, brittle scream as Flub plunged to the floor, blood, small chunks of flesh, pinkish globs of brains and splinters of bone imbedded in the wall behind her. Then she vomited. Jute lifted his eyes from his plate slowly and Turner chuckled again, jacking another shell into the goose-gun.
"Ole Perfessor," Turner mused, gloating. "He done come to a bad end. Always did wonder how the stupid mother-fucker'd get it, and now I know." He spoke to Jute from the side of his mouth, not turning his head. "Get the son of a bitch out of here. Take him back up on the ridge somewheres and bury the bastard. And make it snappy. Labe ort to be here before long.
Stacy was dimly aware of the sounds made by the black Jute dragging the headless form of Flub out the back and closing the door. Her retching had stopped and she stood motionless, frightened of what the convict leader might do if she uttered a sound. What she had just witnessed she had prayed would happen, but she was a total stranger to violent death, and the lightning-like savagery of it had shaken her to the core.
Turner left the table and approached, trailing the shotgun, and pulled her into the bedroom by the wrist. He shoved her toward the bed. She fell face down across it. Due to shock from the wanton murder of Flub, she hadn't the strength or sense of will to move, and listened as though in a trance as she heard him stripping the clothing from his hard, muscular body.
Oh god, she thought wildly. I'm about to be fucked by a murderer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She tensed, waited for the touch of his hand on her back. There was none. Instead, he stood for a long moment looking down at her. She didn't have to turn her head to know he was studying her because she could almost feel the hot trails of lust his eyes left behind as they roved over her reclining form.
"You sure are purty, leetle gal," she heard through the numbness Flub's sudden death had given her. In her ears still sounded the thunderous blast of the shotgun. In her mind's eye she could still see would forever see the doltish face dissolve as the buckshot tore it apart.
Her first reaction was to turn and see where the somehow strange, suddenly tender voice came from, though it was not necessary. She knew it was Rafe Turner. But it was a Turner she did not recognize from the tenderness with which he spoke. Stacy felt a wondrous yet somehow frightening change coming over her. For a reason she did not try to understand, the very softness of his voice made Rafe Turner something else, something human that he had kept carefully concealed until this minute. It unsettled her, muddled her thoughts. She had considered the man no higher than a savage beast, taking what he wanted by virtue of his strength and control of others, but now with this sudden tenderness, she was no longer certain.
She had no way of knowing the unimaginable depravities recently forced upon her had brought her to an emotional state wherein she would have responded similarly to any show of tenderness, whatever the source.
"Ort not to get too shook up about old Flub." Turner made no move to approach the bed, even though he had prepared himself to take her. "He had it comin'. " He laughed softly. "Anyway, ain't that what you wanted done to him ? "
"I suppose so," Stacy found herself saying without thinking. She suddenly realized it was the first time she had spoken to Rafe Turner in private when she was not pleading for herself.
She felt the bed give under his weight as he sat down beside her. She cringed from his nakedness from habit, though she was not frightened by it as she was at the beginning. There was really nothing more for her to fear except death itself. They had done everything they wanted to her and she was not sure death wouldn't be preferable to facing the world after the brutal and sadistic depravities inflicted on her since last night. Yes, death would be preferable if it did not involve more pain and humiliation.
His hand came to rest softly on her back and, to her surprise, she did not jerk away voluntarily. She had been so beaten and abused in the last eighteen hours she supposed nothing could really move her now unless it were being gang-fucked again.
Rafe's hand moved slowly on her back, mistaking her slight tremble as the beginning of surrender. It was not. Stacy's will to resist had not been totally destroyed, even by Turner's discovery of her latest ploy and the murder of Flub. What else could be done to her that had not already been done? She could stand the threat of pain no more and her fatigue-wracked body was almost beyond feeling anything but a craving to be left alone. The bright, cheery spirits she had evinced at the breakfast table had been false; had vanished as smoke in a brisk wind when her subterfuge was discovered. And now she belonged to Rafe Turner. She was his, both mind and body, and the tenderness with which he touched her helped quiet her fears of further pain so that her trembling stopped and she let him play with her as he wished.
The murderous Turner, not lightly impressed by the sight of the voluptuous young girl stretched on the bed beside him, gazed down at her with something akin to reverence. For one fleeting splinter of time he would have given anything in the world if he could have possessed a girl like her under different circumstances. She was clean, innocent, untouched except for the mistreatment given her under his orders.
Stacy felt her body begin to shiver as his hands moved down over the soft mound of her buttocks and onto her thighs. She could hear him breathing heavily behind her and wanted to turn and look into his face to see if it reflected the sudden gentleness with which his hands moved over her, but she did not dare. She feared she might see that look his face had worn when he had told her what he meant to do to her father.
He nudged his hips closer and she gave no resistance when he snuggled against her, then moved back a second later to give himself greater freedom of movement.
"Oooooh," she sighed against her will as he ran his hands in a slow caress down her back. Her breasts trembled and hardened slightly from their naked contact with the fuzzy bedspread and she sighed again, though not from pain or despair, but from some new and alien tingle that began to throb gently in her loins.
Dear God! she cried in silent desperation. Her own flesh was about to betray her and she knew there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
Rafe Turner sensed the change in her also. The girl no longer cringed at his touch but, to his amazement, seemed to desire it. Her body strained and worked with his hands as they coursed over her. He rubbed her buttocks in tiny circles, gently pressing apart the two full moons so he could see the little brown pucker of her anus nestling between. On impulse he almost bent forward and kissed, but didn't. He did not want to do anything that might make her raise her guard and snap her from the relaxed mood she was in. He cupped the firm cheeks of her ass again and then slid his fingers slowly down them and into the crease caused by the pressure of her thighs laying slightly apart.
He expected them to clench tightly shut as he pressured gently down between them with his hand, but was pleasantly surprised when they fell limply open without resistance. He pushed his hand up between their full, satin-like softness until his fingers came into wet contact with the soft fleece growing tantalizingly up between her thighs. He tried to press his finger up between the soft, moist flanges of her vagina, but she jerked away, not from fear or revulsion, but from the unexpected contact that sent a warm ripple of blissful sensation running up her naked back.
She groaned, vaguely aware of his hands turning her body on the bed so that she was flat on her back and the whole of her naked front was presented up to him in a delicious photograph of secret hollows and indentations. She was just as he remembered her last night, firm and young and lovely, only now her body shook as though filled with passion.
He knelt beside her, running his hands reverently over her breasts, her thighs, up and down over her unprotected nudity caressing hands that brought forth small animal mewls of pleasure from behind her tightly clenched teeth. His passion increased as he watched the contrast of his brown, work-calloused hands moving over her, bringing the gasping and quivering response from her white, silken body.
He watched her open her eyes and look up at him a moment, their color shadowed by the dim, smoky veil of building passion that was beginning to take possession of her completely.
