It was the middle of June, and the weather was already sultry in Detroit. In the apartment which three girls shared, there wasn't any air conditioning, and even fans in the living room and the two bedrooms didn't seem to help. There were times when Lucy Wilson, Cordelia Manners, and Pris Loring wished they could be working in Fairbanks, Alaska, and this was one of those days.
They had a great deal in common besides agreeing that summer in Detroit wasn't the most pleasant in the world. But then, they wouldn't have been pleasant in St. Louis, Cincinnati, Philadelphia or a good many other places where there were rivers or lakes which drew humidity along with the blazing rays of the summer sun.
All three of them were secretaries, and all three of them worked for different firms in downtown Detroit. Slim, blonde, girlish Lucy Wilson, twenty-two and a graduate of the University of Michigan, was a private secretary to a stock broker by the name of Frank Hennessey, more than twice her age and on the make, despite the fact that he had a handsome auburn-haired wife in her late thirties.
Cordelia Manners, twenty-four, was the sophisticate and the aristocrat of the trio of roommates in this comfortably furnished apartment on Crowley Avenue near Hanson Drive. She wore her jet-black hair in a coronet braid around the top of her head, leaving her nape and dainty little ears bare. Yet her buxom figure which contrasted ripe, closely set, round titties and spaciously surging hips and bottom-cheeks against her breathtakingly slender waist, suggested the sexual appetites of a concubine. The ironic fact was that Cordelia was an embittered virgin, and had broken off just six months ago with Bill Torley, her fianc�, precisely because he had wanted to sample her merchandise before marriage, and Cordelia didn't play that way. Cordelia was assistant office manager at the headquarters of a chain of women's dress shops, and quite proud of the distinction of that position. She had been born of wealthy parents who still lived in Buffalo, an only child who had resisted the tendency to be pampered and spoiled as so many only children are, and had herself decided to come to Detroit on an impulse just to prove that she could find a job.
And that had been two years ago, and she had already established herself with an excellent income and a future, resisted her parent's almost tearful efforts to bring her back home, because they wanted to make a stylish marriage. If truth be known, Cordelia was a little afraid of the male animal, another reason why she had broken off with Bill. At the same time, she was widely read and quite aware of the demands of the female nervous system; when secret passions rose in her luscious loins, she resorted not to the use of her dainty finger but rather to cold showers, ascetic self-discipline and intensive reading of philosophers like Kant and Spinoza.
Pris Loring was the youngest of the trio, just turned twenty. She was auburn-haired, with a long thick pageboy that fell just below her shoulders. She was svelte, with mouthwatering pear-shaped titties, flaring hips, and audaciously bold, oval-contoured bottom-cheeks which undulated lasciviously when she walked. Pris also was an only child, her parents lived in Chicago, and were in the process of getting divorced from each other, which was one reason why she had left them about a year ago to come visit her second cousin Jacqueline Browning. It had been Jacqueline who had helped get her a job in the U-Drive Trailer Corporation, a thriving young organization which intended one day to go regional on the original theory of selling trailers to families for long-range planning of vacations around the United States on the basis of a small down payment and moderate monthly credit charges. Jacqueline was engaged to the sales manager of U-Drive, Bob Glossup, and she hoped that Pris would ultimately fall for one of the firm's top salesmen and live happily ever after.
Jacqueline herself was brown-haired, lush, twenty-three and by no means a virgin. She and her fianc� had been lovers for the past year and had set the wedding date for next fall. It had been Jacqueline's not too original idea that every young couple about to be married should have a pre-marital affair to make sure that they would harmonize in bed together. There wasn't any doubt about it by now. But as for Pris, her only sexual experience had been a secret crush on her high-school gym teacher, a tall Swedish spinster in her thirties. And Pris Loring had had many an adolescent dream of lying naked with Helga Swanson and adoring that spectacularly sculptured body. She hadn't the slightest interest in Dan Jefferson, a U-Drive star salesman with whom Jacqueline was trying to pair her off. Privately, she considered men nasty, obscene animals, and the thought that a man would ever dare to put his prick into the soft dark auburn-thatched cleft between her pale milky thighs was abhorrent..
Despite these divergent sexual outlooks, the three roommates had got along very nicely and with considerably less friction than females are usually wont to have when living together. Lucy, Cordelia and Pris adhered scrupulously to the schedule that was set up for doing laundry, marketing, cleaning the apartment and all the other chores which are incumbent upon shared domesticity for the single girls. None of them ever brought a young man up to the apartment, so that the other two didn't have to worry about how to spend an evening at the movies or strolling through Buchanan Park if the weather was nice. And as for Pris, who was quite well aware that she was attracted more to her own sex than to the male, she was much too prudishly influenced by her upbringing to dare to attempt a more intimate liaison with her lovely roommates.
On this particular hot June evening, however, the three of them were extremely enthusiastic about plans for a vacation. All of them had contrived to take their vacation the first two weeks in July, and all of them had furthermore agreed that a trip planned and shared by all three of them would be lots of fun. They had taken a vote and decided on the Ozarks. Cordelia had done a good deal of reading on the nation's geography and had decided that there was much of scenic beauty and historic interest to attract them all.
Jacqueline, who was still intending to marry her second cousin Pris off to the star salesman of the company, had talked to her boss-fianc� and arranged to let the girls rent one of the U-Drive trailers during this two-week period. It would be good publicity for the firm, she had told her lover. A poster around the trailer would tell passers-by who made this exceptional piece of automotive merchandise and what its price was. He had readily agreed with his inamorata and so for the paltry sum of $150, Pris, Cordelia and Lucy, all of whom knew how to drive a car, were spending this hot sticky evening drawing up lists of supplies that ought to be taken along on the trip and planning an itinerary.
They had no way of knowing that there would be several detours before they ever got back to Detroit, and that, in the process, their young lives ... as well as their virginities ... would be considerably altered!
CHAPTER TWO
The warmth of the day hadn't cooled off at all by evening, and so Lucy, Cordelia and Pris were completely at their ease in just their slips in their apartment. They could console themselves with the prospect of the enjoyable motoring vacation trip they would soon take, and at the same time gripe about how they hoped one day to make enough money on their jobs to be able to afford an apartment with an air conditioner. Lucy had even sighed and said, "Who knows, maybe we'll all meet some nice romantic, handsome fellow with a lot of money and marry him, and then we could travel all around the world and follow the seasons. Just think of going to Scandinavia in the summer and Hawaii in the winter!"
"Who wants to get married?" Pris Loring shrugged. And that remark was from her very heart, for she found men repugnant and not at all interesting. Cordelia nodded, confirming auburn-haired Pris's comment, "Who, indeed? Lucy, you certainly wouldn't sacrifice your precious freedom just for the sake of an old air conditioner, would you?"
Lucy giggled. "Well, maybe not," she conceded, "but right now, if I thought I'd have to go on being cooped up in this stuffy apartment under such conditions for the rest of my life, the first eligible man that came along might just get a yes' out of me."
Just then the phone rang. Cordelia was nearest and answered. Her eyebrows rose as she turned. "It's for you, Lucy," she said. And as she laid the phone down on the little table beside the bed, for this was her room, while Lucy had the other bedroom and Pris took the studio couch in the living room, she whispered: "Maybe that's the romantic man you're looking for, Lucy."
It wasn't. It turned out to be Frank Hennessey, Lucy's fifty-one-year-old boss.
"Oh, gosh," Lucy murmured to herself, "I wonder what he wants."
She soon found out. Frank Hennessey had stumbled onto a red-hot prospect who had about $50,000 to spend on stock and was ready to listen to his recommendations. They had just had dinner at a swanky Detroit restaurant, and Frank was telephoning from his office excitingly pleading with Lucy to rush right over ("Take a cab, I'll pay for it of course, Miss Wilson!") and type up a hasty prospectus which he would give this money-ready client in the morning.
She reluctantly agreed, for he had promised her a twenty-dollar bonus and that would come in handy during their vacation. "It wasn't any romantic handsome man, I'm afraid, girls," she confessed. "It's Mr. Hennessey. I've got to go for him."
"He sure is, he's got a really beautiful wife, and she's got auburn hair something like yours, Pris. But you've got a much better figure," Lucy replied with a self-conscious giggle.
"Why, thank you, Lucy darling." Pris flushed, and gave Lucy a secret longing look.
Cordelia Manners languidly put a slim hand to the coronet braid at the top of her head. like Lucy, she was just in her slip and sandals. "From what you have said before about this boss of yours, Lucy," she drawled, "it seems to me that you practically take your life in your hands every time you're alone with him."
"Oh, it's really not as bad as that," Lucy laughingly protested. "He's really very nice once you get used to him, and he doesn't make me work overtime like this very often. I really can't complain too much."
"Didn't you tell me he's got a yen for anything in skirts even though he's got a gorgeous wife?" Cordelia pursued.
"Yes, I guess I did. But he's a very considerate boss and he never really has made a pass at me." Lucy confessed, flushing adorably. Because of the humidity in the room, she was wearing just a white slip, chastely cut, and a pair of thong sandals, but the slip molded out a really breathtaking figure. Her titties were high-perched, firm and beautifully rounded, while her gracefully slender waist flared tantalizing into a sleek, compact hips and upstandingly jouncy buttocks set tightly together like a boy's. Her thighs were long and beautifully sculptured, with sinuous, nervously muscled calves. Her skin was a soft-sheened carnation tint, pink and white vying deliciously. Her face was heart-shaped, with an intellectually high forehead, dimpled cheeks, soft, somewhat ripe mouth and coquettish dimpled chin, while her classically proportioned Grecian nose evidenced a hidden sensuousness to her temperament through the delicate, thin and slightly flaring wings. Her hair, which she wore in a neat oval-shaped bun at the back of her head, was the color of honey.
If the truth be known, Pris Loring had often secretly devoured Lucy's delectably slim body with hungry, yearning eyes; for Lucy's blondeness recalled to her the teenage crush she had had on blonde Helga Swanson. In fact, right now, watching Lucy's delectable body move about with the slip clinging to her haunches and her firm young bosom, Pris felt a shudder of lustful and covetous desire suffuse her loin. If Cordelia hadn't been there, she might have tried to touch, caress the lovely young blonde.
The curious thing was, she really didn't know Lucy's outlook about sex at all. Lucy almost never talked about the subject, and when she did it was only to make a joke about it. And yet, though Pris herself had never made overtures to any member of her own sex, she intuitively knew that to attempt a Lesbian overture to someone as desirable as Lucy and to be rebuffed would be the most annihilating experience in all the world. Reluctantly, she turned her gaze away and went back to the itinerary.
Lucy, meanwhile, hurried into the bathroom to take a swift shower and then to emerge wearing a soft pink cotton dress over her slip. Pris noticed that she had taken the dress into the bathroom with her, and now as Pris recalled, Lucy almost never let her or Cordelia watch when she had to undress or change clothes. Pris sighed with frustration. She wished she could be alone with Lucy just once...
CHAPTER THREE
Lucy Wilson had taken a cab to her boss's office, which was on the ninth floor of the Cutler Building on Morlock Avenue in the heart of downtown Detroit. She found the fight on and the door open, and Frank Hennessey pacing the floor in front of his desk waiting for her to arrive.
"Thanks a lot for coming and helping me out, Lucy," he said with a sigh of relief. "I'll make it up to you, don't worry. Now let me give you cab fare first of all." He delved into his trousers pocket for his wallet, took out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her. "That should take care of both ways. And here's another bill to cover your overtime tonight, Lucy." The other bill was a twenty, and Lucy smiled her gratitude. The money would come in handy for the motoring trip down to the Ozarks.
"Thanks a lot, Mr. Hennessey," she said. "But that's really too much for cab fare. It only cost a dollar and a half coming here."
"Just the same, you're going to take it. Now let's see, where shall we start? Tell you what, Lucy, I've already made some tentative notes, so why don't I just dictate to you and you can whip it up into shape so that I can send the messenger over to Mr. Thorsley in the morning."
Frank Hennessey was somewhat stout, nearly bald, wore glasses, but had a pleasant, friendly face, nice blue eyes and had always treated Lucy with consideration. However, lately, she had noticed that he appeared to be ogling her legs whenever she crossed them as she sat in his office taking dictation, and there were other times when she had intercepted his staring at her as she went out of the office. There was another girl who worked in his brokerage office, Janet Ostfeld, about twenty-nine, rather plain of features, and somewhat mousy black hair and spectacles which made her look like a prim schoolteacher, but she did have a very svelte figure with long sleek legs and a perfectly saucy behind. Frank Hennessey had already made a pass at Janet and been rather coolly rebuffed. Janet happened to be in the process of nearing the end of a rather long engagement with a scholarly young man who was deciding whether he wanted to be a minister or a carpenter, since he had originally gone to seminary school and had credentials enough to go on to complete his vocation. On the other hand, he was a superb carpenter and made a lot of money doing odd jobs for the neighbors in his community, and had just had an offer from a contractor that was almost too tempting to pass up. Janet, though quite religious herself, was getting a little impatient of waiting and had hoped to swing her fianc� over to the carpenter job so they could get married and she could leave Frank Hennessey forever.
Just as Lucy Wilson had told her roommate, he hadn't made a pass at her yet. But tonight, things were going to change. And they were going to change so much that Lucy was going to feel for the first time the wakening of all her as yet immature sexual yearnings ... yearnings that would be, as we shall see, devastatingly and quite differently fulfilled in the course of the next two weeks.
The presentation took about half an hour to dictate, and Lucy spent another half hour polishing it into shape. Frank Hennessey leaned back in his swivel chair, smoking one cigarette after another, and glancing at his honey-haired secretary as she bent industriously over her typewriter, her lovely forehead furrowed with concentration. Her pink cotton dress was snug over her beautifully rounded titties, and his eyes fixed most attentively on these luscious love-turrets. Thus the virginal Lucy was desired not only by her own boss but also by her roommate Pris, though each till now had attempted no demonstration of that burning desire.
"There, it's done, Mr. Hennessey," Lucy at last exclaimed as she rose from the typewriter, gathered the typed pages into a neat sheath and clipped them together and thrust them into a manila folder.
"Gosh, I'm grateful to you, Lucy. You saved my life. And if we sell our fussy client all the stocks in this prospectus, why, I'm going to give you a real bonus, and that's a promise!"
He took the manila folder and laid it down on the edge of his desk, standing there smiling at her. His eyes drank in the lovely grace of her slim waist, noticed the flare of her trim hips, but again returned to those swelling globes which proudly surged their mouthwatering rondures against the bodice of the simple, snug dress. The combination of her honey-hued hair and her pink and white skin went very well with the dress, and undoubtedly accentuated Frank Hennessey's stirring desire.
"How about my buying you a drink? It'll relax you for a good nights sleep, Lucy," he affably offered.
"No thanks, Mr. Hennessey. It's late, and I do want to get back home so I can be fresh in the morning. I really don't drink much, anyway. But thanks just the same."
His pleasant, rotund face was perspiring now and there was an anxious look on it. He was reluctant to let this delicious morsel of pulchritude leave, now that she had been alone with him for so long in the deserted office without his yet having made the approach that perhaps might gain for him a most desirable sexual relationship. "Let me drive you home, then," he proposed. "Cabs aren't too easy to get this time of night downtown."
"Why, that would be fine. Thank you very much."
It was still so warm that she hadn't bothered to take along a coat or even her hat. She turned to go, but Frank Hennessey was there beside her, reaching for the doorknob. "Lucy," his voice was tremblingly hoarse as he tried desperately to seize the moment before it could disappear forever, "I'd really like to take you to a nice nightclub and just chat a little while. I'm sort of lonely, if you know what I mean."
"That's really very nice of you, Mr. Hennessey. But I'd better not," was her polite answer. She gave him a gracious smile, because even though she had an inkling of what he had in mind, there wasn't any use irritating a boss who could be as generous as Frank Hennessey was. And she didn't want to miss out on that bonus he had promised, either.
"Sometimes, Lucy, a man gets awfully lonely. It doesn't seem worthwhile to go on working without any real reason. And when I think of how nice you've been to me, what a wonderful worker you are, how well we get along together, I sort of wish I was a younger man, Lucy." His voice throbbed with self-pity. Lucy began to blush, because he was standing blocking the door and had made it rather embarrassing for her. She decided she had better wait and hear him out, because a few minutes wouldn't make really that much difference, seeing how late it was already.
"You know, Lucy," he continued, "the very first day I met you, when I hired you, I said to myself that I wish I'd been in circulation. Of course, in a way I am, you know. My wife and I just live together under the same roof, but we go our separate ways. She hasn't been too well lately, anyway."
"Mr. Hennessey, it is getting late," Lucy gently reminded him with her sweetest little smile. She was beginning to feel a bit nervous now, and wondered if she was going to have to agree to go out with him to the nightclub just to avoid an unpleasant scene. She remembered what Cordelia had said to her just before she had left, about her practically having to take her life into her hands every time she was alone with Frank Hennessey. Well, of course it wasn't as bad as that. She knew about his having made a pass at Janet, because Janet had indignantly told her the next day after Mr. Hennessey had gone out to lunch. She was aware that he did like to look at her a lot, but you really couldn't blame a man for that, not if he kept his hands off. But this was the first time she had heard Frank Hennessey actually talk about his wife, and she wasn't certain it was true. Cordelia had mentioned that Mrs. Hennessey was gorgeous; Lucy had never seen her boss's wife, but Cordelia apparently had once seen a picture in the society section and remembered it.
"Lucy," he moved closer to her now, forcing a placating smile to his lips, "I like you a great deal. I know I'm hardly the romantic type, but I'd do a great deal for you if you'd just be nice to me. Now, it's not what you think-I know that sounded rather bad there. What I mean is, I'd like once in a while to go out to dinner with you and maybe take you to a show or a nightclub. I can pretend I was a young man again, you know."
"I don't think that would be good for either of us, Mr. Hennessey," Lucy was very guarded in choosing her words. "Your wife might find out and misinterpret it."
"Doris doesn't care what I do, so long as there isn't any scandal. All she cares about is my money and the beautiful home and the fine clothes I provide," he said bitterly. "Lucy, don't go off like this mad at me."
"But I'm not mad at you, Mr. Hennessey," she protested.
"That's fine. Then be nice to me, dear. I can do a great deal for you. You know, you're very lovely in that dress." Now, casting all his hopes on one turn of the dice, Frank Hennessey slipped his left arm around her waist and, tilting up her chin, pressed his mouth quickly and hungrily on hers. Lucy struggled and tried to push him away with both hands, but Frank Hennessey was not to be denied now. The feel of her resilient, supple waist, the smell of her warm sweet skin, the nearness of her and the accessibility here in this deserted office had quickened his lust.
"Lucy, don't push me away, I want you, I need you," he panted. And now he put his right hand on the side of her tittie as he silenced her stifled outcry with a hungrier, more demanding kiss. He drew her to him with his left arm until her loins pressed against his own ... and Lucy
Wilson for the first time in her life felt the unmistakable prodding of a man's prick swollen into full erection!