Stacy, somewhere back in the distant ages since his hands had reached for her body, had drifted into a strange, unknown world of sudden deep, soft pleasures of the flesh. Heretofore her contact with any of the convicts had brought fear, but now all conscious thought of why she was here and who her slowly flaming body was with were lost in her memory. It no longer mattered that this was the man who had raped her, who meant to kill her beloved father; who had recently slaughtered a fellow convict as though the man were a rabid dog. It only mattered that she felt the tiny licking flames running all around her; between the softness of her inner thighs, out the tips of her throbbing and pebble-hard nipples, and down to the burning core of her vagina where it roared in white-hot heat like the open mouth of a blast furnace.
"Oh god," she whispered softly without knowing she uttered a sound. "Oh god, what is this wondrous thing happening to me?"
Turner pressed his narrow, tight lips down over hers and immediately felt the rigid spear of her tongue lunge into his mouth, unconsciously in quest of hotter, wetter contact with the devil-like thing deliciously torturing her body.
His hands continued to prowl over her, then ran between her thighs, which did not jerk away this time, but opened voluntarily to admit him to the very core of her being. He could feel the hot center of her loins flexing almost imperceptibly in passionate answer to his naked touch.
"Aaaaah," she sighed continuously into his mouth. Her tongue pushed up hard against his, then began fencing blindly.
Her passion spurred him on. Disbelief this could be happening buzzed through his brain. Last night he had viciously ripped this golden-bodied girl's virginity from between her legs in brutal rape, yet now she was writhing and twisting beside him as though she were his slave.
He couldn't stand it any longer, and slithered over on top of her waiting body like a protective blanket. He felt her trembling helplessly under him, out of control, and he reached down with both hands and drew her unresisting thighs up till her steamy vagina was presented in welcome sacrifice. He held her thighs thus for a moment, then started to reach down and station his cock in her open labia, but at the last second stopped.
He wanted her absolute surrender, and it would be worth the risk of breaking the spell to get it. It would make all this a thousand times more meaningful if she were to take him into her by her own action. He held his breath, spoke in a whisper.
"Put it in."
And he let his breath out in a long gasp of relief as her hand burrowed down between them without hesitation and her warm fingers closed gently around his pulsating cock. She remained motionless for a moment and he held his breath again, in fear she might suddenly regain her senses and twist away from him. A long second later he exhaled in relief as he felt her thumb and forefinger tighten around the head of his prick and slowly but firmly push back his foreskin. He gasped, lips peeled back over his teeth as his foreskin rolled back into a tight collar and she gently pressed the sensitive tip of his cock into the hot, fleshy folds of her cunt. He could feel the soft pubic hair grazing against it as it hung poised for entry between the tight, throbbing lips. The smooth, fiery heat was excruciating and it was all he could do to keep from lunging forward.
But he waited because she needed it and that was what he wanted from her, though it tortured him beyond his wildest imaginings; and because he knew, for the moment at least, he had completely conquered her, body and soul, and she was completely, willingly at his mercy. A chance such as this may never come again and he relished his self-torture, holding back that final plunge that would fuse them together in one great pulsating mass of orgasming flesh.
Stacy lay groaning in tiny, unintelligible gasps that seeped from between her gnashing teeth like quick puffs of steam from a ruptured pipe. Her legs were wide apart and her straddle throbbed from a strange and delicious pressure against her vulva. She hungered for the gentle pressure to increase, hungered deep inside her contracting womb as though a ravenous animal inside her clamored to be fed.
Turner levered himself up into a push-up position above her slowly undulating body. Her face was contorted in indescribable rapture and her lips were pursed into an oval. Wispy moans of half-conscious pleasure escaped from around the soft pinkness of her tongue circling moistly around the outside of her mouth. He looked down between them, saw his throbbing hardness pressed into the saturated folds of her pink and open cunt. The silken softness of her pubic growth surrounded his veined bludgeon of flesh in a lust-inciting mixture that caused his cock to beat maddeningly.
"Oooooh," she sobbed weakly as she felt their contact grow firmer.
He fought against the all-consuming desire to ram forward and impale her through the cunt. There was too much of her he had not tasted yet and he wanted it all. He never would get another chance.
He looked down at her large, firm breasts swaying out gently and quivering slightly with each soulful gasp that came from her mewling throat. They excited him and he had to have them in some way. He slithered forward up her body and straddled her with one leg on either side of her ribs, then gently placed his aching cock in the narrow cleft between them so that her heated flesh enclosed it on both sides.
Her eyes flickered open, but shut at once, as though she were afraid of some strange spell in the room. Her mouth hung open as she crooned a lullaby of lust.
Rafe's hands shook as he reached down and crushed the resilient mounds of her breasts, his sinewy fingers making small ridges of white that stood up between their darker color. He kneaded and stretched at them, watching them ooze through his fingers like flaccid foam rubber, springing back into voluptuous shape the moment he raised his hands. He pushed them together so that they met across her body and formed a velvety, yielding tunnel in which his cock was sensuously trapped. He pressed them hard so that the nipples met at the top, and then he began a gentle rocking motion, thrusting his bald-headed cock through the tight ravine formed by her firm white teats. As he rocked, the plum-purplish head of his cock appeared at the far end of the warm, soft tunnel and blunted gently against her chin, leaving a tiny dot of seminal fluid that seeped from his sex-staff.
He kept up the slow, rocking motion between her quivering breasts for several minutes, feeling his prick growing and expanding till he was afraid it might erupt in a great gushing fountain of sperm before he was ready. He had to force himself to sit still a bit, and content himself with pushing and pulling at the maddening softness of the two throbbing mounds so warmly surrounding his rod. He tweaked at the nipples and rubbed them over the top of his cock, watching with bared teeth as they jerked and throbbed into a greater hardness. At the same time he studied her face and the reaction his ministrations were having upon her.
It was flabbergasting!
Her eyes were now open and gazed unseeing up at the ceiling. A thin veil of passion obscured her dilated pupils. Her hips and ass writhed on the bed below, her thighs limply kicking out and then drawing up again as though searching for some invisible lover to embrace. She was completely out of control; and Turner knew nothing he did now would matter. She would lend herself to any degradation to quell the fire raging in her flesh. He should fuck her now, yet there was one more thing he wanted from her.
His eyes locked on her full, red, sensuous lips still muttering nothings out into the air from her tortured need. They were wet and moist from her tongue swirling around them in her unfulfilled desire. He wanted to shove his cock down between them and shuddered with ecstasy at the mere thought of that small, heated cavern closing around it. His prick bucked. He almost ejaculated.
He moved up a little so his knees were on either side of her neck, and his ribbed cock throbbed directly over her face, presenting her unseeing eyes with a view of the come-bloated vein running beneath. His balls rested sedately against her sperm-wet chin. Whatever he did had to be slow, however, so as not to break the spell she was under. If she ever returned to total awareness he feared her mind would contradict the dictates of her body and he did not want to rape her again. He wanted her mad with desire a condition she was rapidly approaching.