"Please, Mr. Hennessey, please let me go-it's late and I've got to get home!" she pleaded, still controlling her indignation by balancing it against the remembrance of his past generosity and her hopes for that bonus.
"Aw, Lucy honey, don't be mean to me, I need you so much. You don't know just how much I do need you, Lucy. I'll do anything for you. Just be nice to me a little, I don't expect you to love me, but just be nice. Let me kiss you, dear," he pleaded.
"No, I don't want you to, Mr. Hennesseyohhh!" for he had suddenly slipped his left arm lower down and she now felt it pressing hard against the tops of her bottom-cheeks, while his right hand had gripped the back of her neck and, bending his head, he had pressed his lips over the nippled cone of her left tittie. "Stop that-I mean it-I'll scream if you don't let me go, Mr. Hennessey! Ohh, you've got no right to treat me this way-stop it, I say!"
The feel of her jouncy bottom, the pressure of his agonized prick thrusting against her loins, and the exquisite and salacious sensation which his lips had as they clenched over the pert tittie bud which pressed so firmly through the bra and then the slip and thin cotton dress, had roused Frank Hennessey's carnal desires to their zenith.
"I've got to have you, I'll pay you anything, I want you, Lucy," he gasped, his face mottled and contorted with lust.
She struggled and twisted, but he had a hold like a bear hug around her bottom, and now his right hand had moved round to cup her tittie and to feed it to his lips. Clenching her little fist, she beat at the top of his nearly bald head, twisting and squirming to break loose of his hold. Undaunted, he continued his mouthing and sucking of her nipple, heedless of the now really frantic blows she rained down upon him, wincing and grunting, but so furiously aroused that he no longer heeded her struggles or her protest. And now suddenly he put both hands to the cheeks of her behind and squeezed as he forced her crotch against his, and the aching rigidity of his rod rubbed against her virgin cunt through the thin fabric which shielded that maiden mount from his assault.
Lucy uttered a shriek of repugnance, and rushed her own hands back to try to tug away his, for he was squeezing her buttocks rather painfully. But in that moment, the rutting erection which she felt through his clothes and through hers as he rasped and pressed himself against her most intimate nook, began to procure for her a curious, enervating kind of feeling, so that her thighs were weak and shivering with tremors, while her breast where he had sucked at it throbbed with the most indescribable sensation she had ever known.
Realizing that all was lost now unless he could make her yield, and not wishing to go so far as rape-though he was very nearly stirred to that pitch-Frank Hennessey thickly gasped, "For God's sake, Lucy, take pity on a guy! What do you want, anyway? I'll give you five hundred dollars just for a few minutes with you-come on, be a sweet girl and give a guy a break!"
"How can you say such a thing to me, Mr. Hennessey?" she tearfully sobbed, "I-I'm not a prostitute-and I don't like you that way at all. I couldn't-no matter how much money-oh please let me go-I-I'm so ashamed-I-I'm going to have to quit my job-"
"Oh no, for God's sake don't do that, Lucy, you're the best secretary I ever had," he groaned, and abjectly released her, standing there like an urchin caught dead to rights and conscious of his own sinfulness. "Please-I don't know what got into me. Doris has been giving me hell at home, and all this work and no gratitude-please forgive me-I-I did not mean to do this, you've got to believe me. But you're so young and beautiful, Lucy, I couldn't help myself. Sometimes a man gets carried away."
"I-I know." Trembling, her face very red, Lucy smoothed her dress, glancing self-consciously at the wet splotch on the bodice of her pink cotton dress where his lips had moistly sucked her nipple. "I don't really want to quit my job, Mr. Hennessey, but it's going to be awfully embarrassing from now on-after-after what you've just done."
"I-I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. A ten-dollar raise, how's that, Lucy? Just pretend it never happened. But you don't know what came over me, when I saw you get up from the typewriter, with that lovely yellow hair and that sweet face-please, Lucy, isn't there a chance for me, somehow? If we start all over again and-"
"If you keep talking like that, Mr. Hennessey, I really will have to give you notice. I-I'd better go now. Good-good night."
Flustered and trembling, she turned to the knob of the door, and went out. Frank Hennessey slumped down into a chair, his chest heaving, his face empurpled with thwarted lust. Then after a moment, recovering some of his poise, he reached out to turn the knob so that the office door would be locked. And then, with a groan, feverishly tugging at his zipper, he emerged his swollen cock and, groping for a handkerchief with his left hand, began to masturbate while he closed his eyes and panted, "Lucy, you sweet bitch-I'm going to give it to you-oh Lucy, you feel so good-ohhh!"
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time Lucy Wilson got back from her boss's office, Cordelia had decided to go on to bed. There were still a few weeks left before the three of them would start off for the Ozarks, and Cordelia's boss, while he didn't have the amorous proclivities of Lucy's, still kept her hopping with a great deal of extra work because he too was planning a vacation but his would be around mid-July. Indeed, he'd asked her if she couldn't arrange to go in August, but Cordelia knew that the others in the office above him liked her and that she didn't have much to lose in gambling his displeasure when she told him she would like to, but she had already made plans well in advance, and that she really couldn't change them, and that the first two weeks in July wouldn't really deprive the company very much, because business generally slacked off around that time.
But Pris Loring had waited up for Lucy and had put on a pair of pink silk pajamas, and was sitting on the couch with her bare feet tucked under her, reading a paperback book which she put down as Lucy entered.
"Cordelia's asleep," she told Lucy in a stage whisper. "Well, how did it go?"
"I made some money, but it was a headache,"
Lucy confessed with a shrug. "Gosh, I'm done in. I'm going to take a shower and go right to bed."
"Do you mean that inconsiderate boss of yours is going to expect you to be down to work bright and early, after the session you just put in?" Cordelia demanded. "Come and sit down by me, dear." She patted the couch invitingly.
Lucy was pulling off her dress and stood again in her slip. Pris Loring stared at her, and she couldn't help feasting her eyes now that the two of them were alone together. She couldn't help looking at those luscious high-set round titties, nor the way Lucy's delightfully slender waist curved to sleek, alluring hips. Her eyes swept down Lucy's thighs, which the slip moulded out in the most fascinating way. She felt her own heartbeat quicken as Lucy approached and plumped herself down.
"Whew!" Lucy sighed. "I think when I get back from vacation, Pris, I'm going to find myself another job. He was just impossible tonight."
"You mean he made a pass at you?"
"Worse than that. He practically offered to pay me if I'd give in."
"He didn't!" Pris gasped, horrified.
"He did. Five hundred dollars for just a few minutes with me-that was exactly what he said, Pris. I said I wasn't a prostitute, and then I said I was going to quit my job, but he begged me not to do it. He said he was just carried away. I don't understand men sometimes."
"I don't either, to be honest with you, Lucy dear, and you know how Cordelia feels. She broke off with Bill when he got sort of-well, you know-eager to get her into bed with him even before they got married. They're such selfish, arrogant brutes, and they think we need them, but we don't, do we, Lucy honey?"
Stealthily Pris Loring had squirmed a bit closer to the beautiful blonde, and before Lucy could realize what was happening, Pris had put her right arm around her waist and her face was close to Lucy's as she murmured, "You know, honey, it's just awful to treat a nice girl like you that way. But girls don't act that way, you know. Lucy-"
"Please, Pris, it's so warm tonight, and I just don't like to be-well, mauled. I didn't mean to offend you, but I guess Mr. Hennessey put me all on edge."
Gently she pulled away from Pris's grasp.
Pris Loring bit her lips, knowing she had been rebuffed. She wasn't quite certain Lucy understood what she had been trying to do, but it was very evident that Lucy didn't go the gay girl route at all. Darn the luck anyway, she told herself. Well, maybe on the trip, the two of them would be thrown together alone and she, Pris, could cheer Lucy up. Pris Loring was hoping that this vacation trip by car was going to be the beginning of a closer, more tender relationship between her and Lucy. She was so passionately eager to make love to Lucy that she couldn't stand it much longer without baring her very soul. However, the charming auburn-haired Pris was going to find there were others in this world who coveted her voluptuous young body just as hotly as she did Lucy's, and that they belonged to both sexes, though not exactly of her own social milieu. That was another lesson Pris Loring was going to learn in a very short time.
"Why don't we both take a shower together?" she played her last trump card.
"Oh my gosh, no. That's silly," Lucy ingenuously laughed. Once again Pris's face flushed with hurt embarrassment.
"Okay," she conceded. "You go ahead. I'll finish my book and then I'll get to bed pretty soon. Goodnight, honey."
"Goodnight, Pris. Thanks for trying to be nice, but I guess I wasn't in the mood. I do think I'm going to have to find another job, very seriously."
"Well, I could talk to my cousin Jacqueline, and see if maybe she couldn't get you a job with U-Drive. I know she's trying to get me hitched up with that slick salesman, Todd Brewster, but I don't want any part of him. I know Bob Glossup, her boss, will be needing another girl or two before Labor Day."
"Say, that's a wonderful idea. Thanks, Pris," Lucy Wilson turned back to smile at the au-burn-haired woman on the couch. "And maybe after we've traveled in that rented trailer your cousin lent us through Mr. Glossup, I'll be so enthusiastic about its merits that I'll be able to sell myself to him as a kind of employee he'd like to have."
"You'd be the kind he'd like to have, if you went over there, Lucy. Well, go have your shower. I'll talk to Jackie tomorrow at lunch," Pris Loring said, with a nostalgic sigh which expressed her regret at not being able to make love to luscious Lucy.
CHAPTER FIVE
The long-awaited trip to the Ozarks was just beginning. It was the first day of July, and sultry and oppressive with the threat of an oncoming thunderstorm. Lucy Wilson, Pris Loring and Cordelia Manners were down at the display lot of U-Drive, and they had brought their suitcases in a cab and were preparing to load up into the rented trailer which Pris had arranged for the vacation through her second cousin, Jacqueline Browning. Jacqueline was there too, as was her sales manager boss and soon-to-be husband, handsome Bob Glossup. The latter was brown-haired, with a pleasant smile and regular features, clear blue eyes and a sturdy build, twenty-eight years old and a livewire. It was easy to see that Jacqueline, who had been sleeping with him for the past year, was crazy about him and was hard put to it to keep from making it obvious that she was still an employee and not already his bride. After all, Bob and Jacqueline had enjoyed just about all the pleasures which husband and wife can have, with perhaps a few exceptions.
Jacqueline had already told her fianc� that she would just love to have him pair her cousin, Pris Loring, up with one of the ambitious salesmen because she felt that Pris needed to settle down and have a man to cling to. What Jacqueline didn't know was that Pris loathed men and would have much rather gone to bed with Jacqueline herself ... but since that wasn't possible, Pris was still secretly and almost desperately in love with lovely Lucy.
But on this hot sunny day as the four beautiful young women stood around the trailer which Bob Glossup was giving the three roommates at a very low price (to please his sweetheart), there was no outward sign of all these intermixed emotions and suppressed desires. Before the two weeks were up, however, many suppressed desires would be released ... but not necessarily those of our three heroines!
Bob Glossup had a map and was tracing the itinerary of the trio. "I can give you a few tips about the Ozarks, girls," he said genially. "There's some lovely sights around Springfield, and there's one good hotel there. If I were you, I'd try to land near some nice big farmhouse, offer to pay the owner a rental for letting you park there and get the facilities you need like water and maybe electricity. Of course, there are trailer camps in Little Rock and many of the other cities as you'll see on this map. They're listed on this map with an asterisk in red. And I'd change drivers pretty often. It can get pretty hot down there, girls. I don't know really why you're going there instead of maybe Wisconsin or Minnesota. It's a lot cooler up there, I can tell you that."
"Oh," Lucy Wilson said airily, "None of us has ever been to the Ozarks, and we've read so much about it. There are rivers and valleys and some quaint historical places."
"And a lot of somewhat suspicious characters, too. I wouldn't be too friendly if I were you," Bob Glossup warned. "Stay on the highways and regular roads, and don't go off on any side-roads or trails not shown on the map just because you're taking movies." He glanced at Cordelia, who had put the straps of her movie camera case over one lovely shoulder. She flushed at his glance, because Bob Glossup was an extremely virile and handsome man and she was remembering how she had quailed with her own fianc� and broken things up because he had wanted to get into her panties before putting the wedding ring on her finger. Secretly, she sort of wished she had given in now. There were times when living with two other girls and not having any men around could be downright boring. But maybe this trip would give them all a fresh outlook about one another.
"Don't worry, Mr. Glossup," she cheerfully smiled, "I'm a pretty good driver and I'll follow the map. We'll come back suntanned and happy."
"Well, I sure hope you do, girls. And keep in touch with Jacqueline here. If you get in any trouble, call collect. U-Drive has a small investment in you, after all. That trailer costs about five thousand dollars retail, and it's only because it's a demonstration model that I'm giving you a break and because I know you're trustworthy."
"We're very grateful to you, Mr. Glossup," Lucy Wilson smiled. She was wearing play shorts and a short sleeved blouse, and open-thonged sandals, and her lovely bare legs had already drawn his attention. Jacqueline glanced at him whimsically, because she knew that even though he looked around at other women, it was her pussy that serviced his strong stiff cock, and nobody else's. And that was the way it was going to be. She didn't go along with Cordelia's theory that you shouldn't give in to a man until he made it legal, because good men were hard to find, and once you could prove to a fellow that you could give him everything he needed, he wouldn't be so apt to go around looking for other women once he did make it legal. She was sure that her philosophy was going to work, and from the possessive way that Bob Glossup looked at her, it was pretty obvious that he agreed with her.
"Well, girls, good luck, and as I say, stick to that itinerary you've drawn up. It looks pretty good. I don't much like the idea of your stopping the night near Benton, because there's been a little trouble there lately." Bob Glossup said.
"What kind of trouble?" Pris Loring wanted to know.
"Oh, nothing really serious. They've got a prison farm a couple of miles to the southeast, and I read a story in the papers about a fellow trying to escape from there because of the brutal treatment and got shot. They were having some sort of an investigation and there was some talk of changing the warden. If there are work gangs around the area, I'd hate to see three pretty girls like you anywhere close to hardened convicts who probably haven't seen a woman in years."
"My gracious," Lucy Wilson giggled, "We won't be in any danger even if we do go near Benton. Don't they have men with guns to watch all the convicts on the chain gang, if that's what it is?"
"Of course they do, Miss Wilson," Bob Glossup frowned. "But things can get out of hand. Men who are cooped up in prison for a long stretch and don't have any sexual-begging your pardon-ah, release, sometimes go berserk at the sight of a pretty girl. Either that, or they tend to have sex with one another."
"How disgusting!" Pris Loring sniffed with a grimace. But at the same time, she stole a glance at Lucy's lovely bare legs and uttered a tiny little sigh of longing. It was just too dam bad that Lucy was so square and wouldn't let her try to play around a little at night. She could make Lucy ever so happy, and herself too in the process. Maybe this trip would give her the chance. Maybe if they camped out and didn't sleep in the trailer, and she could be alone with Lucy and it was a warm moonlit night and she could have a nice heart-to-heart chat with Lucy, then things could be different between them.
That was really why Pris Loring was so eager to go on this vacation. She still hoped to make Lucy Wilson her Lesbian sweetheart.
"Well, I guess we'd better get started before the traffic rush begins. Let's see now, we're going to start along Highway 24, out of Detroit down to Chicago, and then we swing down to about Cairo, and then head to the other side of the Mississippi."
"That's about right, but don't try to drive too far the first day. And take shifts, and allow plenty of time to rest. I'd say you ought to park somewhere and rest about an hour after every seven or eight hours of driving, maybe even less seeing that this is the first long trip you've ever taken together." Bob Glossup earnestly advised. "And I don't have to tell you that it's against the law to let anybody else ride in the trailer itself while you're driving to and from your destination."
"We know that, Mr. Glossup," Pris Loring superciliously interposed. "Don't worry, we won't harm your precious trailer."
Jacqueline gave her cousin a dirty look. There wasn't any need for Pris Loring to talk that way, and she was forgetting that she herself was an employee of Bob Glossup's, and that he could fire her if he didn't like the cut of her jib. Sweetly, however, she retorted, "We're sure you're going to take wonderful care of the trailer, darling. And do enjoy your vacation, all of you. When you come back, Pris, I want to have a little talk with you."
A little talk, to be sure, was about the facts of life; more than ever, seeing how independent, and snotty her cousin had become, Jacqueline Browning was determined to marry Pris Loring off to the right sort of man, a man who might tame her a little and once in a while turn her over his lap and apply the flat of his hand or even a hairbrush to that insolent bottom of hers. It would do Pris Loring, she reflected, a world of good. How could she dream that Pris Loring's voluptuous bottom was going to know the ignominy of the lash, but that it would be wielded by no right sort of man so far as poor Pris was concerned!
* * *
Judge Homer Wadling was entertaining Sheriff Jake Bunter in his old but luxuriously furnished white frame mansion. It had the veranda and the columns so dear to the Old South in the days before the Civil War; indeed, it had been modeled after one of those historic homes. It was located about ten miles southwest of Benton, and on this particular evening, Judge Wadling was providing hospitality to the County Sheriff for a very good reason.
He was fifty-four, bald and fat, with a large wart on his nose, shaggy brows, and beady little eyes. He had a double chin, and gray sideburns, and he was a notorious roue. While he had been a practicing and promising young attorney, Homer Wadling had married an extraordinary wealthy woman, Laura Alesworthy. She had been thirty-two to his twenty-seven, homely as sin, and she had almost fainted with emotion when he had proposed to her. Her father had been quite suspicious of Homer Wadling's intentions, but he couldn't dissuade his daughter's fondness for the already plump young lawyer. After all, after thirty-two years of dreary spinsterhood, she would have gone to bed with Homer Wadling without marriage. So finally he gave in and the two were married.
Homer Wadling proceeded very cunningly by means of giving his wife an occasional fucking and making her think that she was his hearts desire, to turn over all her money to him and to give him the power of attorney. Carefully and shrewdly he transferred most of it over the ensuing years into his own account. When she died of a heart attack at the age of forty-two, he was already county prosecutor with two mistresses. Now, as a judge in the Circuit Court of Benton County, Homer Wadling was enjoying not only his wealth but his cunning alliance with the equally dissolute sheriff. Both of them had one thing in common-or perhaps two: women and money. And Judge Homer Wadling had very ingeniously arranged that when female vagrants or those convicted of misdemeanors or petty crimes appeared in his court, they were sentenced to the Benton State Farm, which had been enlarged and become coeducational. The buildings were separated by a tall steel fence almost impossible to scale ... but there were doors which could be opened. Very often a female prisoner in her cell awaiting trial could find herself rudely awakened in the middle of the night, taken into a basement office which had only a bare electric bulb as illumination, and there forced to strip and to entertain the Sheriff and a couple of the guards. Sometimes it was a matron whom she had to service. And often many of these females, at the end of their sentence, disappeared in the custody of some pompous individual who had promised to give them a job and a new life ... indeed, a new life, in some brothel in New Orleans or Baton Rouge or even in Little Rock. When this was done, Judge Homer Wadling received his cut from the syndicate which flourished in prostitution as well as drugs throughout the State of Arkansas and adjacent areas. He in turn paid a bonus to Sheriff Bunter for arranging to fill the cells of the State Prison Farm with attractive females.
"Have a cigar, Jake," the fat judge affably pushed the humidor over towards his guest. Sheriff Jake Bunter was forty-five, lanky, with receding black hair that was nearly gray, a gaunt face, and the thin lips of a sadist. He had been a bachelor all his life, and saw no reason to encumber himself with a wife now, not when he had at his disposal any night of the week his choice of toothsome morsels now receiving the hospitality of the State of Arkansas. But this evening Judge Wadling had a treat for his crony and fellow conspirator.
"Don't mind if I do, Judge," Sheriff Bunter reached for a cigar, bit off the end of the mouthpiece with his strong nicotine-stained teeth, and spat it on the floor, then scratched a match on the side of his leather boot and lit it. Judge Wadling grimaced at such manners. However, he needed Jake Bunter, just as Jake Bunter needed him. It was an unholy alliance indeed.
"I've been meaning to talk to you before this, Jake, but what with a lot of business in the court up to last month, I haven't really had the chance. But that's why I phoned you up this morning and asked you to come over here for dinner and to sit a spell with me and let's just chew the fat about what's going to happen this summer."
"I'd be mighty happy to find that out, Judge, that's for fair."
"Well now, I've got a couple of orders for new girls in Spud Johnson's house in New Orleans. He wants young stuff, mainly, and not too spoiled. Trouble is with some of these floozies you've been picking up the last couple of months, Jake, they're young enough, all right, but they're all tramps. Probably ran away from a good strapping from the old man because he caught them fucking in the barn. And like as not they've been fucking since they were thirteen with every Tom, Dick and Harry that come along to the farm."
"I know. But I can't quite go out and pick up some hoity-toity broad from a good family and charge her with something she didn't do and expect to turn her into a whore, Judge, not--likely. We got to go slow and easy. You read about the trouble we had a couple of weeks back and the write up we got in those Goddam Northern papers. They're still thinking we're fighting the Civil War over the slaves, and that don't do the image no good, if you get what I mean."
"Take it easy, Jake, take it easy. I'll cover for you. You know I've got powerful connections. Why, I practically own Jack Driscoll, the reporter for the Benton Picayune. He'll write what I tell him to and nothing else. Of course, I have to show him a piece of ass once in a while, and a little dough, but that riggers. What I want you to do, Jake is tell your deputies to keep their eyes open. This is starting to be tourist season. Now suppose some imagine gals come along just to see the Ozarks, and they break some of our laws. And maybe they haven't got any folks back home that would worry much about it if they spent a little time cooling off in a jug, you get me? And once we can persuade them a little to accept our good old Southern hospitality, why, they might not want to ever go back home. You follow my drift, Jack?"
"I'm beginning to get ahead of you, Judge," Jake Bunter chuckled dryly as he puffed a wreath of aromatic blue smoke.
"Good. I knew you were a man of intelligence first time I called you into my court, Jake. Now that that's settled, and you've got your orders for those two broads for Spud, what do you say we relax a little and have ourselves a time? You feel horny now?"
"When don't I, Judge?" Sheriff Bunter chuckled.
"That's right, when don't you, haw, haw, haw!" The Judge poured himself a stiff shot from a nearby cut-glass decanter of bourbon, took a good swig of it, then set the glass down with a thump on the table beside his chair. "That's good, that is. Now I tell you what, Jake. You know my housekeeper Dora, she's got herself pardoned in my court, or she'd have got sent up for five years for forgery, you know."
"Sure I know it, Judge. And so she got grateful and went to work as your housekeeper." Sheriff Jake Bunter winked. "Smartest sentence you ever passed out. I'd like to have that girl around as my housekeeper."
"Don't be envious, Jake. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away." The Judge returned the wink. "But now this Belle, she's here tonight and she's mighty beholden to us for being so kind to her Aunt Dora. And her Aunt Dora has told her to go ahead and take good care of us fellows. Now what do you think of that?"
"I say, by God, let's meet this Belle and ring it for her," Sheriff Jake Bunter punned with an obscene laugh in which the fat lecherous judge joined.
CHAPTER SIX
Judge Homer Wadling lifted a silver hand bell and shook it vigorously in the air, while he smirked at Sheriff Jake Bunter. A few minutes later, the Judge's housekeeper, Dora Pinson, entered the living room.
Dora Pinson was a handsome woman of thirty-four, with soft black hair set in a showy pompadour, and there were a few streaks of gray in it-doubtless because of Dora's difficult past. Her husband had deserted her when she was only twenty, and she had gone to work as a waitress in Little Rock. There, after about three years of hard, low-paying labor, she had married the restaurant owner and believed at last her life would have some purpose and some pleasure. And she had been right for about six years. Then he had died of a heart attack, and there had been some problem about legal transfer of his estate to her. He had owned a summer house not far from where Judge Wadling's mansion was located, and he had meant to will it to his wife Dora but had forgotten. Dora Pinson was unfortunate enough to get into the hands of an unscrupulous lawyer who convinced her that she ought to let him type a codicil to that will naming her as the new owner of the house. Since there were no other relatives to claim the estate, Dora believed that this was only justice ... and she had told the lawyer to go ahead.
But she had had to sign a paper, and the lawyer promptly reported to the Judge what Dora Pinson had done. Needless to say, the lawyer was in the pay of the cynical and lecherous Homer Wadling.
And so poor Dora Pinson had found herself arraigned on charges of forgery and had faced five years in prison. The Judge had then called her into his chambers and talked cold turkey to her: either she agreed to become his housekeeper and to let him handle her estate, or she would spend five years in the State Prison. So Dora naturally consented.
And the four years which she had spent in his mansion had been worse than any prison. His erotic fantasies led him to experiment with her as if she were a convict sentenced to a women's reformatory; he had had his basement converted into a kind of torture chamber and, as he vulgarly called it, "screwing room." And often Dora had been tied to a whipping post, blindfolded, standing on tiptoe, waiting with agonized anticipation for the first bite of a leather thong across her plump backside.
In all justice, it might be said that Judge Homer Wadling administered her late husband's estate and saw to it that the proceeds were put into an account for her in a bank. So long as she remained his mistress and his plaything, when he tired of her-as he had often mockingly told her-she would be "put out to pasture with plenty of interest on the money in your name, so you won't have anything to worry about." And the house would also be hers.
She was about five feet six and a half inches in height, with a magnificent high-perched pair of big round and still unsagging titties, a supple waist that curved into ripe haunches and plump round bottom-cheeks with a gradually widening furrow between them. Her skin was tawny, and her face was round, with dark blue eyes, very thick black brows, a soft little Grecian nose, and a sensuous mouth. If her lips were tremulous, it was for an excellent reason; not a week had gone by of her sojourn in the Judge's mansion without weeping or crying out or pleading for mercy, under his inventive and sadistic torments.
"Dora, you know the Sheriff here," the corrupt Judge gestured with his glass towards Bunter.
"Yes I do Judge. Good evening, Sheriff."
"The same to you, Dora baby," Jake Bunter laughed. "Say, old Homer here has been telling me all about your juicy niece Belle. I've got a hard-on just thinking about her. How's about bringing her in and letting us take a looksee for ourselves, huh, Dora girl?"
"At once, Sheriff." Dora turned to go, her head bowed in resignation.
Belle Lorrimer was the only child of her dead sister Martha, whose husband had died two years ago. Martha's health had been failing ever since, and only two months ago she had followed her husband to the grave. Judge Wadling had learned of this and had directed Dora to bring her niece to his home where the two women could be together. It was hardly a humanitarian gesture; Judge Wadling coveted the young tasty charms of this seventeen-year-old virgin beauty. And tonight Belle was going to lose at least two of her virginities!
Jake Bunter turned to his boss with a knowing wink: "It's a real pleasure doing business with you, Judge," he chuckled. "The creature comforts you provide a man make it real hard to refuse any little favor you might ask."
"See that you always keep that in mind, Jake," Judge Wadling replied with an acknowledging wink. "Now then, how would you like to operate with me this evening? As a rule I take my pleasures in private, but I feel sort of in the mood for something special. I don't know, maybe it's a presentiment about the future, but something mighty interesting is going to come our way."
'I'll leave those big words to you, Judge," Jake Bunter grunted. "Just so long as you tell me what to do and see that I get my cut, I'm your man. Well, now!"
He half-rose from his chair as the housekeeper Dora Pinson lead in Belle Lorrimer, her seventeen-year-old niece. She was well worth whistling at, indeed. About an inch shorter than her aunt, Belle was possessed of a wonderfully enticing ripe young figure, a heart-shaped face with big wide innocent blue eyes, a dainty little snub nose, a soft red rosebud of a mouth and an adorably dimpled chin. Her light brown hair was styled in ponytail, combed back away from her rounded forehead and clamped with a barrette at the back of her neck. Her hair was soft and silky and curly, and it made a man's fingers fairly itch to stroke it and caress it, to run his fingers through it ... to wind it around his cock and taste the exquisite gossamer quality of it as a sweet silken fetter. That thought occurred to Judge Wadling because he had made Dora Pinson kneel down and wind her hair many times around his cock and rub and massage it to bring it back to life. It was an Oriental idea and one of his perverse little fantasies, devised especially to make any woman in his power feel the absolute helplessness of her situation and the virtual slavery which he could impose simply by judicial order.
Belle Lorrimer wore a white cotton dress which descended just to her dimpled, delightfully rounded knees. She had on flesh-colored nylons, white suede pumps, and the short sleeves of the dress exposed beautifully rounded arms whose soft pink skin promised a veritable regalia when she was stripped down ... as she would be very shortly.
Her blue eyes were wide and shadowed with fear, because her aunt had told her that she would have to do anything the Judge and the Sheriff wanted ... anything at all. She had impressed Belle with an obligation of gratitude for all the Judge had done for both of them, being kind enough to take her, Belle, into his house even though she was an orphan, and providing for her. Dora Pinson had also very quickly explained to Belle-though it cost her a great deal in womanly pride-what her own relationship with the corrupt court dignitary really was.
Belle had been scandalized, but Dora Pinson had fiercely told her, "Look, girl, don't set yourself up as a judge of your elders. If you'd gone through what I've gone through these last years, you'd be glad enough for a man who had gumption enough to put a roof over your head and food on your plate and nice clothes and money, and you might even do worse than I had to do. So you just mind what I tell you, and if Judge Wadling wants to go to bed with you, you'll do it. I loved your mother, and I told myself that I'd always see to it that nothing ever happened to you. This isn't the way I would have planned it, darling, but neither of us can be choosers. And the Judge has a great deal of influence and power, and he could hurt you and me too if you didn't show yourself grateful."
When Belle saw the greedy eyes of Jake Bunter lave her from head to toe, she bit her lips and lowered her eyes and blushed. Dora Pinson had her by the hand, and now quickly squeezed it hard, just to intimate to her that she had to be on her best behavior and be docile as a lamb.
"This is my niece, Judge, Sheriff," she said quietly. Then, turning to the pretty young girl, she added, "Belle dear, this is Sheriff Jake Bunter.'
"I-I'm pleased to meet you, sire," Belle quavered in a sweet clear voice.
"--likewise, honey," the lanky, gaunt-faced Sheriff chuckled. "You're the prettiest thing I've seen in a long while, you are. Homer, you old rascal, you've been keeping her hidden away all this time. I can see why now.'
"Dora, suppose you bring us in some mint juleps-let Belle have one too, for this happy occasion," Judge Wadling turned to his handsome housekeeper.
"Very good, Judge," Dora Pinson quietly nodded and left the room.
Belle Lorrimer stood quivering, eyes still downcast, vividly blushing as Jake Bunter's greedy eyes continued to sweep her quivering body. The cheap white cotton dress was snug over the budding glories of her titties and her voluptuous young behind and thighs. But the Judge intended to be the first to taste these appetizing charms, while relegating Dora Pinson to his partner in crime. And before Jake Bunter could call Belle over, he now silently interposed.
"Come and sit on my lap, my dear. I'm an old man, and it'll do me a world of good to have a pretty young thing like you close to me."
The Sheriff was about to make an obscene commentary on this remark, but a glance from his superior warned him to keep his remarks to himself-for the time being at any rate. Sitting on the edge of his chair, he watched with great interest as the lovely young brunette hesitantly seated herself on Judge Wadling s lap. The Judge at once passed his left arm around the girl's waist, and put his right hand on her knee. "Yes, indeed, my dear," he purred, "You're really delicious. I do declare that you're as pretty a girl as I've seen in the entire State of Arkansas."
"Th-thank you, J-Judge," Belle Lorrimer stammered uneasily.
"You ever have a fellow, Belle honey?" the lecherous judiciary softly urged, his hand stealthily gliding just under the hem of Belle Lorrimer's white cotton skirt and his greedy fingers thrilling to the feel of the rounded, supple column of voluptuous young flesh sheathed in nylon.
"N-no, J-Judge," the girl nervously breathed, anxiously glancing down at his hand, then covertly at the sardonically grinning Sheriff across from him.
"Put your arms around my neck, Belle baby," the Judge urged, "after all, I'm practically your Uncle Homer, seeing as how your aunt is beholden to me. And from the point of view of legal facts, you might say, I'm your guardian anyhow, so that makes you my ward. I want you to call me Uncle Homer, you understand, honey?"
"Y-yes, U-Uncle H-Homer." Belle Lorrimer nervously squirmed on the Judge's lap for his hand had risen another inch or two, and she instinctively clenched her round young thighs together to prevent an even more audacious ascent.
Dora Pinson now returned with a tray of tall frosted glasses, topped with sprigs of green mint. Dutifully, she served Jake Bunter, who reached out to take one of the glasses, studying her appraisingly as he did so. Then she moved across the way to the Judge, who took one of the glasses, with his free hand and urged Belle to take the other.
"Clink glasses with me, Belle honey, and let's drink to getting to know each other better," he proposed.
Dora Pinson flushed and bit her lips, then helplessly moved over to a sideboard and put down the tray. She was agonized at this lecherous handling of her lovely young niece, but she knew the utter f utility of trying in any way to prevent her employer's salacious designs.
At the Judge's prompting, Belle Lorrimer took a sip, and then another. Her soft pink cheeks were adorably flushed, and her long lashes were trembling like the wings of a hummingbird. She forced herself not to look at the gaunt, smirking man opposite her, and cast her aunt a mute, quick appeal. Dora Pinson imperceptibly nodded, as much as to tell her niece that there was nothing she could do about it, and that Belle would just have to accept whatever came her way. She could only hope that the Judge would be kind and tolerant towards the pretty young thing. But so cowed had she become over the past four years at the thought of rebellion never entered her mind; indeed, she had been brought to the viewpoint of a promess in her servitude, and if need be she would even counsel her niece how to please the lecherous man who had saved her from prison only to impose upon her a far more exacting bondage.
Judge Wadling sensed all this, and it delighted his sadistic nature. His left hand edged round the girl till his fingers pressed against the side of her swelling, pear-shaped, firm left tittie, while his right hand crept another inch upwards along her tensing nylon-sheathed thigh. The muscles of those beautiful legs contracted spasmodically in her virgin defense against this salacious palpation.
The two spots of her cheekbones flamed with her embarrassment at being thus handled in front of another man.
"Finish your drink, honey," the Judge instructed, having set his down on the little tabouret beside him.
"I-I don't want anymore, thank you, Unc-Uncle Homer," Belle quavered.
"Then I'll just take it from you." his left hand reached for it set it down, then returned to her bust, this time boldly spreading his fingers around the swelling contours. Belle uttered a gasp and squirmed: "PI-please don't-"
"Now, now, child," he admonished, "be nice to your old Uncle Homer. He knows what's good for you, he does. And he doesn't like disobedient girls who put up a fuss when he's trying to show them a little affection, you understand, Belle? Tell her, Dora."
"That's right, h-honey," Dora Pinson bit her lips, "I want you to be very nice to your Uncle Homer. He's been awfully good to you, and he's seen to it that you won't starve. It's only right that you should be grateful to him. He's just paying you a compliment because you're so pretty."
"That's right, my dear," Judge Wadling looked over to beam at his handsome housekeeper. "Now, Belle, give your old Uncle a nice sweet kiss."
Quivering with repugnance, Belle Lorrimer closed her eyes and reluctantly proffered her trembling red lips. The Judge kissed her ardently, and as he did so, his right hand rose up to the stocking top and touched the bewitching warm satiny pink-sheened flesh just above. Belle Lorrimer uttered a strangled little cry, and grabbed at his hand under her skirt, clutching his wrist, as she gasped, "Please don't do that to me Undue Homer! I-I don't like it!"
"What's this?" Judge Wadling growled, flashing his unhappy housekeeper an angry look. "Jake, boy, was it Shakespeare who said that an ungrateful child was worse than a serpent's bite?"
"Believe it was, Judge," Jake Bunter drawled, licking his lips as he watched the young girl struggle for her honor.
"That's right," Judge Wadling averred, "So kiss me nice now, and none of this foolishness. And take your hand away too, or I'll have to give you a little spanking for being so naughty."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Judge Homer Wadling winked at his sadistic crony, Jake Bunter as he tightened his left arm around Belle's waist and pressed his right hand up along her bare thigh until he reached the hems of her white cotton panties. It had pleased him, although allowing his handsome housekeeper to bring her young niece to his home there to be treated like a ward, to insist that Dora Pinson buy her niece no imagine lingerie or dresses; these would be forthcoming only when he had made the lovely young virgin his sexual plaything. But as his pudgy forefinger pressed up against her mouth, Belle Lorrimer uttered an indignant cry and sprang up from his lap, her cheeks scarlet, as she smoothed down her skirt and stammered, "Please don't do that to me, it-it's not decent, Uncle H-Homerl"
"Belle! You mustn't!" Dora Pinson gasped, growing very pale, for she exactly foresaw that this would be an ideal precept for her lecherous employer to use in proceeding against the helpless young beauty.
"That's very ungrateful, my dear," the fat, bald judiciary drawled, his shaggy eyebrows knitting in annoyance. "Jake, I know you don't have any kids, but what would you do if Belle here were your daughter and acted up like that in front of company?"
"Why, me, I'd turn her over my lap and paddle her bare bottom, I would," the Sheriff chuckled. Belle Lorrimer put her hand to her mouth, her eyes huge with anguish, and glanced supplicatingly at her aunt. But Dora Pinson was helpless to avert the cunning sadism to which both men now intended to deliver themselves. Judge Wadling nodded solemnly:
"And you'd be quite right at that, Jake. Yes, I think that since Belle here is just starting out under my guardianship, it would be very useful to teach her a little lesson in humility and obedience. Dora, take the girl down to the basement, and we'll be along directly."
"Y-yes, J-Judge," the housekeeper quavered. She too sent the fat, lecherous rouge an appealing look, but she did not dare utter a word in Belle's defense, lest she herself incur his wrath. But her heart sank as she thought of what awaited her lovely young virginal niece down there in the basement which had been so ingeniously remodeled to provide a torture and fornication chamber the equal of any in the most select maisons de luse in Europe. Hopelessly, she approached her niece, took her by the wrist and murmured, "Come along, dear. You have to."