He placed both hands gently down behind her head and lifted it off the bed, bending her neck up toward him so that her mouth was poised directly in front of the beating head of his cock. He pushed forward slightly, his buttocks rolling on the cushion of her breasts, till the tip of his penis was pressed gently between her parted lips. He groaned as he felt the baby-soft surface brush against the skin of his glans. Her lips closed at the first touch and he held his breath, waiting for the first cry of protest. None came.
Instead, her lips fell limply open and her head pressed forward of its own volition. The movement caught him by surprise as he watched with unbelieving delight as the pursed oval of her mouth enclosed over the tightly stretched skin of his cock. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined he could look down and see the daughter of his old enemy skewered through the mouth on his cock and her enjoying it!
She began using her tongue, slowly at first, and he could feel it swiping around his glans, which caused his cock to perk inside her mouth. Her lips were soft and gossamer smooth and clasped him in a tight elastic ring. He could feel them moving down his prick and taking as much of him in her mouth as she could and surrounding him with the hot moistness of her saliva and the tender inner flesh of her tongue. He placed his hands on either side of her hollowing cheeks and pressed inward.
She began to suck him with a moist, nibbling action, and her tongue licked and curled around his meat as though she had done this a thousand times, and all the deep, burning hungers of her vagina were now concentrated in one great wave of sensation in her mouth.
Rafe groaned incoherently above her working head and pushed his hands tighter against her cheeks. He wanted her to make him come and he wanted her to swallow it so that later she would know he had bent her completely to his will; that he had dominated her as she had never been dominated before. He flexed his loins in and out of the rounded opening formed by her lips and rolled his buttocks as though he were attempting to crush them down into her chest. He watched, wild-eyed, as his cock disappeared between her clasping lips like they were another hungry cunt. He could feel every nerve he possessed pulsating and throbbing in the steamy heat of her saliva-filled mouth.
His loins were growing hot and he was sweating between the legs and still she sucked, keeping his prick in her mouth, burying her face in his loins till he knew it was the end. The pressure building in his balls, which bumped against her chin, was excruciating, and his cock seemed to inflate and lengthen beyond anything it had ever done before.
Suddenly there was a raw, violent wrench in his loins and there was nothing in the world that could have stopped the liquid fire gushing from his aching balls and out the vent of his tortured penis. He gripped her head tightly between his hands and shoved his cock deep into her throat. She groaned in passion beneath him as the first massive glob of gooey man-seed flooded into the back of her mouth, filling the hot cavity, bloating and stretching her cheeks till they almost burst. Her throat worked gluttonously, swallowing and sputtering to keep from choking on the sticky yang as he emptied his prostate relentlessly into her gullet.
He quivered above her as he felt the wealth of his masculinity drained from his penis. He was momentarily exhausted and had to brace himself with his hands tangled in her hair to keep from falling to the side of the bed. He started to lift himself off her, but to his amazement she would not let his deflated cock free of her lips. She continued to suck tenderly, undulating her buttocks behind him on the bed and rubbing her legs hungrily together as he watched with disbelief the twin trails of semen running from the corners of her mouth and down over her chin. He had never felt anything like it, and it seemed as though he had been completely drained of all the strength and desire he possessed.
But after a short while his prick began to swell again in the soft, come-slippery heat of her mouth. She licked his cock and bit it gently, seeming to take a delight in her ability to bring it to life again after its cataclysmic explosion and subsequent collapse.
Then, when it had swollen to full-size once more though he felt sure he could never make love again he felt desire begin to rekindle in his loins. She continued to nibble for a moment longer, swiping her slippery tongue around and around his cock till she was certain it was restored to its full length and power, and then she let her head fall heavily back on the bed. The rejuvenated instrument slipped wetly from her mouth, a thin thread of yang still connecting her lips to it. Her lids fluttered open and she looked up at him through lust-filled eyes, then pleaded in a hoarse, desperate whisper:
"Fuck me."
The surprised convict lost no time in lifting himself from her and moving down the length of her body. He came to rest between her already spread thighs and quickly reached down between them to complete the coupling. She was as ready to be fucked as any woman had ever been. He could feel the steamy opening of her cunt throbbing in desperate anticipation as he guided his thick roll of sex-meat straight into her. He paused a moment to part with the head of his cock the sparse pubic fleece, now drenched with excited lymphatic secretions. Then, with one long, smooth stroke he glided his root into her all the way up to the cervix. The soft, giving walls of her seething cunt clamped deliciously around his cock and almost drove him crazy.
"Oooooh," she sobbed and sighed as he felt her entire insides flower open to receive him.
She groaned and murmured incoherently as he began to fuck into her viciously, gritting his teeth in lust. Her body followed his every move, began to vibrate in wild, abandoned jerks beneath him.
"Oooooh god, oooooh god, it's good, it's good," she sobbed in lustful torment, her arms tight about his neck, pulling his muscular chest into the white resilience of her breasts.
He hunched his long cock up and up and ever deeper into the seething passage of her cunt, feeling the entirety of her belly blossom before his onslaught as though she had never been fucked before in her life.
Her whole body jerked and twisted. She moaned incessantly, her face a grimace of ecstatic passion. Her mouth formed odd shapes, her nostrils flared in untamed lust that had taken over her body, which convulsed as though in the throes of an epileptic fit. Her forehead gleamed with sweat, her blond hair was disheveled. There was nothing that could stop her wild charge toward fulfillment.
Rafe Turner fucked her like a man gone mad over cunt.
"Oh god! Yes! Yes!" she wailed into the room as he rammed his sinewy hands under the frantically pumping cheeks of her ass and cupped them tightly, raising them off the bed for greater access to her famished pussy.
He drove down into her with all his strength, and could feel the smooth, raw flesh of her steamy cunt grip and release his pistoning sex-meat like the beat of a heart. He fucked into her from the tips of his toes and rammed the last inch of his thick prick thundering into her vagina, bringing fresh ecstatic cries from her lips that were like the cries of a mortally wounded animal. Her nostrils flared repeatedly, her wide eyes were glassy and vacant with lust.
Turner pulled his head back so he could watch her face. He did not want to miss the humiliation of her total surrender to an escaped con who had snatched her out of the night and fucked the shit out of her. She squirmed and bucked beneath him now, unable to control her fiendish desire to be fucked by the same escaped con. Her face was alarmingly contorted with passion and her lips bared in the rutting sounds of the she-tiger; desperate, savage sounds that came from deep in her heaving chest. , Her arms, tighter than ever around his neck, held him close while her nails dug weals along his back, then moved down to torture his muscular ass, which pounded his throbbing sex-bit into her hungry cunt.
Wet, smacking noises sounded through the room with each pile-driving lunge Turner made, each knocking from the golden body beneath him a slavish grunt of lust. He ran his hands from the smooth, hollowing cheeks of her ass down to her thighs, then between them to the soft, soaked pubic hair of her cunt to feel the clinging lips that held and throbbed around his cock like a vacuuming, rubbery mouth.
Stacy's body was slippery from sweat of the wild, uninhibited gyrations of her ravenous body, and her head flailed uncontrollably back and forth. Her mouth was wide open in ecstatic abandonment. She had become a thing crazed and inhuman as she bucked and lunged, her churning legs spread to the utmost, urging him to greater effort.
"Fuck harder!" she whined. "Fuck deeper!" Her chest heaved with great gaspy sobs, as though she were close to death. Her first orgasm her very first orgasm produced by a man's demanding sex-meat was drawing close, and she swung her clutching thighs up voluptuously around his waist, waving her ass in uncontrolled abandon from side to side and spiraling her cunt up and down furiously on his hot, pistoning cock.
"It's here! I'm coming!" she squealed suddenly, the words ending in a high-pitched gasp of intense passion as she locked her ankles in a death grip high up on his galloping hips. At the same time her arms froze tightly about his neck and she smashed her open mouth so hard to his he could still taste the pungent flavor of his sperm he had spurted into her gullet but a short while ago. Her body arched and she held tightly to him, quivering and jerking in a pulsating rhythm that spewed her scalding maiden fluids out around his driving cock and down the wide crevice of her ass, soaking his balls as they jounced against her tightly puckered anus.
Though Turner had been sucked dry a short time ago, the savagery of Stacy's orgasm started an aching pressure deep in his testicles, and he gripped the cheeks of her rotating ass and squeezed hard; felt her cringe as great gasps of passion began spewing from his own throat. He gnashed his teeth in a frenzy of lust, and increased the viciousness of his strokes so that his pelvis smacked hard against the ragged pink flanges of her cunt, and his plundering cock dipped deep into the secret recesses of her throbbing flesh.
Just before he began coming he threw his hands behind her knees, shoved her soft, tender thighs up over his shoulders and ground far down into her yielding cunt, bringing groans of left-over passion from her lips. Her arms still held him in a death grip; the ache in his balls was an agony.
Unless he orgasmed with the second his mind would crack!
Then his loins burst. He heard her whimpering cry as he exploded inside her with a soul-shattering grunt, shooting his fiery man-seed deep into her receptive womb.
They lay still then, locked in lewd embrace. After a time Turner rolled off her, noting her chest still heaved from the fires of passion.
Stacy recovered slowly, as one dazed; or one emerging from a deep and troubled sleep. At last her eyes came into focus on the wolfish face of Rafe Turner beside her, and in one split second the ghastly horror of what she had just participated in rolled over her like an avalanche of putrid, slimy filth.
Without a sound she whirled face down to the side of the bed, guts knotted, vomit gushing, dimly aware of the persistent ringing of the phone in the other room.
CHAPTER NINE
Through a thick haze of gall-bitter self-revulsion Stacy saw the naked Turner race for the phone. He lifted the receiver from the hook and held the instrument to his ear, saying nothing. Then he tapped the mouthpiece twice with a fingernail a signal to identify himself to someone on the other end of the wire. Following this was a conversation, which Stacy heard only in part.
"Yeah, Labe-boy, everything's jake . . . Something for you, too . . . Pretty poon . . . Listen to the radio? Hell, boy, I ain't had time . . . Too much fuckin' to catch up on . . . Sure you can fuck 'er, boy . . . Get the hell on up here."
This was all Stacy managed to hear, but there was much more.
She remained face down on the bed, face hanging over the edge of it, staring dully at the small splotch of gorge on the floor. Her stomach had been almost emptied by its upheaval from the sudden shock of Flub's death. She could still see his face dissolve and explode out the back of his head. She forced her mind to remain on the memory to keep it from dwelling on the awful thing she had just committed. It was less horrifying to remember the dim-wit's murder than to recall . . . .
Then, of its own volition, her mind switched to other thoughts of her father, of Ben Spencer; poor, dear Ben, of her sister Rene and of Mark Yoeman.
Mark Yoeman!
His memory shot through her naked body like a streak of icy light. Tears welled in her eyes. He had always been so thoughtful, so gentle. What if he had insisted she give in before their marriage? That was only his masculinity. She realized this now. And if she'd known then what she knew now, she'd have given in; would have let Mark have what he wanted.
A wave of self-pity washed over her. Why hadn't she? Would he still want to make love to her? After this? Of course not, but if he did, she would let him. She would also forgive him for fucking Rene. Forgiving her sister was another matter entirely, but in Mark it was only his masculinity again. Men were like that. She understood that now then with the brutal frankness of youth she told herself she probably would never escape the convicts alive. It was a hard conclusion to draw. She did not want to die, though at the moment she could see so very little reason to continue living.
A new thought shoved itself abruptly into her mind, brought the vulgar, gagging sound of retching again from her throat. Please dear God. No! Yet what if it were true? What if she were pregnant by one of her molesters by the ape-like Negro, Jute? She retched some more, guts cramping because of their emptiness.
"God damned if you ain't the pukin'est piece of ass I ever did see, leetle gal." Rafe Turner had returned to the room and was dressing. "You puked when I give old Flub his comeuppance, and you puked when you come to a knowin' you'd got your enjoys from fuckin' me. Now you're pukin' again. Downright quare, I call it. What's the matter this time?"
Stacy didn't answer; only stared at him woodenly. Then the question of burning urgency that had been festering in her brain demanded utterance.
"Rafe ? " Her voice was dry, raspy.
"Huh!" Surprise jolted the sound from the mountaineer. She had never addressed him thusly before. "Uh yeah. What is it?"
"Is it true what you said about my father? That he sent you to prison for a crime you never committed just so he could take your home and land?" She held her breath awaiting his answer till her lungs felt raw.
"It happened like I told it," he said brusquely after what seemed an eternity. "Back in them days I liked Ed Morgan real good; purty-nigh like a brother, for a fact." Bitterness crept into his voice. "But I've paid for our friendship with twelve years in prison, and the electric chair hangin' over my head if I'm took. Jute killed that feller at the service station we robbed after the break. So I got the hot seat to look forward to now and all because of your Pappy."
"Please, Rafe. How can you condemn my father? At your trial didn't the jury have anything to say?"
"In them days, leetle gal," Turner said slowly as he finished dressing, "your Pap was lean and hungry and he knowed how to handle that jury, awright. 'Sides, I didn't even have a lawyer. I knowed my old fishin' and huntin' buddy Ed Morgan wasn't aimin' to see me sent to prison for killin' a feller I didn't even know. You see, leetle gal, your Pa knowed I didn't do that murder, on account of the day the man was killed, me and Ed Morgan was trout fish-in' away back up on the Little Green Briar, nigh onto thirty miles from where the killin' took place."