Both men watched the two women leave the room, and then Jake Bunter rose from his chair, opened the silver humidor which had the Judge's initials engraved on the top, and took out a rich, Havana panatella, bit off the end and spat it out onto the floor, then scratched a match on his thumbnail and lit it. He puffed at it luxuriously, and then eyed his host: "That's a right nice little piece of quim, Judge. How's chances for knocking off a piece?"
"Sorry, Jake, you're going to have to do with Dora. That little bitch has got me so randy I've got to take her cherry. I might even take more than one, ha ha ha! Why, she's so innocent she probably hasn't even frigged herself any, according to what Dora tells me. Don't look so downhearted, Jake boy. You'll get your chance with Belle soon enough, but not until after I've sampled all her sweet young wares. If you really want to go out and have yourself some nice fresh pussy, why don't you have your deputies shake down some of these tourists that are going to be coming here for the summer? Now if you were to get some nice college girls all by themselves in a car driving down a highway and committing a couple of misdemeanors, like maybe taking along a nigger as an escort, you could have a high old time in your jail."
"Yeah," Jake Bunter's eyes glistened with lubricity. "I could at that. Well, I won't say no to a piece of Dora's ass. She knows how to shake it all right. You sure taught her her lesson, I'll give you that, Judge."
"All it ever takes with a bitch is a firm hand and a stiff cock," the fat old Judge ribaldly chuckled as he rose. "Come along, boy, and let's have some fun. I'm really in the mood. And don't forget, Jake, I'm letting you share the action because I expect great things of you. Don't you fail me now in filling Spud Johnson's order for a couple of nice young bitches."
"I won't. I'll tell my deputies, Sam and Ed to keep a sharp look out from now on for any out-of-state cars with young pussy in it. About this time of the year, Judge, you're bound to find some college gals up from the North coming down here to slum around a little and maybe have themselves a high old time with some black cock. They're scared to do that up where they come from, but they think maybe they can get away with it down here when nobody's looking. But we'll be looking."
"That's the spirit, Jake. Now let's go haul our asses, hey?" Jovially, Judge Wadling slapped Jake Bunter on the back as the two men, flushed with anticipation, made their way down the stairway that led to the "screwing room."
Dora Pinson and Belle Lorrimer were already waiting for them as they entered the spacious low-ceilinged area. Judge Wadling had spent a good deal of money in converting what had once been a dingy, overcrowded storage basement into a most unusual "recreation room," and he often staged private orgies for select friends and business associates. The storage lockers had been shunted off to each side of this clearing, and a wooden partition put up to seal it off and to make it separate unto itself. At the very back, there were two huge low couches. There was a bar at the left, and over at the right wall there was a heavy wooden St. Andrews cross in the form of a huge X, with heavy metal gyves fixed into each arm. A girl could thus be bound by wrists and ankles and her body would form the X of the cross, leaving her vulnerable to the lash or too ingenious and refined torments. Dora Pinson herself had tasted the cross two weeks ago, as punishment for having served the Judge a roast which he deemed unworthy of her culinary talents, over which judgment she had mildly protested; her proprietary remark had been construed as insubordination, and she had been ordered to strip naked except for hose, garter belt and pumps, and then precede him down to the "screwing room" and placed herself against the cross facing him. Having blindfolded her, after shackling her wrists and ankles in the immutable gyves, he then stripped naked and amused himself by tickling poor Dora with a feather over her titties, belly, armpits and inner thighs, but without attacking her furry cunt which he was reserving to the last. The anguished and enervated mature beauty groaningly begged him to begin her punishment so that it might be the sooner over. But the Judge, a true voluptuary, pursued his pleasures as he chose and without the slightest concern for his victim's supplications.
Next, taking a little leather strap split at one end to form two thin "fingers," he had commenced a leisurely and lingering flicking of her titties, concentrating on the nipples until they were puffed and swollen and poor Dora Pinson was sobbing in agony and begging him to take pity on her torment. After a pause, he resumed by whipping her armpits and then her belly and next her inner thighs, until her body was vibrating and squirming frantically, her naked flesh rasping against the rough wood of the St. Andrew's cross. Then, taking up the feather again, he began to tickle her cunt, rimming the outer lips until they pouted through the thick fleece of love curls which concealed the appetizing cavern of her womanhood. Soon Dora Pinson's groans and sobs changed to moans of enervated and amorous desire, but when Judge Wadling had brought her almost to the peak of sexual climax, he deliberately stopped and left her in a state of frantic turmoil, her body shuddering, her titties heaving wildly with their dark swollen buds thrusting out as if yearning for caresses.
Then followed a severe strapping from the knees to the crotch on each thigh, as he applied twenty-five stinging lashes over the smooth tawny flesh of her plump but delightfully long thighs. Then once again he took up the feather and carefully furled it between the cheeks of her bottom, grazing her ass-hole and back towards the pouting and moistened petals of her quim, until once again Dora Pinson was driven half hysterical by this pernicious Tantalus.
He thereupon asked her whether she was ready to expiate her insubordination by doing whatever he wanted, and the unfortunate beauty pantingly begged him to let her prove her docility and obedience. Released from the cross, but still blindfolded, Dora Pinson was obliged to crouch on all fours with her legs spread exaggeratedly apart, while the Judge knelt down behind her and promptly buggered her. Then she was required to cleanse his cock and fortify him anew, after which he strapped her down on a low wooden bench, with her arms and legs lewdly straddled, once again he took up a little strap with its split ends, and whipped her chest and the valley of her breasts and then her armpits again, until she hysterically implored mercy. Then, taking a candle, he forced it into her ass-hole up almost to the wick, and while she writhed and arched and jerked frenziedly on the low wide bench, he flung himself upon her and fucked her savagely.
There were two or three deep loveseats scattered about the wide area, with excellent view of the various ingenious devices which had been planted here for the pleasure of the Judge and his guests ... but hardly for that of his victims. Besides the low flat bench already alluded to, there was a steel triangle in the middle of the chamber, a metal isosceles triangle to which the victim's wrists would be strapped at the peak and her ankles to the wide legs at the base, enabling her to be whipped over her front or back as desired. There was also an upright pair of stocks such as might have been seen centuries ago in a Puritan town in the Colonies. A low stool was provided for the victim's bottom, a stool covered with coarse sandpaper and strewn with gravel and tiny pebbles. The victim's wrists and ankles were locked into the yokes of the stock, while she was seated upon the stool, and Dora Pinson knew the agonizing ordeal of this sadistic apparatus only too well from her own experience. He had used it the first time he had made her suck him off, for while she had been willing to give him her body in "natural" intercourse, she had balked the first time when he had commanded her to take his prick inside her mouth and to suck and tongue it. Naked and blindfolded, seated upon the stool and locked in the stocks, Dora Pinson had endured an hour of this torment until he had returned to the dungeon and then, with a pair of silver manicure tweezers, had pinched her nipples and armpits until she had begged to be allowed to French him.
There was also a tall heavy wooden stool whose feet were set into the floor and whose padded-leather top had housed the belly of many a lovely young victim in the past. Strapped down by wrists and ankles and often with a strap around the waist, a naked sufferer would here be posed to endure a pitiless flogging or spanking ... the aftermath of which was invariably a good buggering, thanks to the upreared and accessible posture of her naked behind.
Judge Homer Wadling and his crony Sheriff Jake Bunter grinned at the two shrinking women who awaited their arrival. Dora Pinson clutched her niece's hand, very pale, her eyes enormous with anguish, while poor Belle shifted from foot to foot, bit her lips, and visibly trembled.
"Dora," Judge Wadling decreed, "you admit that your niece has been a naughty girl, don't you?"
"Y-yes, J-Judge," the housekeeper quavered.
"I'm glad to find you in agreement with me. Very well, you will undress her down to her bra and panties, and put her over the spanking stool. At once, Dora."
"Oh please, no, oh don't, Uncle Homer!" Belle sobbed. 'I-I didn't mean to make you angry, please don't spank me!"
"From the way she carries on," Jake Bunter sagely observed, "maybe this little bitch has never had her ass paddled. Is that so, Dora girl?"
Dora Pinson shuddered. She understood now that she was to service this gaunt, cadaverous-looking, cruel man who worked hand in glove with her perverted employer, and she also realized that the slightest indication of repugnance would cost her dearly. So, lowering her eyes, she stammered, "That's true. Belle has always been a good girl, Sheriff. Her folks never had to tan her hide, and I haven't either."
"Well, there's a first time for everything, the saying goes," Jake Bunter guffawed as he plumped himself down in a loveseat, crossed his legs, and puffed vigorously on his cigar. "Go ahead and get her ready, then, Dora."
"I have to, Belle dear, please don't struggle, it'll only be worse for you," Dora Pinson whispered vibrantly into her niece's ear as she stooped and pulled up Belle's cotton dress.
Belle Lorrimer began to sob, covering her face with her hands, but passively allowed her aunt to remove the slip, leaving her in pink cotton bra and panties, flesh-colored nylons which were held up snugly on her lovely rounded thighs with old-fashioned elastic garters, and her pumps.
"Put her over the stool, now," Judge Wadling instructed, as he stood with hands folded behind his back, feeling his cock stiffen with anticipation.
Dora took hold of her niece's wrists and led her unwillingly toward the apparatus. Arrived there, she whispered to Belle that the girl was to bend herself down over it, and stretch out her hands, which brought on a new fit of sobs and tears that excited both lustful men.
At the Judge's sign, Dora Pinson now strapped Belle's wrists tightly and buckled the straps till the leather thongs bit into the girl's tender wrists, causing her niece to wince and gasp with pain. Next followed Belle's ankles, but when Dora was about to furl the broader leather strap over her niece's waist, Judge Wadling shook his head and held up his hand. "That's just fine. Now get me one of those old sorority paddles in that chest over by the bench, Dora, and then you can go over and do whatever Jake Bunter wants you to, hear?"
"Y-yes, J-Judge," Dora Pinson said submissively in a low trembling voice. She walked over to a big oak chest, opened it, and took out from the array of flagellatory instruments a rectangular pinewood paddle, which the father of a high school girl had presented to the Judge a few years ago, after he had surprised his daughter and a dozen other girls in the basement of his house conducting a kind of "hell week" initiation ceremony for a club which had been outlawed by the school. It had cost his daughter a thorough bare bottom spanking with that paddle, and all the girls had been expelled from school. Because he owed a mortgage on his farm which the Judge had very cunningly acquired, the father was compelled to apply punishment to his daughter in this very basement under the Judge's eager eye.
Greek letters had been burned into the pliant wood, the handle was short and taped to ease the wielder's grip, and the applicator was about a quarter of an inch thick and some four inches wide and twenty inches long. Dora Pinson brought the ominous weapon towards her employer, while poor Belle squirmed and arched and groaned over the whipping stool, her eyes blurred with tears, her voluptuous bottom outthrust at a most lascivious angle and snugly outlined by the cling of the white cotton panties.
Judge Wadling sucked in his breath at the exciting sight. Belle Lorrimer's bottom-cheeks were succulently rounded and upstanding, with an extremely narrow furrow between them. They were mobile now, agitated by fear and shame, and they jutted out in the most mouthwatering way, as if fairly begging for the stinging cracks of the paddle which would soon be administered. The girl's calves were delightfully rounded, with a kind of saucy flair to them, with softly dimpled kneehollows, and delightfully and gradually rounded thighs of perfect proportions rising to merge into that magnificent virgin bottom.
"I regret that I'm going to have to punish you my dear, but perhaps this first lesson will teach you to be a good girl from now on," he sententiously declared as, transferring the pinewood paddle to his left hand, he approached the whipping stool and slowly passed his right palm over the ripe, resilient gloves of Belle Lorrimer's voluptuous young behind. The thin cotton panties were almost like a second skin, and he could feel the quivering and the contractions of her agile young muscles as she gasped and tightened herself, trying frantically to diminish her most intimate charms against the demeaning humiliation of his touch, particularly in view of the fact that Jake Bunter was present also as a lecherously eager spectator to her humiliation and martyrdom.
"What a fine firm juicy backside the little bitch has got," the Judge thickly ejaculated, as he glanced over at Jake Bunter. That worthy had signaled to Dora Pinson to remove her dress and slip, and now the handsome mature housekeeper was scarlet faced with shame, standing before the law officer in only a white nylon bra with bandeau and shoulder straps, a pantie-girdle of the same material, and charcoal-brown hose whose gauzy darkness gave her tawny skin and voluptuous contours a most delectable appeal.
"Just slip off your bra, Dora girl, and let's cuddle on my lap," Sheriff Bunter sniggered.
Helplessly, with a last glance at her unfortunate niece, Dora Pinson put her hands behind her, unfastened the bandeau, then slipped off the shoulder straps and let the bra fall to the floor.
"Boy, have you got a pair of titties on you Dora! Get over here fast so I can sink my fingers into them," Jake Bunter crowed.
Trembling violently, her face scarlet, Dora Pinson walked over to the Sheriff and submissively seated herself on his lap, crooking an arm about his neck-she knew that this was obligatory if she did not want to be punished for lack of enthusiasm. His left arm promptly circled her naked waist, and his right hand began to fondle and squeeze her heaving titties, while his thin sadistic lips pressed a long noisy kiss on her throat. "We'll just be nice and cozy here for a while, Dora, and watch Belle there get her ass fantailed. It'll warm her up, and, by God, it'll sure warm me up for you, ha ha ha!"
Belle Lorrimer, meanwhile, was sobbing and groaning as Judge Wadling continued to pat, caress and stroke, and even squeeze and pinch the juicy effulgence of her ripe young bottom-cheeks. Finally, his prick swollen to enormous degree by this tactual admiration of her virginal charms, he tucked the paddle under his left arm and swiftly seized the waistband of the panties, then fucked them down to mid-thigh.
"Oh please, Uncle Homer, oh please don't, please let me keep my panties on! Oh, you-you can spank me as hard as you want, but let me keep them on, I'm begging you!" Belle Lorrimer wailed, making frantic twists and jerks to try to tear herself free from her bonds. But all she accomplished was to achieve a kind of lascivious choreography over the padded leather top of the stool, a maneuver which entranced the corrupt fat, bald lecher as it let him see glimpses not only of the dainty pink, plump-lipped petals of Belle's virgin cunt but also the exquisite, dainty rosebud of her equally virgin ass-hole in the contractions and yawnings of the naked cheeks of her behind.
The smooth fresh healthy pink skin glowed with a verve and sheen that made his prick nearly burst out of his fly, and, seeing no reason to restrain his lust in the presence of his chief aid and his housekeeper-mistress, Judge Wadling dragged down the zipper of his trousers fly and liberated his bulging cock. Then, stepping over to the left of the unfortunate sobbing girl, and placing his left hand on the small of her beautifully hollowed back, he patted each bottom-cheek with the edge of the pinewood paddle and remarked, "Get yourself ready, Belle, I'm going to spank your bare ass now until you've learned your lesson!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dora Pinson gasped as she sat on Jake Bunter's lap and watched her employer prepare to apply the pinewood paddle to the lovely pink ripe bottom of her lovely young niece. Jake Bunter chuckled and muttered, "It sort of gets me randy, Dora honey, to see a gal get her ass given what for, so I might just have to give you a good poking when things get exciting around here, get me?"
"Y-yes, Sheriff," the handsome housekeeper quavered. She winced as Jake's right hand squeezed one of her panting titties and then closed her eyes as his sour mouth crushed hers again. And at that very moment, Judge Homer Wadling drew back his paddle and directed it with a crisp and sonorous Smack against Belle's right bottom summit, stinging the plumpest curve of that entrancingly satiny nether globe with just the end of the sorority paddle.
Belle Lorrimer uttered a stifled gasp and convulsively jerked as she felt the first burning kiss of the instrument of fustigation. Tied down as she was but without a restraining strap around her waist, her hips were free to move, and move they did. She executed a lascivious squirming twist from left to right, as if trying to shake off the burning pangs of that first spank, and she provided the lecherous Judge with a wonderful choreography of her voluptuous young posterior and the intimate charms it concealed. In her agitated movement over the whipping stool, she gave him a thrilling glimpse of the soft pink lips of her virgin cunt, so deliciously framed by the surprisingly thick and very curly brown private hair.
"What a magnificent bottom the little bitch has got," Judge Wadling commented aloud in a husky voice that was thick with rut, as he moved a little more to the left and laid the paddle solidly across both huddling bottom-cheeks.
"Oh please, Judge, please don't, it hurts, it hurts!" Belle tearfully complained, turning her flushed and contorted face up towards him in an appeal for mercy.
"I thought I told you to call me Uncle Homer, young lady," he chuckled. "Seems like to me you've got lots of learning to do. Well, we'll just see what a quick mind you've got with a little good old-fashioned education, Southern style!" With this, drawing back the implement, he brought it squarely across both quivering rounded globes, with a crisp Crack, leaving a bright pink outline of the rectangular paddle across both satiny hemispheres. Belle Lorrimer uttered a piercing cry: "Owww! Oh please don't spank so hard, Uncle Homer, please don't! I didn't mean to be naughty! Oh please don't!"
Ingenuous virgin that she was, Belle Lorrimer could hardly understand that the more she pleaded and promised not to offend her unscrupulous and elderly guardian, exactly the more those appeals would fan the flames of his ignoble lust. As a true sadist, he enjoyed the helpless torment of a desirable female most when she was evincing the signs of discomfort and suffering. And by that token, poor Belle Lorrimer had a long way to go along the read of "education, Southern style."
He paused a moment now and then paddled the left buttock at the summit while Belle squirmed, and wriggled frantically, again begging to be let off any more. Drawing back the paddle, he posed it in the air for about fifteen seconds, to augment the victim's anguish, and then delivered a severe, loud Whack over the chosen spot.
"Eeeowww! Oh, I can't stand it, it hurts so much, oh please, Uncle Homer, I'll be good!" Belle sobbed as again her bottom executed a frantic lunge from this side to that, the cheeks huddling then yawning, once again giving his glittering eyes the thrilling sight of that sinuous and very narrow amber-rosy crevice which creased the ripe hillocks of her virgin behind.
Her soft satiny pink skin marked vividly, and already these first three spanks were blazing brightly on the living canvas of her tender young flesh. His prick jerked and throbbed, swollen to its fullest erection now by the stimulus of this cruelty administered on the indecently proffered and exposed flesh of the young girl.
As for Jake Bunter, he was whispering hoarsely, "All right, Dora honey, just slip your hand down to my fly and take my cock out and see what I've got to offer you. Go ahead, unless you want me to have Homer put you over that stool next!"
Dora Pinson knew better than to argue, squirming uneasily, she lowered her right hand down to the fly of the Sheriff's trousers, dragged the zipper down, her fingers fumblingly delving inside to liberate his bony, turgid and inflamed prick.
"That's it," he whispered excitedly," pinch the head a little bit, that sets me off good. Let's watch how old Homer paints the Stars and Stripes on your niece's juicy backside!"