Stacy thought she would retch again, all doubts about Turner's veracity destroyed by the conviction of his tone. Dear god, the man was telling the truth. Her beloved father was guilty of . . . .
She forced her mind to shut like a steel trap on the subject. No matter what anybody said, her father was guilty of nothing!
"Get up," Turner told her. "Get in the bathroom and clean yourself." He grinned evilly. "Labe'll be here shortly and he'll-likely be wantin' a wee tad of your stuff."
Stacy crawled off the bed, face still wooden, and stared at Turner stonily. Turner chuckled, gloating.
"Labe knows you're with us, but you don't know who Labe is, so I figure you're in for a mite of a surprise. Come to think of it, I reckon you'll like fuckin' him real good."
As usual, Turner followed her to the hallway leading to the bathroom, and watched her shut the door. It was a precautionary measure they had adopted to prevent her from escaping through a window in one of the side rooms. As he waited for her to emerge he stood idly regarding the gun case on the wall, from where he had taken the long shotgun.
Might be a right smart idee if he took that there .30 caliber M-l carbine out and hid it somewheres. But hell, there wasn't no need. What would a tender young poon like Ed Morgan's leetle gal know about carbines and such. He doubted if she knowed which end the bullets come out of.
By the time Stacy came from the bathroom he had completely forgotten the carbine. But Stacy Morgan had not forgotten it. It occupied her thoughts more and more with each passing hour.
All her willpower was drawn into play to prevent her from looking directly at it as she passed the gun case. As it was, she only checked from the corner of her eye to make sure the gun was still there. If only . . . . But it was hopeless. At present, anyway. They watched her too closely. And now that she had come this far, she could endure a bit more to learn the details of her father's proposed assassination. In addition, she was aware of a rapidly increasing curiosity to learn the identity of Labe Turner.
She found out less than an hour later; discovered how Rafe Turner had obtained such intimate knowledge of her family and the Morgan mountain retreat, when a station wagon pulled up to the cabin and stopped beside her MG. Jute, guzzling whiskey by the tumbler full, had returned from burying Flub and remained in the house to guard her while a jubilant Rafe Turner dashed outside lugging the long-barrelled shotgun, to greet his kid brother.
Stacy stared at the newcomer through a window in quiet terror, realizing in a rush of intelligence he had made fools of her father, Rene, Ben Spencer; of everyone associated with her father's political campaign, and of her most of all. But he had been so convincing, so cunning. She sat naked on the sofa, which was still pulled out into a double bed, head bowed in abject misery, and heard the brothers enter the cabin, Rafe Turner unable to keep the pride from his tone as he spoke to Labe.
"Slickest break in the history of the prison," he beamed. "Nary a single hitch."
"Did you have to kill that service station attendant?" the younger Turner asked, a tinge of annoyance in his tone.
" 'At was Jute's doin', " Rafe said. "But the feller reached for a gun and . . . "
Stacy lifted her head. She and Rafe Turner's young brother stared at each other a long moment. At last she said numbly:
"Hello, Mark."
Labe Turner, whom she had always known as Mark Yoeman and had planned to marry soon, gave her a sardonic grin and placed a long brown paper package on the table.
"Hello, Stacy. I understand the boys have been keeping you well entertained."
Stacy shivered smally. His voice sounded cold, merciless, like breaking glass. She looked at him in silence, wishing suddenly she were truly dead. She felt trapped, hemmed in from all sides. She searched for a hint of compassion in the eyes of this stranger she had loved, but found none. His eyes were as cold as his voice.
"What's that?" the half-drunk Jute asked thickly, pointing to the package Labe had placed on the table.
"A Weatherby Magnum rifle with a ten-power telescope sight. It's already been zeroed in for six hundred yards." Labe looked at Rafe. "Can you get within six hundred yards of the speaker's rostrum ? "
"Easy," Rafe said confidently. "Closer. Three, most-likely."
"Make it between five and six," Labe said with authority. "Morgan'll have plenty of guards out. You don't want to get too close. Heard any news on the radio yet?"
"Ain't had the radio on, to tell the truth." Rafe leered at Stacy hunkered on the edge of the bed. "Been too busy. That leetle poon is a fireball, Labe."
"I never would have believed it, the way she's been holding me off these past six months." He grinned, shaking his head. "By the way, the authorities think you're headed for the U. S.-Mexican border just like I planned for them to think." He nodded toward Stacy as he and Rafe accepted the tumblers of whiskey Jute poured. "She hasn't been missed yet. At least nothing's been said of it." Then to Stacy: "What made you cut out all of a sudden and come up here?"
When she told him he roared with obscene laughter.
"Rene is a real good fuck," he told her. "Are you?"
"Find out for yourself, Labe," his brother said grandly. "She's prime poon. I mean it. Go ahead."
There was something unwholesome and evil, something from the veriest pits of Hell in Labe Turner's voice when he asked: "How is she behind?"
Rafe Turner guffawed, slapped his thigh. "By god, I hadn't thought of that! We always got so much round-eye from gal-boys in stir I ain't thought to punk her. Have you, Jute?"
"I'd like to punk her," the huge, drunken Negro said with interest. "I ain't never fucked a white girl in the ass."
"Mark Labe!" Stacy gasped. "You wouldn't let them-" She stopped, open-mouthed, terror-strickened, knowing from his expression he would let them; let them do as they pleased to the girl he had once been supposed to make his wife.
"You shouldn't have played it so touch-me-nottish before, Stacy," Labe said with a nasty slur from the whiskey in his voice. "If big
Jute wants to pack your hockey, then big Jute packs your hockey little Miss Touch-Me-Not."
Labe shook his head. "Let Jute have her first. I fucked her sister all night long and am about pooped at the moment. I'll take her on next. But Jute can fuck her now."
At this the older Turner thwacked his thigh, guffawing again, then thumped Labe on the back pridefully.
"What'd I tell you, Jute," he chortled. "This boy's a real rounder." He looked at Labe. "You got the 'scape all figured out after I shoot Morgan ? "
"To the last detail. I'll give you the whole picture right after I watch Jute cornhole Miss Touch-Me-Not." Suddenly his face flushed livid with rage. The look he gave Stacy was of pure hatred. "Now that the truth can be told," he spat viciously, "I hate your god damned guts and always have."
"Labe! you slut. The name is Labe Turner!" He bent forward, lashed her a stinging blow across the mouth. "Why? you stupid slut are you serious? After what your father did to my brother the only family I had and you ask me why? If your brains were gun powder they wouldn't blow a gnat's nose! Why ? Oh, Jesus Christ!" He straightened. "Take her, Jute. Fuck her in the ass till she screams."
"Get her back on the bed," Rafe said. He shoved Stacy backward, seized both her ankles and twisted brutally, whirling her face down. "Now just lay there, leetle gal, and old Jute'll give you the best asshole fuckin' you're-likely ever to get."