His mouth now lowered to one of Dora's nipples and sucked it noisily, while his left hand grasped her at the nape of the neck. Passively Dora Pinson closed her eyes and kept her thumb and forefinger against the angrily red meatus of her unwanted suitor, trying her best not to be forced to witness the shameful and painful ordeal of her helpless young virgin niece.
Judge Wadling was in his element now. Gloatingly studying the squirming naked bottom of the unfortunate young girl, he transferred the paddle to his left hand and tugged her panties down still more till they slithered to her calves. Belle began to sob frantically now, imploring him to let her off, promising to be very good, apologizing if she had offended him. It was the ingenuous and piteous plea of a virgin who had no way of knowing that her very supplications would inflame her listener.
The paddle back in his right hand, Judge Wadling now patted the top of each curvaceous bare hip, and then gave each a deft smack without pause, which drew squeals and sobs and convulsive squirmings from the bent-over victim.
Jake Bunter was beside himself. Hoarsely, he commanded, "Dora, get down on your knees and suck my dong, but don't make me come yet. I've got to save it for your twatl"
He rudely shoved the half-naked housekeeper off his lap, and she sank down on her knees and, her face crimsoning with shame, bowed her head and, sustaining herself by grasping his bony knees, approached her trembling lips to his stiffened ramrod.
Judge Wadling glanced back and winked at his crony. "Now that's the way to watch a girl get her butt heated up. I'd say," he bawdily commented as he applied two brisk swats to the base of Belle's voluptuously ripe, jutting, satiny bottom globes.
"Owwl Oh please, Uncle Homer, I can't stand it, truly I can't! Oh do let me off, it hurts so, it hurts my poor bottom something terrible!" Belle wailed. Fighting her straps, she continued to twist and weave her naked bottom to and fro, a spectacle which only heightened the ferocious sadistic lust of her elderly guardian and tormentor. He laid the pinewood paddle solidly across the ripest of both nether globes now, pressing intimatingly to let the poor girl know where the next spank would fall, and Belle called out hysterically, "Oh don't, don't hit me anymore, I'll be good, I'll be awfully good, Uncle Homer, I'll do whatever you want, but please don't spank me with that awful paddle!"
"Well, now, my dear," he declaimed, "I'm beginning to prefer this new attitude of yours to the former insubordination. We'll see, because perhaps it's too quick for you to change your mind like that. I want to be sure you're going to be a good girl, a very, very good girl, Belle." And with this, drawing back the instrument, he dealt her a sonorous Crack! across the plumpest and jounciest curves of both palpitating, shuddering naked hemispheres.
"Aiiii! Oww, oh Uncle Homer, Uncle Homer, I'll be awfully good! Oh please don't spank my bottom anymore, please don't! What must I do to have you stop?"
Dora Pinson, who was slowly mouthing Sheriff Jake Bunter's prickhead between her trembling lips, opened her eyes and groaned aloud, realizing that poor Belle had just spelled the doom of her virginity with that heart-rendingly, ingenuous query.
But Jake Bunter sadistically grinned, "Now don't stop the good work, you sweet bitch, you!" and plunged the fingers of his left hand into her glossy hair and twisted them, to force her mouth back to its odious task. Dora Pinson uttered a sob, and hastily went back to sucking his meatus, passing the tip of her tongue over the puckering lips till the Sheriff groaned with delight.
Judge Wadling didn't answer his young victim's question, however; again planting the paddle squarely across the lower curves of both contracting, reddening buttocks, he kept the poor girl waiting in suspense for an atrocious time, and then suddenly applied a vigorous spank. Belle's body jerked and lunged, then wriggled frantically from side to side, her angrily reddened naked bottom cheeks clenching and spasming and opening, exposing more and more of that intimate ambery-rosy furrow which led to her nether maidenhead, while the pink lips of her pussy seemed to twitch with anguish in all her muscular contractions which accentuated the voluptuous young beauty of her bent-over body.
She was crying dolefully now, her eyes blurred with tears, and sobs chocked her so that she could scarcely speak. The lecherous Judge took advantage of her emotional turmoil and suffering to apply two more quick spanks, each to the outer edge of the outer summit of first the left and then the right buttock, drawing forth new wails of pain and even more salacious weavings and gyrations. Her knees bent, which seem to proffer out her blazing naked bottom all the more licentiously to the paddle, as if desirous of still more burning kisses from its flat flexible surface. The muscles of her thighs were in agitated revolt against the ferociously smarting pain that invaded her posterior, and his eyes glittered as they 'feasted on this interplay of muscles and voluptuous young naked flesh.
Once again the paddle was lifted up and pressed right over the inner curves of both buttocks; tins time Judge Wadling applied it vertically, bridging the tightening crease between those resilient globes.
"Oh stop, Uncle Homer! Oo please stop, oh please no more!" Belle wailed hysterically. "I'll be so good, I'll do anything you want, honest I will! Oh won't you please stop spanking my poor bottom now?"
"If I let you off from any more, my dear," his voice was thick with rut, "will you do exactly what I tell you to without argument?"
He lifted the paddle up at short range and then brought it down emphatically right over the pouting inner edges of the twin globes and Belle uttered a strident cry: "Eeeyyeowww!! Oh, yes, Oh I will, I'll do anything you say, oh please let me off anymore, it's hurting so I can't stand it, I just can't stand it, Uncle Homer, Oh please!"
She jerked at her wrists and ankles, her buttocks twisting this way and that, and now a fiery hue had tinted the voluptuous pink sheened behind making it in the Judge's eyes even more desirable and exciting. His stiff prick stood out violently, throbbing and jerking now at every movement he made during the spanking. The lips puckered and contracted, as he ground his teeth to hold back the surge of hot bubbling spunk.
Once again he laid the paddle, this time horizontally, over both naked buttocks, at their ripest centers, as he demanded, "Will you let me fuck you, Belle, if I stop the spanking?"
"Ohh-Oh Lordie, oh Uncle Homer, just don't hurt me anymore, oh please-oh, Aunt Dora, what must I do?"
But Dora Pinson, her hair twisted in Jake Bunter's savage lean fingers, her mouth filled with his throbbing prick, could not answer. The Judge answered for her: "You'll do what I tell you to, you snippy little bitch! You're under my legal care, you know, you're my ward, and you've got to obey me. Did you understand what I asked you, Belle?" Smack! Smack! Twice the paddle collided angrily with the shuddering, dark-reddening bare buttocks, and the helpless young girl uttered a wild shriek of pain: "Ahrrrrr!! Oh, yes, yes, I understand-I'll do it, I'll let you have me, Judge, only please stop it, Oh I can't stand it any more, I can't!"
"Well, now," the Judge drawled to Dora and Jake, "seems like your niece isn't quite so innocent as she pretends. She knows what fucking is." Then, turning back to the wildly sobbing and squirming girl, he pursued: "Are you sure you know what I mean, you pretty bitch? You explain to me what fucking is. If I let you off of spanking, you'll let me do it? Let's hear you tell me what you'll let me do! And be quick about it, because there are a lot more swats in this paddle for that big red ass of yours, Belle honey!"
So saying, he applied two or three brisk little spanks all over the flaming, huddling and trembling cheeks of the young girl's naked seat, and
Belle Lorrimer shouted out in a voice trembling and choking with her sobs and tears: "Oww, oh don't, oh please don't! I know what it is, Uncle Homer! It means when a fellow gets on a girl and puts his thing into her spot! Yes, Yes, I'll let you do it to me if you'll only stop that awful spanking, I just can't bear it any longer!"
"All right, then, since you know what it's like, I want to hear you tell me that you want me to fuck you, my dear," he panted as again he pressed the paddle over her naked seat. "Beg me to fuck you, you pretty little bitch!"
Belle's heaving breasts rose and fell violently, as sobs choked her voice, and the pain of her flaming bottom made her constantly twist her naked hips this way and that. Fighting for breath, agonized by the pressure of that cruel stinging paddle against her naked and swollen bottom, she realized the atrocious danger if she did not hasten to speak, and finally managed: begging-I'm begging you please to-to-f-f-fuck m-me and please don't spank me anymore!"
At this moment, Jake Bunter, wildly aroused by the sight of that coercive discipline and even more by the young girl's surrender, uttered a hoarse shout and shot his bubbling gism into Dora Pinson's mouth. His fingers twisted in her hair prevented her from turning her face away, so that she was compelled to swallow the copious drench which spattered into her mouth.
Judge Homer Wadling lowered the paddle, his face flushed, his eyes glittering, as he stared greedily at the weeping young girl who remained bent over the whipping stool, her upturned jutting naked behind the color of a sunset. She had just agreed to sacrifice the first of her three maidenheads in return for clemency!
CHAPTER NINE
Belle Lorrimer continued to sob and to squirm as she remained tied down over the whipping stool, her angrily reddened bare buttocks contracting and trembling from the effects of the sound paddling which her sadistic legal guardian had just inflicted. Judge Wadling put the paddle down and knelt beside the stool as he began to unbuckle the leather straps around the girl's wrists and ankles. He weaved and his face was florid as he got to his feet, and hoarsely commanded, "All right, Belle, you can get up now. Let's see what a nice little obedient girl you're going to be to your old Uncle Homer."
Painfully the lovely teenager straightened, with a sobbing gasp, and at once rushed her hands back to her flaming behind and began to rub energetically as tears ran down her cheeks. In this pose, she was furiously stimulating to the lecherous Judge, her magnificent young titties were violent surging against the tight pink cotton bra, while her panties clung around her ankles. Her delightfully rounded calves and thighs were sheathed in flesh-hued nylons rising to mid-thigh and their tops rolled around elastic garters. His eyes devoured her trembling half-nakedness and now he roughly ordered: "Just step out of your panties, honey, you won't be needing them anymore."
Belle obediently complied, sniffling and still rubbing her bottom, keeping herself turned away from the man who had shamed and caused her such burning physical suffering. But although Judge Homer Wadling admired the charmingly ingenuous modesty of his teenaged victim, he did not let her retain it for very long: "Now turn around and face me and take that bra off if you don't want some more spanking!"
Reluctantly the girl obeyed. With downcast eyes, huddling her thighs tightly together in a naive effort to conceal the downy mount of her virgin cunt, she reached back and unfastened the bandeau and let the pink cotton sheath flutter to the floor. Now she was naked in stockings and pumps, and her moment of capitulation was at hand.
"You're a gorgeous little piece, my dear, and I'm going to take your mind off the pain in that pretty bottom of yours. Come along now. Give me your hand and let's go get some privacy."
He glanced back at Dora Pinson and Jake Bunter. His handsome housekeeper was only now just rising, her face scarlet with mortification, after having Frenched the sheriff. He admired Dora's luscious mature figure, half naked as it was, and the thought occurred to him to force both her and her niece to satisfy his lusts. But that could come later after Belle had been properly broken in, he told himself. So he called, "All right, now, Dora girl, I want you to show the Sheriff a good time, you hear? I better not have any complaints from Jake about his not being treated right, or you and I will have a little falling out, understand me?"
"Yes, Judge," Dora Pinson quavered. Jake Bunter guffawed: "You never mind about Dora here, Homer boy! I'll keep her hopping. Get back in my lap, Dora, and let's cuddle again till I get nice and hard so I can poke you proper."
Belle Lorrimer stared fascinatedly through her tears at her blushing aunt who, wearing only her white nylon pantie-girdle, charcoal-brown nylons and pumps, had seated herself on Jake Bunter's lap and had passively circled her arms around his neck while, his left arm tucking in her waist, the gaunt Sheriff began to squeeze her swelling bubbies and then to run his hand down over her belly and upper thighs in a most suggestive manner. Seeing her niece's eyes fix on her, Dora Pinson enervatedly burst out,", "What are you staring at, girl? You go along with your Uncle Homer, or I'll have him give you another spanking, understand me?"
"Y-yes, Aunt Dora," Belle Lorrimer quavered. The Judge stood there grinning, hugely enjoying this perverse domestic tableau. He grasped Belles' left hand and commanded, "Come along, baby, I'm going to make a woman out of you."
The delightful young brunette bowed her head, and her fingers trembled in his grasp as he led her out of the living room and down the hall to his own bedroom. It was at the end of the hall, and it was the most luxuriously furnished of all the rooms on this floor. As he opened the door with his free hand and then pushing it open, he led her across the threshold, then kicked the door shut, he stared at her greedily to relish the expression on her face. It made his prick harden to watch the sudden widening of her tear-filled big blue eyes, the gaping and the trembling of her sweet red mouth, and the agitated heaving of those gorgeous titties of hers. They were like young pears, not too ripe, but beautifully and insolently pointed and thrusting, with narrow rosy aureola and the most exquisite, crinkly, soft buds at their tips. Her belly was lissome, with a narrow and very deep navel, and there was already a rather thick and lustrous dark brown fleece over her virgin cunt. Undressing her and spanking her had made him savagely randy, and it was all he could do to maintain self-control enough to pursue this conquest of her in the leisurely and savoring manner he much preferred. Yet it was sheer Tantalus to hold himself back now and to watch her reactions as she entered this satyr's lair wearing only stockings and pumps, her voluptuous young ripening pink-sheened body trembling with apprehension and shame and the pangs of that preparatory spanking. The Judge had an extensive library of pornography, and one of his favorite classics was "Maude Cameron and Her Guardian," in which a mature man undertakes the subjugation of a sixteen-year-old ward and turns her into the most docile and eager of sexual slaves. He felt a spiritual and carnal kinship with the hero of that book now as he stood there staring at her angrily inflamed softly rounded buttocks, the trembling young thighs, the agitatedly heaving turrets of her virginal titties, knowing that soon he would taste every cranny of that delectable young body.
The bed was huge, a four-poster canopied bed that called to every instinct of venery. The ceiling was mirrored as were the walls. Here and there along the walls were large squares of black canvas to which had been affixed framed lithographs all devoted to the most lascivious of sexual scenes. To the right of the bed, for instance, there were two such illustrations, one of them showing a beautiful golden-haired girl held horizontally in the air with her wrist and ankles hugely spread-eagled by four men, a fifth man bending down to suck her titties, and a young man standing in between her straddled thighs with his penis buried into her love-cleft; the other illustrated a tall naked young woman with black hair down to her hips, bound with her arms behind a round stake about which African savages squatted. Facing her was a giant Negro, naked, his massive penis swollen to unbelievable length and breadth, wielding a kurbash across her round, full breasts and belly The look on her face was one of indescribable torment.
Belle's eyes rested on these two lascivious lithographs, and she shuddered, then glanced fearfully at the Judge.
"Well, now, my dear, suppose you undress your old Uncle Homer and get him ready for the nice big bed."
"Oh, Uncle Homer, please don't hurt me anymore," she quavered.
"That all depends on you, my dear. The best way to keep from getting that sweet bare bottom of yours any redder than it is now is to do exactly what I tell you, understand?" he said thickly.
With a tremulous, tearful sigh, the young girl understood that all resistance was in vain. Humbly and reluctantly, she began to disrobe the smirking old lecher. Her awkwardness at such a task only exciting him the more.
Finally she had managed to drag down his trousers, stooping so that her lovely pear-shaped titties jiggled in the most exquisite way, and left him in shorts, socks and shoes. "Now kneel down and get off my socks and shoes like a good sweet little bitch," he told her, and once again the trembling naked girl obeyed.
As she attempted to rise, wincing again at the pain the movement cost her inflamed buttocks, Judge Wadling stopped her: "No, No, don't get up. I like to see a girl kneel to her master. It's only befitting, you know. Now unbutton my shorts and take my cock out and see what I've got to make a woman of you, you pretty bitch," he instructed.
Once again Belle's trembling fingers awkwardly performed this most intimate task, and his swollen ramrod thrust boldly out, making her gasp and shrink back a little, a maneuver which delighted his sadistic nature all the more.
"Now, now," he admonished, "I won't take it kindly if you don't show some respect for my prick, Belle honey, seeing as how it's the instrument that's going to take your cherry, so to speak. Get acquainted with it now. Touch it. Feel it all over, down to the balls. Better still, take my shorts completely off ... that's it. Now start learning what it's all about, you lovely little slut, unless you want me to take you over my lap and spank your backside good and hard."
Belle Lorrimer did not want that at all. Her face flooding with scarlet to her ears and throat, she tremblingly extended one little hand and gingerly touched his cock. He ground his teeth and sucked in his breath as he stood there, straddling his legs, obese and hairy, his eyes glinting with lust. He made her run her forefinger from the very tip of his prick down to the hairy, swelling balls, and back again. Then he made her cup his shaft in both little hands, and finally he commanded: "Now kiss it lovingly and then ask me to fuck you, Belle!"
Belle Lorrimer shuddered and bit her lips, bowing her head as she knelt before the naked elderly Judge. Her soft little fingers were trembling violently as they cupped his rigid shaft in this humble and subjugated pose. Standing with his hands on his hips, wearing only his socks and shoes, with his prick sticking out of his unbuttoned shorts, he peered down at her with a gloating expression, savoring the pink satiny nakedness of her luscious young body which was clad in only stockings with elastic garters and dainty pumps. Kneeling as she was, he could see the quivering young pears of her titties, trembling with the emotional agitation rising in her. And all he had to do was to lift his eyes to the walls, mirrored on every side and up to the ceiling, reflecting every nuance of this tableau, to observe the flaming contrast of her voluptuous young bottom against the smooth, satiny purity of her hollowed back.
"Didn't you hear me, Belle?" he hoarsely commanded. "Or maybe you want another spanking."
"Oh, no, please, no, U-uncle Homer, the frightened young girl quavered as she looked up at him with tear-brimming eyes. The delicious tremor of her soft red lips inflamed his already maddened rut.
"Then say it, say it good and loud so I can hear you mean it, Belle," he ordered.
"Yes, Unc-Uncle Homer," she quavered, terrified by the rictus of his twisted mouth, the narrow glittering gimlets of his eyes as they mercilessly fixed on her. She bobbed her head and her trembling lips pressed a nervous kiss on his gnarled prick, and then she lifted her head and stammered in a low, husky, choking voice: "Pl-please, Uncle-Uncle H-Homer, will you please f-fuck m-me, and don't sp-spank me anymore."
"I want to hear it louder still, you tantalizing little dickens," he gloated. "Come on now, or I'll have the Sheriff come in here and hold you down while I use a cane on your naughty backside."
Belle Lorrimer uttered a pathetic little cry, recoiling so violently on her knees that her titties jiggled in a most exquisite way, and then clasping her hands together as in maiden prayer, exclaimed, "Oh, don't, don't do that, please, Uncle Homer! I want you to f-fuck me, I m-m-mean it. Please f-f-fuck me now and don't spank me any more and I promise I'll be good, Uncle Homer."
He exhaled a sigh of lustful triumph. Banal as this scene was ingenuous as the young girl was by nature, still and all the conquest of a virgin as deliciously formed and nubile and tempting as Dora Pinson's niece was proof that he was in fine fettle. Now if Jake Bunter could only manage to bring in a couple of really tasty city girls who had got themselves into trouble and would have to be reasonable to get out of it, life would really be enjoyable.