"Mark!" she screamed wildly. "Labe! Stop them!"
Labe Turner laughed hilariously and drained his tumbler of whiskey.
"Take this here ankle and help me pull her legs wide apart," Rafe said to his brother. "Once Jute gets that big cock of his up her ass we can turn 'er loose. Won't make no difference then. She can't get away long as he holds on."
Stacy's legs were yanked roughly apart and she heard Jute's clothes dropping hurriedly from his body, as she remembered hearing Rafe's earlier that morning. Suddenly she wished it was Rafe instead of the black Jute. At least Rafe had been human and gentle for once. Then the full shock of what was about to be done to her hit her full force and she whimpered piteously.
"Not in the ass!" she cried. "Please! Not in the ass!"
Rafe and Labe's rough hands held her mercilessly in place while Jute finished undressing.
"Look at that asshole," Rafe chuckled. "Jute, you're goin' to get a real good fuck. Leetle gal, you got the tightest lookin' asshole I ever did see." He and his brother then roared with obscene laughter.
More pressure was applied to her legs till they were so widely spread her toes hung over on either side of the bed. A moment later she felt the great weight of the ape-like Jute descend beside her. She whimpered again as, in her mind's eye, she saw his long, thick black cock churning into her anus. It would kill her. She knew this and commenced to crv hysterically.
A massive hand fumbled in the cleavage of her buttocks, a great blunt finger punched at her asshole. She screamed wildly in fear, thrashed the bed with her arms, but without knowing why. It accomplished nothing. She couldn't escape.
"Relax," Jute hissed angrily in her ear. "Unsqueeze your ass."
Stacy gasped and prayed silently for a second, and then relaxed to be used as the drunken, slavering Negro crouching between her legs desired. It would all be over soon. Death would be such a blessed relief.
She sucked in her breath as he dug at her anus with his middle finger, worming it slowly, methodically through her anal-sphincter. She moaned and pressed her face tightly into the bed as she felt the finger bore in to the first knuckle joint. He began to move it around sadistically in her contracting asshole. He dug the finger in deeper and she cried tearfully for mercy.
The only results of her plea was that Jute's finger skewered deeper, began to grind around in her constricted anal passage. She began to jerk her buttocks involuntarily to escape the cruel probing, but her quivers only drove the finger deeper.
"Go on, Jute," Labe Turner chortled. "Fuck her in the ass."
The Negro slipped his finger from her rectum with a wet, sucking noise and clasped his thick rod in his hand. He had never been more erotically excited in his life. His body shook visibly as he looked down at the helpless white girl stretched beneath him. He liked round-eye, but he'd never had any white girl round-eye before, and his bulging eyes were wild and frenzied with lust. He stroked his huge black cock affectionately, teasing it to its fullest power. He wanted to ram it all in her ass and hold it there while she screamed herself unconscious from the pain.
He half-lowered, half-fell down onto her back. Stacy felt his hands fumbling between them, pulling the cheeks of her ass apart. He lifted his own ass into the air, the tip of his cock probing through her cleavage in search of her puckered hole.
He found it!
He hunched mightily and Stacy felt as though something popped in her anus. Pain seized her. A searing, tearing flash of blinding pain choked off her breath and thundered in salvos of agony through every fiber of her body. Then she screamed again and again and again harsh, guttural, throat-tearing screams that brought jeers and catcalls of delight from Rafe Turner and his brother.
"Fuck er, Jute!" Rafe shouted gleefully. "Ram that big black cock up her ass so far she can lick the head of it without openin' her mouth!"
Stacy's loins thrashed at the bed in a frenzy, but all efforts to divest herself of Jute's boring cock only caused it to bore deeper.
She could feel the pressure of the big Negro's body pressing down on her with pulverizing strength. It pushed her into the bed and she bucked upward, trying to throw him off, but as she bucked up he rammed down, driving his flint-hard cock to the hilt in the rubbery tunnel of her ass.
"Aaahhhggg god! God! God!" she screamed in agony and continued her helpless struggles beneath him. With the big black prick plundering far up into her rectum, pushing against the bottom of her belly from the inside, she no longer felt human. But she did feel as though she were being sawed open with a piece of rusty barb wire. The pain was unbearable and she fought in savage desperation a full minute longer against the brutal, fleshy pole plowing into her backside. Then she gave a gusty sob of complete surrender as her strength failed. She collapsed to a limp mass of gasping, sobbing flesh under Jute, who had her pinned to the bed with the cock up her ass in the manner of a butterfly in an insect collection.
"Let's turn her ankles loose," Rafe said to Labe. "Jute can hold her now."
"You like it in the ass, slut Stacy?" Labe hissed.
Stacy said nothing. Her mind was too numb, though it made it worse to know the man she had hoped to marry was watching her being sodomized and enjoying her shame and degradation. His hearty male laughter reverberated through the cabin as he urged the panting Jute on to more vigorous fucking. Then he said something to the Negro she did not catch, but the next instant Jute shoved himself up off her without severing their coupling, grabbed her by the hipbones and hauled her up to a kneeling position.
"Okay," Jute grunted lustfully as his black cock began once more to piston into her elevated rectum. "Go at it."
Suddenly Stacy was aware of movement around her head. The mattress dropped in front of her face as a heavy weight descended upon it. Fingers fumbled with her lips, tried to open her mouth. Next a spongy, wet something pushed against her chin. She jerked her eyes open, saw with horror right in front of her face a bald-headed, pinkish-tan male cock seven or eight inches long. Labe, excited beyond self-restraint by seeing Stacy fucked in the ass, had crawled onto the bed and wriggled his loins under her face. It was pressed tightly into his crotch and his legs were splayed out on either side of her shoulders.
He lifted her head by pushing his palm against her brow. The other hand was forcing the head of his prick into her mouth. She mumbled in terror and revulsion and tried to shake her head away, but could not. She could do nothing but clench her teeth and press her lips together, but Labe was not to be denied. He increased the pressure, forced her lips hard against her teeth. He groaned passionately at the touch of their satiny surface, felt them giving a tiny bit at the time, until Jute, from behind, gave an unusually powerful hunch and Stacy gasped at the increased pain. The instant her mouth opened, Labe's aggressive cock stormed through her moist lips and into the hot cavern of her mouth. She could feel its hugeness slithering up the length of her tongue and filling her mouth completely with its pungent, fleshy hardness.
In his lust-incited state Labe began to slowly screw his cock up and down toward her face, his prick sliding in and out of her mouth. His hands held her head in a vise-like grip, the palms pressed hard against her ears. She fought mentally by telling herself it was not happening, yet knowing all the while it was. Labe paced his thrusts into her mouth to match those of Jute fucking her in the ass.
Stacy sagged on knees and elbows, her humiliation knowing no bounds. She felt detached from the world around her; devoid of all sensation save nauseous shame. In a semi-trance she watched the length of Labe's cock where it came out of his fly like some strange snake creeping from its lair.