But for the moment, the glorious feeling of victory and of mastery over this trembling, helpless, naked young girl filled Judge Homer Wadling with an indescribable rapture which only the true sadist and voluptuary can experience.
"Very well," he said, forcing his voice to sound cold and harsh. "Then get your sweet little ass onto that bed and spread your legs and get ready for me, Belle. I'm going to fuck you real good, you can bet on that. And if you don't please me, you'll get that caning after all, you understand?"
"Oh, yes, Uncle Homer, I'll do it good! I promise I will. See? I'm going right now and get ready for you, Un-Uncle Homer," Belle sobbed. She rose to her feet and fairly scrambled to the bed and flung herself upon it on her back, heedless of the pain it cost her well-fustigated bottom. Then as he watched, his prick aching with savage longing that was almost uncontrollable, the young brunette spread her legs as exaggeratedly as might a two-dollar whore, and held out her arms to him, tears running down her cheeks, and stammered, "Do please-do please come and f-fuck me, Uncle Homer. I'm ready for you now, honest I am."
With a satanic chuckle, the sadistic and lecherous Judge moved towards the bed, pushing down his shorts and scuffing off his shoes and mounted beside his pretty fledgling. He knelt down between her widened pink satin thighs, his eyes devouring the furry nest which framed the sweet pink coral lips of that virgin mount. Belle closed her eyes, but in her trembling terror forced a smile to her quivering lips lest he think her unwilling to surrender.
He had no time now for the niceties and the voluptuous byplay which he would have used with an older and more tempting woman. It was enough that Bene Lorrimer had been compelled by corporal punishment to demean herself to let him take her maidenhead. Brutally his pudgy fingers foraged in her cunt-hair, bared the dainty petals of those maiden labia and advancing on his knees, he inserted the throbbing meatus of his organ against her slot. Then, grinding his teeth, staring at her tearstained face, he thrust himself home until he felt himself pressed against the barrier to bliss. Belle Lorrimer uttered a choking Little groan and twisted her face to one side, her soft little fingers clenching into agonized fists to withstand her martyrdom. With a grunt, Judge Homer Waddling thrust himself brutally against the membrane, felt it yield and then give way. Belle uttered a scream of pain, half-raised her head, her eyes glassy and staring. With a brutal laugh he sank down on her, his hands reaching under her to squeeze her inflamed, aching buttocks as he silenced her with a lascivious, sucking kiss. Then he began to fuck her brutally and rapidly, without tenderness or compassion, glorying in the agonized moans which his over-clamping mouth drowned, in the frantic and convulsive squirmings of her supple young pink nakedness under him, weighted down and crushed by his fat, hairy weight.
In the living room Sheriff Jake Bunter had heard the muffled cry of Dora Pinson's martyred niece, and this had inflamed his own lust for the beautiful mature housekeeper. He had pulled her down on his lap, making her sit with her back to him and rub her bare bottom over his stiff cock, while he played with her panting titties. But at that sound, the sound which marked the rending of Belle Lorrimer's hymen, Jake Bunter panted in Dora's ear, "Get down on all fours on the floor, you lovely bitch. I'm going to screw you proper!"
Hastily she obeyed, closing her eyes and surrendering herself, for she knew the slightest hesitance on her part, the smallest act or word that might displease him would reflect that much more cruelty against her helpless and innocent niece. Resignedly she bowed her head and closed her eyes, planting her palms solidly on the rug, spreading her knees widely, while Jake Bunter crouched behind her, running his hands over her flinching bare bottom. Then, to her aghast dismay, he forced open her buttocks and exposed the puckering, shrinking fissure of her ass-hole.
"Oh, no, please not there, don't do it to me there, I beg of you, Sheriff," Dora Pinson groaned.
"Want me to tell Homer you're not cooperating with a guest, an honored guest, Dora Baby?" he leered.
"N-no ... oh, no ... all right ... I-I'll do what you want ... but please take it easy ... it-it hurts so there ... "
"I'll be nice to you and oil it up a little to make it easier for that tight little bung of yours, Dora," he chuckled salaciously. Spitting on his hand, he rubbed his stiff cock and the meatus until it glistened with saliva. Then, once again gripping her velvety buttocks and forcing them open to the extreme, till she winced and moaned with discomfort, Sheriff Bunter prodded her cringing anus with the tip of his stiff rod and gently pressed until suddenly with a groan Dora Pinson felt the lips of her bottom-hole pried apart and the hot rigidity of his tool enter her Temple of Sodom.
But the warm enclaspment and the surging resistance of her sphincter muscles completely obliterated Sheriff Jake Bunter's decision to show the unfortunate housekeeper a scant consideration by proceeding gently. With a grunt of lust, tightening his grip on her quivering naked buttocks, he jammed himself pitilessly forward, and Dora Pinson raising her head, had to clap one hand over her mouth to stifle the shriek of pain which tore from her lips as she felt him haft her rectum almost to his balls.
And thus the two men who were to loom mightily in the future destiny of the three beautiful young women from Detroit who had already set out on their journey to the Ozarks took their sadistic carnal pleasure.
CHAPTER TEN
Late afternoon of the day following the martyrdom of delicious Belle Lorrimer, the three roommates from Detroit turned off State Highway 58 and headed in a northeasterly direction. It was Cordelia Manners' turn at the wheel, while Lucy Wilson and Pris Loring sat in the back of the car looking out at the lush green scenery of the Ozarks. What neither of the girls knew was that they were only about eighteen miles from the State Prison Farm at Benton. And what was worse, if Cordelia continued on the road she had inadvertently taken by mistaking a marking on the map, the three girls were going to wind up in the middle of a chain gang project two miles outside of the farm at about the time Sheriff Jake Bunker was due to check over the work with the assistant warder, Dan Winbold.
Dan Winbold was a crony of the Sheriff s, not only in drinking bouts but in sharing a frightened young teenaged female vagrant who had been apprehended and, thanks to the jurisprudence of Judge Homer Waddling, sentenced to an indeterminate stay at what some of the prisoners facetiously referred to as the "Benton Grand Hotel." Those who made this quip, however, were careful not to let it be heard in the presence of Dan Winbold, for retribution would be swift and merciless. For the men, there would be a beating with a thick leather strap and then two days in the "hole" which was nothing more than a cavern dug out of the courtyard earth, concealed by a heavy metal trapdoor which reminded one of a tornado cellar, and there left to sweat it out and to bake in the confines of that narrow cubicle of earth with the pitiless sun beating down on the metal trapdoor and radiating its ferocious energy below.
If the guilty culprit happened to be of the tender sex, she would be turned over to Maggie Hoskins, a dowdy fat blonde of forty-one avaricious and sadistic years. Some of the girls who had come under Maggie's tender care had been heard to say they would much prefer to go down in the "Hole", and no wonder. Not only was Maggie ugly by disposition and physique, for she seldom bathed and she was always cantankerous, but she fancied herself as an irresistible priestess of Sappho. When Maggie Hoskins had the "hots for a jemme" as the saying went at Benton, it was just too bad for the poor girl. She would find herself getting the dirtiest prison details, like cleaning the latrine or working in the laundry on the hottest summer days, and the matron who supervised her-naturally at Maggie's order-would be on her tail constantly to find fault over the most imaginary errors.
Maggie Hoskins it was who had instituted a system of demerits. She had never read any of the treatises on flagellation, nor did she know anything about English boarding schools in the nineteenth century, but she would have made an excellent headmistress, for she was as keenly imaginative as any domineering wielder of the rod. Let a girl get five black marks on her record at the end of the week, and she was summoned to Maggie's office, brought there by two matrons, informed of her unsatisfactory status, and then sentenced to her thrashing. If the girl was attractive and indicated that she might succumb to Maggie's blandishments, the fat blonde harpy genially permitted the culprit to accept her spanking in private. This would mean going to Maggie's bedroom, stripping off the Mother Hubbard type of cheap linsey-wolsey dress and then the equally cheap and sleazy pink cotton slip which were obligatory garments for all female prisoners, then letting down the prison bloomers, which were made of blue cotton, rough and scratchy and extremely tight and thick, and draping herself over Maggie Hoskins's ample lap. It would be a hand spanking, in those cases, or at worst administered with a wide, flat ruler, after which the culprit would have to thank Maggie for her leniency and then go down on her knees and say that she was ready to do anything Maggie wanted ... which meant bed.
But if the girl was recalcitrant when it came to yielding her body to the repugnant wardress of women prisoners at Benton, her fate was far more agonizing. Most of the time Maggie enjoyed tying such a girl up by the wrists to a beam in a wide, windowless stone chamber in the cellar under the main building of the Women's Section of this prison farm, blindfolding her, and then letting her wait a little while in her terror and agony over what was going to happen. Then Maggie would strip down to bra and bloomers, take up a blacksnake whip or one of her favorite "spanking straps" (modeled after the famous Scotch tawse, a piece of oiled and supple round leather about two and a half feet in length, with the first six inches of double thickness to form a handle and the last six inches cut ingeniously to form three tapering "fingers" which would sting and bite atrociously).
In such instances, Maggie Hoskins would apply the blacksnake or her "spanker" in a way that would absolutely prevent the naked victim from knowing when the burning kiss of the lash would again meet her shrinking flesh. There might be half a dozen lashes laid on at the start, then an intolerably long pause and silence, purposely calculated to break the victim's nerve. Then suddenly the girl would feel the strap or the blacksnake against her naked breasts, and the pain would be so agonizing and unexpected that she would shriek and plead for mercy. Then Maggie would launch into a long harangue, in which she would delineate all the culprit's faults, punctuating these remarks with viciously applied strokes over the girl's belly, inner thighs, breasts, bottom and sometimes, in her own lustful passion, the deep furry cleft of the victim's pussy. And invariably those girls who endured such treatment broke down and yielded to Maggie's importunities.
Repugnant though such a surrender was, there were certain advantages to be gained: more plentiful and better food, a single cot in a little room without any roommates (for needless to say in a prison of this kind where violence and brutality and cruelty flourished, many of the inmates sought to steel a few moments of affection with one another), lighter duties and possibly even remission of the original sentence. And so Maggie Hoskins could bask in the sweet serenity of her position and glance down the roster of inmates under her direct supervision, and smile knowingly as she scanned the list and knew that this one and that one and this other one would all be at her beck and call when the urge for Lesbian gratification seized her downy, fat, unwashed body.
It was Pris Loring who first realized that Cordelia might be on the wrong road. She glanced at her wristwatch and called, "Hey, Cordy, I make it to be quarter of five. Aren't we supposed to stop over in Derren? You know Bob Glossup said we shouldn't stay anywhere near Benton because of the trouble they're having with the prison farm."
"Sure," Cordelia Manners agreed, "I remember that, too. But I'm supposed to reach Darren in about half an hour."
"Are you sure?" Pris Loring anxiously queried. "You took the turn to the right instead of the left, didn't you?"
"Oh my gosh," Cordelia clapped a hand to her aristocratic forehead. "I'll bet that's what I did. Well, this road seems to be all right. It's nicely paved. Maybe it'll bring us close enough to Darren or some other spot where we can have a meal and maybe find a trailer camp for the night."
"Go ahead, then," Pris dubiously agreed. "You might as well stay on this road, as you say. Anyhow, I don't really anticipate any trouble."
Cordelia was squinting down the road where there appeared to be a turn to the right nearly a quarter of a mile ahead. She didn't see a sign on a tall poplar tree at the left which read: "Prison Property. Trespassers Forbidden." That was going to be her first mistake. So far as those who ran the Benton State Prison Farm were concerned, the first mistake was just as bad as the last!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Oh, golly," Cordelia Manners gasped, "I've got to admit I really took a wrong turn. Well, there's no use trying to go back now. Let's just go on down this road and see where it leads. Maybe we'll see someone along the road where we can get directions."
As she turned the wheel, the automobile in which the three girls rode with the trailer behind it moved slowly through a stretch of landscape, framed entirely by tall poplars which hid the side of the road effectively.
"What's that?" Pris Loring exclaimed as she leaned forward from the back seat and pointed ahead. "Looks like a group of men working on the road, a construction gang," Cordelia ventured. "Oh, Ford, now maybe I will have to turn back after all, Darn it anyhow."
"Wait a minute," Lucy Wilson exclaimed. "They've got on gray uniforms with stripes. It's a prison gang, that's what it isl"
"The State Farm must be right around here," Cordelia agreed with a grimace of annoyance. "Well, don't worry, girls, they've got guards with guns and I'll just stop and ask one of them the best way to get where we're going."
But the decision had already been made for Cordelia Manners and her two companions. The road gang this afternoon was under the supervision of Sergeant Bob Grogan, a sadistic bully who was towheaded, thirty-one years old, with a thick neck and heavy jaws, pugnacious little blue eyes and squat nose and a low, receding forehead. Bob Grogan had-a dozen years ago-raped a schoolteacher in Chicago and very nearly got himself locked up in the process. He had managed to hop a freight and get down to New Orleans where for two years he had worked as a bouncer in a whorehouse. He had been the Madame's lover as well as her enforcer, and his natural proclivities for brutality had found full scope in that position. 'Whenever a girl was complained of as being lazy and not making her quota of tricks on a busy evening, the silver-blonde buxom Kate Bronson, who ran the house, sent for Bob Grogan. The unfortunate hooker was taken downstairs into a basement room the door locked, ordered to strip naked, and then bend across a table to which her wrists were tied. Bob Grogan then amused himself by administering a sound spanking with a large, ham-like hand until the naked prostitute's backside was the color of a ripe tomato. Then, by way of respite, he would either fuck her or bugger her according to his penchant of the moment. Then her thrashing would resume with his heavy black leather belt until she shriekingly promised to take on double the number of tricks if only he would stop.
Eventually the Syndicate had taken over Kate Branson's operation and Bob Grogan then found greener fields in which to operate. From New Orleans he had gone to Biloxi where, for two years he had worked as a supervisor of a Negro chain gang for the County. He had learned how to use a blacksnake for whipping, a wooden paddle with holes cut into the end to raise blisters on black, cringing flesh and he was so expert with the belt that he could flick a convict's testicle just enough to sting and without causing permanent injury. One of his little tricks, when a prisoner was turned over to him for punishment, was to order the man to strip naked, spraddle his legs, grip the back of his neck and not dare to budge on pain of getting three extra "ball-dustings" each time he did so. Then Bob Grogan would apply a merciless thrashing to the convict's belly and inner thighs, winding up with about six "ball-dustings" which drew howls of unspeakable agony from the victim.
A prison investigation had lost him his job, so he had gone to Little Rock and thence to Benton, where Sheriff Jake Bunter had found him in a tavern one night, laying his belt across the bottom of a chippie who had tried to cadge free drinks from him and do some prick-teasing without putting out after a price had been settled on. Jake Bunter had stood there entranced as the burly Grogan had taken the unfortunate redhead, ordered the bartender to grab her wrists and pull her titties up against the bar, while he furrowed up her dress and slip, fucked down her panties and then took off his belt and proceeded to apply twenty of the prettiest stripes Sheriff Jake Bunter had ever seen laid on a girl's bare ass. The upshot of this had been that Sheriff Bunter had offered Grogan a job. And when the Sheriff had intimated that there would be women at the Benton State Farm, the burly bully had eagerly agreed to sign up. Since then he had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant and his monthly pay had been doubled. He was even more feared by the women than Dan Winbold, and with good reason; Winbold would content himself with a flogging, but Grogan never failed to wind up his punishment of a woman without fucking or buggering her or, worse yet, forcing her to blow him off.
Stripped to the waist and wearing only a pair of khaki shorts and workshoes, carrying a shotgun in his left hand and a blacksnake whip in his right, he strode away from the lines of industriously working male convicts when he saw the car and trailer bearing down the road.
"What th' fuck is this?" he bellowed. "Sam, get over here and take this shotgun and keep it on this bunch of shitheads while I go see what's going on."
"Sure, Bob," Sam Caswell, a lanky, almost toothless guard of forty with sparse, sandy hair and a weather-beaten face, hurried to his side. "Say, Sheriff Jake Bunter is just pulling in by the sluice in his Chevie. Reckon as how I'd better bring 'em along. Nobody's supposed to come down this road lessen they got a pass, you know."
"Yeah," Grogan breathed as he handed over the shotgun. His brutal, fleshy mouth was curved in a lecherous smile. He had just seen the occupants of the car. "Take a gander at what we got here, Sam boy, and you go tell the Sheriff to get his ass over here in one helluva hurry. He'll get his pecker up when he sees what I'm looking at. Pussy, nice white pussy. The tourist variety, I'll be bound. Only tourist bitches would take a road like this with all those signs around."
Unfortunately for Cordelia Manners and her companions, there had been two other small signs, but the girls had been so occupied in finding the right road that none of them had noticed. It was too late now to turn back.
Bob Grogan strode forward towards the car, his hairy chest gleaming with sweat, for the day had been torrid and humid, and he worked as hard as any convict. "Let's see your pass, girl," he said roughly to Cordelia.
"I-I'm awfully sorry. I-I seem to have taken the wrong road. We drove from Detroit and we're trying to get to a place maybe like Sheldrake for the night."
"Suppose you get out of the car, lady," Bob Grogan growled. "These are convicts here and a lot of them are tough babies. Murder, rape, theft, just about all the crimes in the book. For all I know, you could be trying to sneak a gun to them or help them get away. Just you all step out here and get yourselves accounted for. Oh, hi there, Sheriff," this last was to the lanky, gaunt-faced officer of the law, wearing a Stetson hat, short sleeved shirt, khaki trousers and boots, approached and clapped his hand on Bob Grogan's back. "As I was telling these broads, Jake, we don't take kindly to strangers down this road. I was going to ask them for their pass. They claim they drove here from Detroit."
"I see, Bob. Good work. All right, ladies, like my sergeant here says, step out and let's have a look at you."
Cordelia Manners uneasily got out of the car, as did Lucy Wilson and Pris Loring. Jake Bunter and Bob Grogan stared greedily at the three beauties, for they were well worth seeing on this hot day or any other time, for that matter. All three of them were wearing play shorts and pullover Tee shirts and sandals, and the vision of those luscious bare legs and arms, the sight the jutting titties which the Tee-shirts shaped out so enticingly, the appetizing bottoms which the play shorts snugged out, made both men lick their lips with lustful envy.
"Let's see some credentials, Miss," Sheriff Bunter extended his hand toward Cordelia.
"Well, I've got my driver's license, and some travelers' checks, I guess," Cordelia stammered. "I-I keep them in the dashboard compartment."
"Get them, then, and make it fast," Jake Bunter commanded.
Cordelia Manners stiffened and her aristocratic face flushed hotly with indignation. "Now just look here! We haven't done anything wrong, we haven't broken the speed limit or anything, and we came down here from Detroit for a vacation. I don't consider your attitude very hospitable."
"Oh, you don't?" Jake Bunter drawled, winking at Bob Grogan who uttered a coarse laugh. "Well, like it or not, lady, I happen to be Sheriff of this county and I'm directly responsible for what goes on at this State Farm. Didn't you see those signs along the road forbidding any traffic down here unless authorized? Come on-I don't have all day to waste on you."
"How dare you?" Cordelia gasped. Her magnificent ripe, closely set cantaloupe-shaped titties rose and fell turbulently in the throes of her anger, a sight which whetted the animal desires of both sadistic law officers.
"I intend to show you what I've got," Cordelia concluded.
"I'd say she already has, pretty much, don't you, Jake?" Bob Grogan broke in with a lewd sniggers. "I didn't know imagine gals from the big city went around showing off so much bare tail." He had noticed that Lucy Wilson's play-shorts were particularly brief and that the legs of the shorts came down just about where their soft-sheened pink and white epidermis made Bob Grogan's prick begin to throb with desire.
"I don't think there's any need for personal remarks like that," Cordelia Manners flared. She got back into the car and leaned towards the dashboard compartment, thereby jutting out her own delectable bottom which the play shorts tautly delineated even to the intimate crease between the jouncy globes. Sheriff Bunter's eyes followed her and he licked his lips at the tantalizing sight of that luscious, quivering posterior.
"Here you are! Now I hope that's enough. We want to get to a motel before dark." Cordelia Manners handed him her driver's license and a social security card. There was also a book of travelers checks in the amount of about three hundred dollars.
Sheriff Bunter perused the bundle, then thrust it into the pocket of his khaki trousers.
"That doesn't tell me much except that you've got about three hundred dollars, you can drive a car and you've got a job somewhere. But that's not enough, lady. Now, I want you to tell me the truth. What are you three broads doing on this road when there's a project going on with convicts?"
"See here, whoever you are-"
"I happen to be Sheriff Jake Bunter, and I'd advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head," he drawled, his eyes cold and hard. "You look harmless enough so far as being a convict yourself is concerned, eh? But so far as I know, you might have a relative or a sweetheart here in this work gang. We don't take any chances around here with the kind of apes we got to look after."
"I told you we didn't see the signs," Cordelia Manners patiently explained. "Now will you please tell us how we can find the road back or go on past here and get settled down for the night"
"Sure, I can tell you, but I'm not going to. I think I'm going to hold all three of you on suspicion. I want to see if maybe you've got guns, and if you have any, it's just going to be too bad. Now what's your name, and yours?"
Pris glanced at Cordelia and her two companions. "My name is Pris Loring," the auburn-haired beauty answered. "Look, all you have to do is make a phone call to Detroit, because I work for the company that puts out these trailers. They'll tell you who we are. They let me rent this trailer for our vacation. I don't think you have any right to hold us."
"Well now, Pris honey," Jake Bunter drawled as he moved towards the beautiful young au-burn-haired traveler. He approached her now, his beady eyes fixing on her stunning pear-shaped titties whose pert nipples could be seen thrusting hard against the tight cling of her Tee-shirt. "I wouldn't rightly say that, would you, Bob?"
"Hell, no, Jake," the burly sergeant of the prison farm chuckled nastily. "I'd say we've got every right, 'specially with sexy broads like these here. Comin' down and givin' our poor convicts a hard-on by showing off their shapes like this. Maybe you northerners think it's all right to go around in public showing off your bare legs and having your tits practically hang out. But we take a dim view down here ... lessen, of course, the girl's a hooker and has to show them off for business reasons. Ain't that so, Jake boy?"
"You said a mouthful, Bob. All right, Pris, you got any identification?"
"Of course I have. It's in the dashboard compartment, too."
"And I suppose this cute blonde chick has the same story," the Sheriff continued as he boldly stared at Lucy Wilson, who turned a fiery red with embarrassment and lowered her eyes before the fixed, lecherous gaze. "All right, Miss, how about you?"
"You know, Bob," he resumed as he turned back to his bullying companion. "I think we ought to let Judge Wadling rule on what these broads ought to get."
"What do you mean 'ought to get'? " Cordelia Manners stamped her foot until her bubbies jiggled. "We aren't criminals and we don't deserve to be treated that way. Haven't you ever heard of working girls on their vacation?"
"Oh, sure, sure Cordelia honey," Sheriff Bunter chuckled, coming close to her and putting his lean hand on her bare shoulder. "Lots of hustlers take a couple of weeks off and see the sights after they get tired of wearing their ass off on the mattress. But you look as if you're good for a lot of fucking, sister."
Cordelia Manners uttered a stifled cry of furious rage. Unthinking she drew back her hand and struck Sheriff Bunter straight across the mouth. He recoiled with a profane oath, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, and saw a trace of blood on it.
"Why, you goddamn uppity bitch, you'll pay for that! Did you see that, Grogan? Striking an officer of the law, resisting arrest, wouldn't you say?"
"It's a clear case, Sheriff," Bob Grogan agreed.
Sheriff Jake Bunter drew his Colt .45 and aimed it at his captive's left breast. "All three of you are under arrest," he said in a voice that throbbed with vindictive fury. "Grogan, get all three into the back seat and guard them. We're going to take a little ride to the judge's place and get ourselves some quick justice."
CHAPTER TWELVE
In spite of all that Cordelia, Pris and Lucy could do, the three lovely protesting girls from Detroit were ordered to get into the back seat of their car-trailer, while Sheriff Jake Bunter got behind the wheel, winking at Sergeant Bob Grogan with an implicit promise that the latter would get his full opportunity to taste some of this Northern pussy, and then headed the car trailer in the direction of Judge Homer Wad-ling's mansion. He had had Grogan make a phone call to the lecherous Judge to inform him that an extraordinary court session was indicated for the three "suspects" whom he had just charged with resisting arrest, abusive language to an officer of the law engaged in the performance of his duties, driving on state property without proper authorization. He had also added a Little gimmick of his own, for the state law concerning trailers was rather ambiguous in several phases, and he was able to find two minor technicalities on which to charge the unfortunate young beauties.
Judge Wadling had Dora Pinson, his handsome housekeeper, admit the Sheriff and his prisoners, while he hastily dressed. "Dressing" in this instance consisted only of putting his official black robe over his shorts and undershirt, shoes and socks ... for when Bob Grogan had put in the phone call, the Judge had been busy enjoying himself with lovely Belle Lorrimer just before supper. He had made poor Belle strip down to just her bra, stockings, and a garter belt (he had had Dora Pinson buy her niece a very sexy black nylon elastic one), kneel down over an ottoman with her head bent down to the floor and her bare bottom lasciviously upreared. Then he had stood there in just his shorts and undershirt with his huge prick sticking out of his unbuttoned fly, and he had said to her gently, "Now then, my dear, let's see how much you've learned since the last time we got together. I want you to tell me what you'd like to have me do to you. Just a little thin, Belle. If you're way off the mark, you're going to have the sorest ass in Arkansas."
She had begun to sniffle and to squirm uneasily, quite well aware that he was feasting his eyes on the jutting curves of her voluptuous young bottom as well as gloating over the pink crevice of her cunt which was framed by the soft curls of pubic hair in this salacious pose. But young though she was, she had already learned a great deal about Judge Homer Wadling: she realized that it delighted him to hurt her and especially to spank her bottom-though she didn't quite yet understand why. So she faltered tearfully, "Please, Uncle Homer, will you give my bare heinie a good spanking before you f-f-fuck me?"
"Capital, my dear!" he had chortled. "I see that you've learned very quickly and that's most commendable. I'm going to accommodate you before supper, but of course it has to be a quick one. Later on tonight when you've done the dishes and the other work your Aunt Dora wants you to do, you're to come to my bedroom wearing a pair of high heeled pumps, the slinkiest stockings your Aunt Dora can find for you and some nice colorful garters, and that's all. And then of course we'll have more time for frills. Now get that sweet ass of yours up a little more ... that's it and be careful not to take it out of that position till I'm finished."
Whereupon he had given her a sound hand-spanking of about forty stinging slaps, long before the finish of which she had begun to cry and squirm her reddening naked bottom in the most lubricious way. Then he had made her kiss his hand and thank him for the spanking, and once again resume position over the ottoman. Kneeling behind her, he had then proceeded to fuck her dog fashion, and he had just finished rising with a sigh of delighted depletion when the telephone call had come. Dora Pinson herself had entered his room to find him and her niece concluding this amatory s�ance.
The three fuming girls, extremely delectable in their play-shorts and pullover Tee-shirts and sandals, were ushered into the living room of Judge Wadling's mansion, while Sheriff Jake Bunter stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, grunting sardonically at them and stealthily admiring the voluptuous curves of their bare thighs as well as the concealed charms which, thanks to the snug frailty of the shorts and shirts, left very little to the imagination. Indeed, Cordelia Manners' shorts fitted her so snugly that the prominent plump mound of her cunt was plainly visible.
Judge Wadling entered impressively, scowling and looking very judicial, as he seated himself at a writing desk at the back of the huge salon.
"Now then, Sheriff," he announced, "Suppose you tell me why you routed me away from the dinner table and an enjoyable weekend to bring your prisoners here to my home instead of jugging them or putting them on bail until Monday when my court convenes?"
"Well, you see, Judge," the gaunt law officer cleared his throat and looked very pompous and official, "This is a serious case we've got here. It couldn't wait till Monday."
"Now you see here, whoever you are!" Cordelia Manners burst out again, stamping her pretty foot. That was her second mistake ... or perhaps her third. "I demand to be treated like a citizen of the United States! I have no criminal record, I have an excellent job in Detroit and plenty of references. That man-" she gestured with her thumb towards the Sheriff, "had the effrontery to tell me that he was going to arrest me simply because I didn't have a permit on that silly road. I didn't even see a sign. We were taking a vacation trip to the Ozarks and this is a fine way I must say, to show the hospitality of your State."
"Now just a moment, young woman," Judge Wadling adjusted his horn rimmed spectacles and looked very stern. "Suppose we let the Sheriff here tell me about the charges, and then you'll have your chance to answer. Go ahead, Jake."
"Thank you, Homer." A sly wink passed between the two men which the three frantic girls didn't notice at all. "You see, I told her that she didn't have a pass and I asked for her credentials. Then she got huffy, and then when I told her that I was going to take her in, she went and slapped me. A clear case of resisting arrest. Driving without permission on State property, and there are a couple of little rules she's broken about the use of a trailer. Failure to get a registered permit for camping. You know the law, Judge."
"I do indeed. This is very serious, young woman. Striking an officer of the law is not taken lightly in my district, at any rate whatever else you people may do up in the North." Judge Wadling glared at Cordelia. "I see you are given to tantrums, too, young lady. Stamping your foot in the presence of a judge. That's enough to have me sentence you at once for contempt, even if you haven't done anything else. And I'm satisfied that you have."
"But, Your Honor," Pris Loring spoke up, "This is all a dreadful mistake! Can't you have somebody wire back to where we work in Detroit and find out who we are? As Cordelia said, we've never been arrested for anything. Not even for speeding."
"Well, you're arrested now, and the charges are going to stick," Judge Wadling coldly informed them. "I happen to know there are plenty of signs along that road. And striking the deputy of my court-we can't have that, young lady, we can't have that at all." He picked up a gavel on the desk lifted and banged it down ceremoniously. "I sentence all three of you to two thousand dollars in fines, accumulated on all the charges that Sheriff Bunter has brought, and a minimum of two weeks at the State Prison Farm, women's division. If you have the money, it will be just the two weeks."
"You can't do this!" Cordelia fairly shrieked in her frustrated rage and fury, glancing back at Pris and Lucy who stood openmouthed and wide-eyed in their consternation. "Even if there are signs, they must have been so small nobody could see them on his side of the road. I've never had even a ticket, and I've driven for three years. And this is ridiculous! I'm going to go to the Governor himself!"
"After you take care of your fine and your little prison term, young lady, you can go where ever you want and with our blessing," Judge Wadling declared with another sly wink at the grinning Sheriff. "Now, do you have the fine?"
"Of course we don't have that much. We came here for two weeks to tour the state and to see the Ozarks, and we didn't bring that much money. We didn't expect to be railroaded on a perfectly trumped-up arrest like this. It's a shakedown. You just wait-"
"Turn them over to Maggie Hoskins, Jake," Judge Wadling interrupted the fiery Cordelia. "I'm going to make it three months for each one of you in lieu of the fine. If in the meantime you can raise the money somehow and legally from where you are at the Farm, you'll just have to serve the two weeks. Now, that's all. Court's adjourned!" and with this he brought down his gavel with a whack.
Cordelia uttered a scream of anger as Jake Bunter stepped close to her, taking a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket: "No! You shan't do that to me! I won't let you!" and she tried to run. But very cleverly, anticipating just such a move, the gaunt law-officer stuck out his foot and Cordelia went sprawling in the most ignominious way on her belly, with a shriek of pain and humiliation. He was on her in a flash, knelt down, dragged her wrists behind her back and handcuffed them. Then he got off and looked at Pris and Lucy and said, "Now if you two will go quietly, I won't handcuff you. Otherwise I'll get a chain and spancel you both by the ankles and the wrists, just like the way they used to do with niggers before you Northerners came along and changed things. Move along there. Much obliged, Judge. I'll take them to the Farm in that trailer outfit that they've got, and we'll impound it during their little stay with us. All right, move along quickly. I'm going to miss my supper on account of this, and Maggie herself won't be very happy to have new fish this time of evening!"
Weeping bitterly, Pris and Lucy stumbled along back to the car-trailer, while Cordelia, her face very pale, her eyes burning with tears and rage, ground her teeth together to keep from indulging in another fit of imprecations which she now despairingly realized would cost her even more than the mounting bill she was going to have to pay . ...
Pris Loring was trembling and biting her fingernails, and Lucy Wilson was softly sobbing, her face covered in her hands, while Cordelia Manners, her face scarlet, her eyes tightly closed, her lips compressed to contain the inner fury that was raging within her, sat with her wrists handcuffed behind her back as the car-trailer pulled through the iron gate of the Benton State Prison Farm, and took the turn to the left which was the section for female prisoners.
Sheriff Jake Bunter got out of the car and took Cordelia Manners by the elbow, roughly jerking her out.
"How dare you!" she panted, trembling so violently that she was ready to faint.
"You're going to sing a different tune before we get finished with you, Cordelia baby," the gaunt law officer snickered, his eyes feasting on the jut of her bottom against the tight play-shorts, "You just shine up to Maggie Hoskins the way you've been doing to me, and you're going to have a lovely vacation."
A tall ten-foot narrow but sturdy wall separated the female side of the Prison Farm from the one in which the men were quartered. The strictest attention was paid to the separation of the sexes ... except that occasionally a male prisoner was well-heeled and had won the favor of Dan Winbold, he could arrange to have one of the female prisoners sneaked into a special isolation cell in the basement, even buy a jug of corn likker, and have himself a high old time. The front section of this woman's entrance to the gray stone building which was the main headquarters for the offices of Maggie Hoskins and her matrons as well as the basement punishment cells and solitary chambers, had two stone steps and a narrow door, up which Sheriff Bunter grasping Cordelia by the elbow, led the shuddering black-haired oldest member of this ill-fated trio.
One of the matrons came forward, seeing the Sheriff and his prisoner, and opened the inner heavywire screen door. She was matron Agatha Turlock, thirty-eight, tall and wiry and hatchet-faced, with short bobbed sandy hair. As Maggie Hoskins as head of the women's division was the most dreaded of the sadists who made these unfortunates' lives a living hell at the Benton State Farm, Agatha Turlock was not far behind in rank when it came to ingenious cruelty and gloating sadism. She hated pretty girls because when she was twenty, attractive even though angular and thin of lips and sharp of nose as well as tongue, she had been jilted by the fianc� for a pretty choir-girl singer who had decided to try to make recordings on the West Coast and take Agatha's boyfriend along. From that day forth, she had not only hated men but also any girl with a pretty face and body. In her mind's eye, whenever she or Maggie Hoskins had the chastisement of a female prisoner to inflict, she saw again the golden-haired sweet-faced simpering Sunday singer who had robbed her of her only chance of normal happiness with a man, and she swung the leather strap or the blacksnake or the paddle or the truncheon with avid fervor.
"Fresh fish, huh, Jake?" Agatha Turlock grinned. She had the faint beginning of a mustache on her upper lip, and her beady little cold gray eyes flicked up and down at the quivering trio of Detroit beauties led in like common criminals. Her thin lips curved in a vicious smile of anticipation. Look at that nice soft white pampered flesh. Probably never had so much as a harsh word said to the bitch-just wait, you sweet little bitches, you'll get yours! ran through Agatha Turlock's warped mind.
"Sure are, Aggie," Jake Bunter drawled. "Watch out for this black-haired one, she's a holy terror. Slapped me, would you believe? Driving down the road, right into the project, with a gang all around, then gets uppity and hasn't even got a permit. Resists arrest, contempt of court right in front of old Judge Wadling himself. Just brought these broads from his place, so you take good care of them."
"Don't worry, Sheriff, Maggie and I will make them nice and comfortable here. From Detroit, huh? Bought me a car from there once, never did run worth a damn," Agatha Turlock glared at the quivering victims. "So this one here slapped you, did she, Jake? Well, girl, we southerners show respect for the law, like maybe you up in the North don't. Here's just a little sample of what I mean!" She drew back her bony right hand and slapped Cordelia Manners viciously across the left cheek, making the black-haired beauty stagger and utter a cry of frantic shame and rage. Angry splotches streaked her creamy skin, the flawless epidermis of a true brunette.
"How long they in for, Jake?" Agatha turned to the Sheriff.
"Two weeks, and they got a two-grand fine, which they can't raise. So we'll just keep them here till they work it off. Of course," he now insolently addressed Cordelia, "You can get a little of that fine off with good behavior. We allow a buck-fifty a day, that's because you're on a labor farm. In a regular jail, you'd only get a dollar a day credit against your sentence. All right, I've got to be getting back to my office, Aggie. Have them mugged, fingerprinted, and then I suppose you'll put them in solitary the first twenty-four hours, like you usually do."
"Don't you worry none about these three," Agatha Turlock winked at him. "We'll clean them up nice and teach them manners before they start the regular routine. Come on, you girls, make it snappy. You're going to meet the Head Matron, Maggie Hoskins!"
Sheriff Jake Bunter took a last lingering look at the three trembling scantily clad captives who despondently followed Agatha Turlock down the dingy corridor towards a big oak door with gold-letter marking "Head Matron." When he saw the assistant matron open the door and usher in the girls, giving poor Lucy Wilson, who came last-an impatient shove at the small of her back to send her plunging into the room he chuckled, took a cigar out of his pocket, lit it and walked back to his own Ford roadster which had been parked just outside the Prison Farm gates. He was going back to see his crony Homer and tell him how the girls were taking their medicine. Homer would want to watch the fun. What they generally did at Benton was to shower and fumigate all new "fresh fish," keep them on bread and water, especially if it was over a weekend, till about the second day-which would be Monday in this case-and then start them off with a bang on their new duties. With treatment like that, sensitive uppity Northern bitches like these three would be sure to flare up, and there was nothing Maggie Hoskins and Agatha Turlock loved better than insubordinate females who thought themselves too big for their panties!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Maggie Hoskins, malevolent, with a double chin and suetty cheeks and low forehead, squinted at the three trembling young women who stood before her desk with Agatha Turlock directly behind them. She was busy filling out the regulation forms, getting their names and addresses, where they worked, their driver's licenses and all the other data customary upon prison registration. Lucy Wilson was sobbing softly, while Pris Loring was trembling and very pale and tried to speak: "Matron, won't you let us send a wire to our bosses or to someone who can identify us and get us out of this terrible misunderstanding?"