"Suck it, damn you!" she heard him snarl from above. She sucked. She knew better than not to. She nibbled at the thrusting instrument, coughing and sputtering till she grew somewhat accustomed to this unnatural invasion of her mouth. Again she tried not to think about what she was doing; again told herself it wasn't happening. This availed her nothing. She could not deny the testicles jouncing against her chin, nor the odor of his loin's sweat in her nostrils. These were undeniable proof of the depraved, sadistic attack she was undergoing. Further proof was in the thick black Negro cock pistoning in her rectum.
The saliva in her mouth increased, grew slightly sticky from small amounts of seminal fluid oozing from Labe's cock. She could feel his hips writhing and straining below her bobbing head as if he were in the throes of a spastic death. His strong fingers curled tightly in her hair, aided in slipping her mouth up and down over the end of his prick. He treated her mouth as though it were another cunt; one on which he was venting the full wrath of his animal lust. She felt his cock ballooning inside her mouth till no room was left, and she moaned piteously around it as it thrust forward toward her tonsils relentlessly, as though trying to make contact with the other cruel prick skewering deep into her bowels from behind.
Never before had she felt so degraded and debauched. She sucked avidly with her mouth and squirmed her buttocks wildly in an effort to end the nightmare as quickly as possible. She could do nothing more but please them and pray they made no further depraved demands.
Suddenly Labe jerked as though stuck by a pin, writhed his hips up tight against her face and sent the full length of his cock down in her gasping throat. She fought for breath. His cock erupted into her sucking mouth and unintelligible sounds of profanity rolled from his lips. His hot, yangy release gushed into her mouth, and she sucked and swallowed, cheeks puffing and hollowing as she gulped at the shattered dam of sperm. It seemed to last an eternity, her mouth filled with the wet-chalk taste of his spent passion. Then his cock seemed to give one last triumphant shiver and went limp in her mouth. Her senses had grown fuzzy from the pain in her rectum. She was hardly aware of it when his cock oozed from her mouth, a slimy mass of flesh. He pulled her head forward to hold it trapped against his trembling loins.
From behind, the big Jute fucked her in the ass with a roaring vengeance.
Stacy could feel his hugeness inside her stretched and expanded rectum and knew what was coming. She knew he was about to shoot his vile sperm deep into her helpless anus. And she would have to take it all inside her, even if the shame and humiliation killed her.
Behind her the drunk, sex-crazed Negro began fucking into her asshole with buck-rabbit speed. His hands raked and pawed at the white, rounded globes of her buttocks. He spread the cheeks of her ass wide, and with bulging eyes watched the full length of his pistoning cock plunge repeatedly into the depths of her anus. His cock felt like it would burst he knew it would burst not just the head, but all along the full length where the tight, rubbery walls of her anal channel held it sweetly. Stacy mumbled and whimpered an incoherent prayer into the mattress, and, mistaking them for signs of wanton lust, Jute increased the vigor of his strokes till he was buffeting her against Labe with cruel, shattering lunges.
Stacy cried out desperately, unable to contain the pain, as the rampaging Jute scrambled madly to complete his orgasm.
"Oh god!" she screamed, the sobs choking down her throat as she felt him jerk inside her and realized to her horror the moment had arrived when he would explode and fill her helpless, unprotected belly with his filthy yang. She also realized there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.
There was a muffled gurgle behind her and she felt Jute's great, throbbing cock burst into a flood as he gave one last tremendous thrust and disgorged his hot filth in wave after wave deep into her nether channel. Stacy thought his ejaculation would never stop spasming into her, and she could feel the sticky goo overflowing around his still-jerking cock, forcing its way out around the ring of her asshole clamped tightly around his throbbing rod.
Her humiliation was complete now; and absolute. There was no other way she could be fucked. She'd had it all.
She gasped out a heavy sigh of relief as she felt his wilting sex-meat drawn slowly from her tortured, flooded anus. There was a large sucking noise as it slipped out from between the white moons of her buttocks. Cool air rushed over the wetness of her loins as she remained kneeling a moment, then collapsed in a pain-soddened heap to the bed.
CHAPTER TEN
"Jesus," Rafe Turner marveled quietly. "That was a whing-ding fuckin' if ever I see'd one." He sat at the end of the table, a bottle of Lem Motlow nearby, the long-barreled shotgun leaning against his chair. Labe scrambled from the bed and joined him, as did the hulking Jute, after he dressed.
Stacy remained motionless on the bed, wondering if Jute's massive instrument had torn anything loose inside her. Her anal passage burned with the fires of ten thousand hells and she ached all over with a throbbing ache. Numbly she wondered why she could not die. Now, immediately, why could she not just quietly quit living? She thought of the murdered Flub almost with envy, even if the poor dope's head had been blown apart by buckshot.
"She gives a passable blow-job," Labe Turner chuckled, taking a seat at the table. Stacy still had not moved. She did not want to ever move again.
But she had to. She must. She had to get to the bathroom somehow and inspect herself in effort to learn what damage Jute's brutal attack had caused. It was possible her colon was ruptured, though she would be unable to detect this. Or her anal sphincter might be split.
Her position on the bed had the advantage of affording her a view of the three men seated around the near end of the table, drinking and talking in moderate tones. She forced her mind to capture the thread of their conversation. Labe was talking.
". . . and all we got to do after you assassinate Morgan is make it down to the main highway about half a mile. I'll take it from there. I've got everything fixed."
"What you plannin' to do with her, Rafe?" Jute asked, motioning toward Stacy.
Her interest quickened and the chilly hand of death clutched her heart when she saw Rafe Turner draw a finger across his throat.
"I sure would like to fuck on her some more before you put her out," the big Negro said wistfully. "I ain't fucked her in the face yet."
"Hell, we got lots of time. Morgan don't make his leetle talk here in the mountains for two more days yet."
"You may not have to do anything to her," Labe said to his brother in a loud whisper. "She hasn't moved since Jute fucked her. She might be dead of pain and shock." The breathless silence which followed was broken by Rafe.
"Hey! You! Leetle gal! Get the hell off the bed and into the bathroom and wash up. We'll be wantin' some more of your stuff before long."
Slowly, as a zombie moves, Stacy worked her way to the side of the bed and pushed herself into a seated position.
"By god," Rafe said. "She can't hardly move, at that. Labe might be right, Jute. You might have busted her up inside real good with that elephant cock of yourn."
Jute snickered at this dubious, back-handed compliment.
"I said get to the bathroom, leetle gal," Rafe snapped at her. "And hurry it up. I'm already beginning to want some more cunt."
"I'll go watch to see she don't slip out a side window." Jute started to get to his feet.
"Hell, sit still," Rafe said expansively. "This is one time she don't need watchin'. Jesus! Look at that. She can't hardly walk. She ain't goin' out no window in that condition. Pour us some more whiskey."
After three tries Stacy had managed to reach her feet to stand spraddle-legged beside the bed, the bludgeoning pain in her rectum causing her senses to waver. Her first step wan an experiment in agony. So was the second. And then Rafe Turner's words registered on her pain benumbed brain and a miracle happened. It seemed as if a small door in her brain opened and all the pain of her body flowed out through it and away from her.
Could she have heard correctly? Could it be true that this one time she would not be guarded on her way to the bathroom ?
A frantic warning clamored inside her. She must take care none of her captors noticed the change which was not a change at all, nor a lessening of the pain, but it was her first opportunity at freedom and this alone shoved all other things into the back of her mind.
She hobbled slowly, affecting considerable agony, past the three men at the table and into the hall leading toward the bathroom and got as far as her father's gun rack on the wall a few feet beyond the door.
"Jesus, she's in real bad shape," she heard Rafe say.
"Fuck her," Labe spat. "If she dies now it'll save us killing her when we kill her old man."
"Fuck her is what I want to do," Jute's chuckle rumbled through the cabin.
And by the time these things concerning her were said Stacy had her father's .30 caliber M-l carbine in her hands, a fifteen-round clip in the receiver, and had sneaked a shell silently into the chamber.
She was ready.
The fierce joy and exultation that gripped her because of her swift change of circumstances and the feel of the loaded gun in her hand was all but suffocating. With no little effort she got hold of her churning emotions and stood silently, breathing deeply to soothe her jangled emotions. The fact she had never killed a human being before never entered her mind. To her the three in the other room were not human, anyway. She blessed the many hours her father had spent in teaching her to use his guns.
And then she walked back toward the main room where the three men sat at the table drinking whiskey.
Rafe Turner saw her first; saw her standing there naked, a wild and fierce joy in her eyes and a deadly semi-automatic rifle in her hands. He bogged stupidly in disbelief.
"Christ," he whispered hoarsely. "Jesus Christ." He ran a nervous tongue over suddenly-parched lips half a second before Stacy shot him in the throat. He pitched backward, taking his chair and shotgun with him as he fell to the floor beyond the end of the table and out of sight.
The flat, vicious crack of the carbine filled the cabin with the sound of death.
"Stacy, for god's sake!" Labe Turner jumped to his feet, face ashen. "Please don't . . . "
"Please don't what, Mark?" Stacy's calm voice was all the more deadly because of the restraint she was putting on it. She wanted to scream obscenities at this beast of a man she had recently loved with heart and soul. "What is it you want me to please don't do, Mark?"
Jute sat bug-eyed and slack-jawed with fear. He knew death when he saw it. This girl was death. All at once his black face glistened with the sweat of terror. Making no sound, but moving his lips, he began to pray.
"Don't shoot me," Labe Turner whined. "Please don't, Stacy." His monstrous fear of death suddenly destroyed all control he had over his bodily functions and the fetid odor of feces mingled with that of steamy urine, wafted up around him.
Stacy said, "Fuck her. If she dies now it'll save us killing her when we kill her old man."
When Labe Turner heard the words he'd spoken but minutes past, repeated back to him verbatim, he knew he was going to die. He began to blubber. Tears gushed from his eyes, ropes of snot streamed from his nose as his bowels and kidneys continued to act.
Out of sight beyond the far end of the table Rafe Turner lay on the floor beside the long barreled shotgun. His life's blood poured from the wound in his neck, but he was conscious with that crystal clear awareness that sometimes precedes death. He knew he would die soon unless he received immediate and expert medical attention which was ridiculous to even contemplate. He was going to die and that was that. Yet he would like to get just one try at the leetle gal with his shotgun before he cashed in. But he couldn't make it. Something was wrong. Half a dozen times he'd tried to sit up, and each time he failed. And his time was running out in the warm flow of crimson from his neck that soaked his clothes in front. But he had to keep trying.
"Stacy, please," Labe Turner slobbered. "Think of what we could mean to each other."
"That's exactly what I am thinking, Mark," she replied almost tenderly and shot him through the right eye. The heavy .30 caliber slug flattened going through his head, tore an exit hole from the back of his skull the size of a man's fist. As he was flung backward Stacy thought of Flub's face blasted off with buckshot, and the shreds of flesh, splinters of bone and globs of brains that had been on the cabin wall behind him.
"Jute," she said when Labe ceased to fall. Her voice was still quiet, but now it carried a new timbre like the soft, throaty snarl of an avenging tigress. Or maybe the gentle purr of death itself. "You're next, Jute. I've got something very special for you."
Jute gulped and nodded, great beads of stinking fear-sweat pouring off his black face.
"You know why I've got something special for you, Jute?"
He shook his head only, for his tongue clove to the roof of his dry mouth.
"For fucking me in the ass, you slimy son of a bitch," she gritted, nearly losing control of herself.
From beyond the end of the table Rafe Turner almost made it to a sitting position, which would allow him to get to his knees, but he failed again and fell back to the floor, still bleeding profusely.
"On your feet, Jute, and step away from the table," Stacy said.
When he hesitated she shot his left ear off. He lurched to the center of the room, moaning and holding his head. Then she shot him through the knees; a .30 caliber slug through each joint.
Jute hit the floor like a pole-axed beef, his hideous screams of agony rattling the cabin windows. The screams grew to deafening volume after she shot him through both shoulder joints, but dwindled to animal grunts of mortal pain when she strode forward and pumped a shot straight down through his belly so he would die slowly and in tongue-chewing agony. Next she placed the carbine muzzle against his crotch and blasted his genitals off with three quick shots.
By the time the roar of the shots faded Jute was sobbing and whimpering childishly for his mother.
A mighty weight lifted from Stacy's shoulders. Despite the carnage in the room she suddenly wanted to laugh and dance and sing and cry, all at the same time. She was free! Free! Free! And there was no one alive to tell of the ghastly nightmare she had endured since being captured. Nor would the secret of what her beloved father had done to Rafe Turner ever be told, either.
The goodness of the emotions welling inside her were almost too much to bear as she laid the carbine on the table and made for the phone a dozen feet away. She must call her father at once and-
"Leetle gal."
Stacy whirled, froze solid in her tracks.
Rafe Turner had struggled to his knees and rested his elbows on the table, the murderous muzzle of the twelve gauge shotgun aimed directly at her face not five feet away.
"You remember what I done to old Flub this mornin', leetle gal?" Turner said weakly, in quavering tones. Blood spurted from the hole in his neck each time his heart beat. "You remember what old Flub looked like after I shot him? Well, that's how you're goin' to look, leetle gal." A split second before he collapsed back behind the table and to death he squeezed the trigger and caught a fleeting glimpse of blood and small chunks of flesh and pinkish globs of brains and splinters of bone imbedded in the wall back of where the leetle gal had been standing.