"You shut your trap, girl," Agatha Turlock tartly responded, and marching up to Lucy, put her bony hand on the beautiful slim blonde's shoulder and spun her around and slapped her face viciously with her right palm.
"You coward!" Cordelia Manners gasped in a low choking voice, "You're just a bully because you've got a little authority! Wait until somebody finds out about this mistake, we're going to bring suit for false arrest and brutality, you just wait!"
"That'll be enough out of you, Miss Fresh Face!" Maggie Hoskins had a hoarse whiskey voice-not too unusual when one understands that she secretly had recourse to the bottle during and after her orgies of flagellation and Lesbian coercion with her helpless victims.
"You're the ringleader, I can see that right now. You've got a little extra discipline coming to you for trying to resist our Sheriff. And you just mind your tongue, or you'll wish you'd been born without one. All right, I think that's all the information we need. You don't make any phone calls here, my fine lady. This isn't the Waldorf-Astoria. Aggie, take them down for a shower and delousing, and then let Doc Julia give them a medical. It's about suppertime, so they can have bread and water after they've finished with the Doc. Then you shut them up in solitary, and then by Monday morning I'll have assigned them their chores."
"Just one last word, you three," Maggie Hoskins growled, "We've got the law on our side and Judge Wadling got a bill passed letting us discipline unruly and insubordinate females here, see? Those are highfalutin' words, mind you, but the long and the short of it is, we whack ass around here when you get out of line, and don't you forget it. And judging from the looks of those bare legs you prance around in, you've got real tender asses, so watch yourselves! Take them away, Aggie."
There followed the mortifying experience for all three girls for having to remove their shirts and play shorts, their bras and panties and sandals, and naked as the day they were born, get up to the delousing spray which was manipulated by two coarse middle aged women who poked ribald and obscene jokes at the lovely charms of Lucy, Pris and Cordelia. Then they went under the shower, and were given cakes of strong smelling disinfectant soap and a coarse towel, while the two women and Agatha Turlock stood watching. There was no privacy whatsoever, needless to say.
"We might as well take them bare-ass naked into Doc Julia, and I'll go get their new duds," Agatha Turlock told the two aides. "They won't much like the change in style, I'm thinking, not after those imagine pants and tittie covers they're used to wearing. But at least they're clean and you won't get lice on them, you broads. Now waggle your asses down the hall to the last door on the right, and Doc Julia will give you your physicals."
The handcuffs had been removed from Cordelia's wrists, but the marks of those shackles had chaffed the fine creamy skin. Tears ran down her cheeks as she walked stark naked down the wooden floor to the last door on the right, on which was lettered: "Dr. Julia Dark."
Agatha Turlock forged ahead of Cordelia now, bumping her titties with her elbow in a stealthy gesture meant to mortify the shapely mature young brunette.
She then opened the door and hissed, "Get your asses in there now quick!"
Julia Dark was a tall, stately woman in her early thirties, her dark-brown hair set in a closely cropped bob which made her look very mannish. She had small but beautifully firm orange-shaped titties, a slim waist, lithe long thighs and sinuous calves, and her face was imperious and cold, with dark blue eyes and a small sensual mouth. She was a decided Lesbian, and she was in cahoots with Maggie Hoskins, since she had access to all the intimate secrets of all the prisoners, and could tell the cruel Head Matron which girl would be most--likely to be sensitive to certain types of punishment and which others would have the greatest sexual threshold which could be roused by the proper coercion.
She took the forms which Maggie Hoskins had give Agatha Turlock, walked over to her desk and sat down without even looking at the three trembling scarlet-faced naked girls, and studied them while Agatha Turlock stood waiting deferentially, for "Doc Julia" was a great favorite of the head matron's, and every matron who worked at Benton had been ordered to cooperate with her and show her the utmost courtesy and give her every co-operation needed.
"Well, I get the picture," the mature Lesbian woman doctor looked up boldly at the three quivering prisoners before her. "I'm going to give you each a routine physical examination. You'll do exactly as you're told, and Matron Turlock will be here in case I have any disciplinary problems. I don't soil my hands punishing the--likes of convicts, you understand. Now you there," she nodded towards Cordelia. "I want you to bend over with your hands on your hips and spread your legs as far as you can. I'm going to make a rectal and vaginal check just to make sure you don't have a social disease. If you do, you'll be in solitary two weeks and you'll get shots. Right where it hurts the most, baby, in the ass. Now start bending and give me a good spread."
Aghast at this vulgarity by a prison doctor, Cordelia was about to protest when the glint in Agatha Turlock's eyes warned her that she ran a terrible risk. Grinding her teeth, she slowly bent over, spreading her legs apart, her hands on her hips, and the cheeks of her bottom tightened and rippled as the handsome Lesbian approached, with a curious shining metal instrument very much like a tiny eggbeater at whose front handle there was affixed a powerful little light, very much like a fluoroscope.
She groaned when the brown-haired woman, putting left thumb and forefinger to the inner curves of her naked bottom, yawned them apart to expose the crinkly pink rosebud of her virgin ass-hole, and then she jerked and cried out as the cold metal applicator of this instrument pressed against the lips and gradually forced them apart.
"Steady there, Manners," Dr. Julia Dark hissed, "or you'll be down for demerits. By the way, Matron Turlock, you'd better tell them all about the demerit system. I think Maggie Hoskins just changed it, didn't she?"
"Yeah," Agatha Turlock breathed gloatingly, "now it's three demerits gets swats. A lots better system, if you ask me. Maggie's sure on the ball these days."
"That's right, girls," the Lesbian doctor went on coldly, as she forced the eggbeater-like implement all the way into poor Cordelia's distended rectum, disregarding her prisoner's sobs and groans and squirmings. Then she pressed a htde spring in the handle, which opened up the eggbeater-like wands of metal, forcing apart the rectal passageway to extreme, and Cordelia straightened up with a shriek: "Owww, oh my God, it hurts me, take it out!"
"That's one demerit right there, Manners," the Lesbian remarked. "Bend back over, or I'll make it two. That's better. Now let's check this light ... seems to be healthy there. I don't imagine you've had a man in there to give you a dose."
The bony matron giggled at this obscene and slanderous remark, while Cordelia sobbed helplessly. At last the jaws were folded back, and the implement pulled out with a sucking "plop" and Cordelia was ordered to stand up now and then spread her legs again and bend back at the waist, her hands at her hips. This was a torturing pose and hardly necessary except for the sadistic whim of the prison officials. For next Dr. Julia Dark performed a complete vaginal inspection, poking a catheter into the virgin clasp, and prodding the delicate membrane of the hymen until Cordelia winced and moaned, tears flowing uncontrollably down her cheeks.
"Well, you're clean all right and you're cherry. Now open you mouth and stick out your tongue and say, 'Ah,'" the Lesbian medico ordered.
Cordelia had to proceed with this humiliating inspection, as if she were a horse or a mule on auction at a county fair. And then in turn Lucy and Pris endured the same ignominious and shameful examination. All three were virgins, naturally.
But when Dr. Julia Dark examined Pris Loring, her eyes kindled with lustful fire. She could sense that this beautiful auburn-ahired, peartit-tied oval-bottomed young woman had latent within her the tendencies for Sapphic gratification. And she made a note on her chart so that Maggie Hoskins would be apprised as well as all the other wardresses.
"All right, that does it. We'll let Cordelia off here with one demerit. She'll get her other two soon enough, I'm thinking," she concluded.
"Any suggestions as to what work the bitches ought to do, Doc?" Agatha Turlock eagerly asked.
"Well, Cordelia is as strong as a horse and nice and lanky. I don't know why she can't do some hoeing in the garden. I think Lucy ought to be in the laundry. And Pris ... well, she seems to be a quiet and peaceful little bitch now, and she's the youngest, so maybe there is some hope of saving her. Tell you what, mark her down for the library, subject to Maggie's personal interview with her. Thanks, Turlock."
"Any time, Doc," the bony matron smiled her pleasure. "Come along, you bitches, I'll get your clothes on you."
The clothes turned out to be the regulation linsey-woolsey Mother-Hubbard-like dresses, cheap cotton chemises, no brassieres, but instead a pair of blue cotton bloomers. They fitted tightly and they were scratchy especially along the crotch, for it was prison work in the sewing room which produced the garments for all inmates of Benton, both male and female. And Maggie Hoskins had sadistically ordered that all bloomers be made with a doubly reinforced crotch so that it would scratch and chafe the tender pussies of her charges. For some of the girls who had already accepted the Lesbian regime and were themselves Lesbian-attuned from the start, wearing these bloomers amounted to a kind of perpetual self-masturbation which made them the more eagerly co-operative when Maggie Hoskins desired to stage a little orgy either for herself in her private chambers or in one of the dungeons with the other matrons assisting.
Then the girls were led out to the end of this building into a little narrow courtyard which was walled off from the men's section, and on into a larger building where the dormitories and to the cells quartered the unfortunate "guests" of "Benton Grand Hotel."
Each of the trio was roughly pushed into a narrow windowless cell, which had only a narrow cot and dirty mattress and ripped sheets, a wash basin, a bucket, and a footstool. Agatha Turlock turned the key in the lock of each barred door and looked with satisfaction at each of the sobbing girls, for the reaction had set in and now Cordelia and Pris and Lucy realized the full horror and hopelessness of their situation. Lost here in a little town in the Ozarks, under the sadistic and brutal domination of female bullies who took gleeful enjoyment in exploiting their beauty and innocence and cultured background, without the hope of getting a wire or a phone call through to Detroit to save them, they could look forward only to unmitigated hell on earth ... and that was exactly what was in store for them!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The cells into which Lucy Wilson, Pris Loring and Cordelia Manners had been locked were not joined together. In the regular section of the institution, both the men's and the women's sides, all the cells were connected by vertical and horizontal bars as would be typical of any jail or penitentiary. But the purpose of isolation was to make the prisoner feel her absolute helplessness and the contempt into which she was relegated by the authorities of the prison farm. At about eight that evening, Agatha Turlock unlocked each cell door and brought in a jug of water and a plate of coarse rye bread, placed it on the footstool and harshly remarked, "That's all you're going to get till Monday, so you might as well get used to it. Oh, don't look so scared. What I mean is, bread and water is served to prisoners in solitary when they're still new fish. Starting Monday, if you behave yourselves, you'll get what everybody else eats. Now, you've got a wash basin and a bucket, so don't bother me by asking for a private washroom. Get me, sister?"
Pris and Lucy cried themselves to sleep, but Cordelia Manners lay on her uncomfortable wooden cot, thinking and planning. If only she could escape! If only she could bribe some guard to sneak a wire out or phone Bob Glossup, the manager of the U-Drive firm that had rented them the trailer. And once she and her friends got out of this hellhole, she was going to bring a million-dollar suit against that crooked old judge and that nasty sheriff. Yes, and this Matron Turlock and the Head Matron Maggie Hoskins, too!
The next day was just about a repetition of the previous night. Twice during the long, agonizing day Matron Turlock entered the cells with more bread and water, made some sarcastic remark or other, then went out and locked the cell door before her.
On Sunday morning Cordelia Manners, who had not slept well the night before, was to make the final mistake which was to make her the first real victim, a circumstance that ostensibly enchanted the sadistic head matron of the prison farm. When Agatha Turlock entered with the customary bread and water, the tall, lovely brunette hoarsely asked, "Matron, would it be possible for me to buy something decent to eat?"
"Of course it wouldn't! You're in solitary, fish! This isn't a tourist resort, Your Ladyship. Now eat your chow and shut your mouth."
"You don't have to talk like that to me, because when I get a chance and have people identify who I am, you're going to be awfully sorry for what you've done," Cordelia made the mistake of saying.
"Aha! So now you're threatening me, are you, Manners? I think I'm going to give you another demerit for that. No, I'm going to make it two, and that adds up to three. And do you know what that means, Manners?" Agatha Turlock grinned evilly. "It means your ass is going to be mighty sore when Maggie Hoskins hears what I've got to tell her. I'll see you later."
The door clanged behind her, and she smirked at the splutterings of this raven-haired young woman. Then she went directly to the office of Maggie Hoskins, knocked at the door, respectfully, and entered at the latter's summons.
"What's up, Aggie?" Maggie Hoskins often found it very amusing that her name was much like that of her assistant's. "Some of the new fish giving you trouble?"
"You said it, Maggie. It's that black-haired bitch, the oldest one. The one that swung on Jake Bunter."
"That's just dandy," the head matron breathed, licking her sensual lips the way a cat licks its whiskers after it has swallowed a bowl of cream. "I rather fancied she'd be the one to get it first. What did she do now?"
"Threatened me, no less. Said she was going to sue me and asked me if I had to talk nasty to her. Wanted to bribe me to bring something special for that imagine stomach of hers."
"I've got the die her ladyship needs right in this drawer," Maggie Hoskins chuckled salaciously as she opened the drawer of her desk and drew out the spanker. This one, however, had only two fingers at the applicator end, and it was only about two feet long, three inches wide, and about a quarter of an inch thick. The handle, just as the one on the broader and longer instrument, was of double thickness to give a better grip for the wielder. "How many demerits has she got now."
"Three."
"That'll do it," Maggie Hoskins sniggered. "Well, just before bedtime tonight, bring her in to my rooms, huh, Aggie? I suppose you want to have some fun with her too."
"Sure, honey, unless you've got other ideas."
"I don't mind sharing Manners with you. You've got it coming, the way you handled Rosie Wenman last week. You put the fear of God into her so good, she was glad to go to work in that house in New Orleans. You pleased old Homer a lot by changing Rosie's mind for her."
"Shucks, all I had to do was whack ass a little, and when she still held out, I let her feel the spanker on those big, juicy titties of hers," Agatha Turlock boasted, with a faint blush of pleasure at this praise from her superior which made her look all the more ugly.
"Well, just the same, Homer's mighty grateful. So suppose you bring Manners around, huh? You know, a imagine dame like that, all of twenty-four, probably figures she's a grownup woman and no one would dare to lay a finger on her. What I like is to start these uppity bitches off with a good hand spanking, just the way you would a kid."
"Sure, that's the best. Then you really break their spirit, they don't know what to make of it, and they get so damned ashamed they're just like putty."
"That's it. And then you lay on the spanker, after you've made their asses nice and red and hot, and it's a wonder how they forget all about being uppity. Okay, Aggie honey, get with it. How are the others doing?"
"They cry a lot, but they haven't given me any trouble."
"Well, now, we'll just have to see if next week we can't get them to earn a couple of demerits, mustn't we?"
"Yeah. I like that slim little blonde with the long legs and the big knockers."
"That's Lucy, isn't it?"
"Sure. But you know something, Maggie? Doc Dark says that the sexy red-haired bitch, Pris, has really got the hots and it isn't for guys, either."
"Say, I didn't notice that in the report. I've been so damn busy filling out papers for the State Bureau of Prisons this week. That's real good news. So we'll have to get Pris with it, won't we?"
* * *
At about nine o'clock in the evening, Cordelia Manners was lying on her cot, her arms clasped behind her head, staring up at the dirty ceiling and brooding about what she could do to escape this dreadful incarceration. She was suddenly startled to hear the turning of the key in the lock of her cell door, and she sat up quickly, eyes wide with anxiety. She had already had the evening meal, such as it was, the customary bread and water, and when she'd had to use the slop bucket just Like an animal, she had almost fainted with chagrin and shame, and the fear that maybe one of the matrons would be walking down the corridor and peer in at her performing that most intimate of acts.
"Manners, come along," it was Agatha Turlock with a triumphant leer, hands on hips. "You've got a date with Maggie Hoskins, you lucky little bitch."
"What-what does she want? For God's sake, I haven't done anything, and you know it. Now can't we talk this over?"
"Fish," Agatha Turlock interrupted, and she slapped Cordelia viciously across the mouth, "I've had about enough of your uppityness! We're running this jail, not you. The sooner you make up your mind to that, the better off you'll be, I can tell you that. Everybody's got their eyes on you here, Manners. They all know about how you treated Sheriff Bunter, and nobody's going to treat you nice until you start getting humble and forgetting you're up from the North and you think you can lord it over everybody. Now get your ass out of this cell and follow me!" , Cordelia Manners clenched her fists and stared at the bony, ugly matron a moment, then exhaled a long, shuddering breath and reluctantly walked out of the cell. That defiant gesture didn't go unnoticed, either.
They walked down the corridor to its end, up a flight of iron stairs, and turned to the left into a broader corridor. At its end was a large door marked "Private," and it was here the head matron had her living quarters. A spacious living room, a bedroom, a bath and a small kitchen, and another room which was large enough to accommodate a dinette but which was used for punishments. It was equipped precisely for this. It contained a sawhorse, a solid metal footstool with padded leather top and buckling straps, and from the center of the ceiling there was lowered a curious kind of round metal pole at whose end there was a pair of handcuffs. A victim's wrists could be shackled in these, and when Maggie Hoskins touched a button set into the light switch of that room, the pole ascended, drawing the culprit onto tiptoe or entirely off the floor as desired, depending on Maggie Hoskins' peculiar sadistic and sexual whim on the occasion of its usage.
The dowdy fat blonde head matron herself answered the deferential knock at the door, and Cordelia Manners shuddered with repugnance at the sight. Maggie had donned a chic green satin housecoat which bulged at the seams because of her excessive weight, and mercilessly shaped out the big melon-like gourds of her titties as well as her fulminatingly fat buttocks and squat short thighs. Her feet were thrust into a pair of sandals, which were open-toed. In her initial glance, Cordelia Manners' fastidious nature was revolted at the sight of Maggie's dirty feet and grimy toenails.
"Well, if it isn't our little prizefighter from Detroit," she simpered, trying to make her voice girlish, but she could not disguise the hoarse whisky-voiced quality. "Bring her in, Aggie. Nice of you to favor us with your presence, Cordelia girl."
Agatha Turlock took Cordelia's right elbow in a grip of steel and hissed, "If you know what's good for you, girl, you'll do everything Maggie and I tell you to, understand?" Then aloud, to her superior, she asked, "Want me to take her to the revival room?"
Cordelia's eyes widened, not comprehending the satanic irony of that expression. Maggie Hoskins observed this at once and cackled with glee.
"Our little guest can't understand our lingo, Aggie girl. You see, Cordelia honey, a lot of girls have come here that didn't get good starts in life. They just didn't have religion no how. So what we do, we take 'em to our little get-together room and we have what you might call a real revival like you'd have in church, getting the old-time religion. Why, when we finish with 'em, they sing loud enough to beat the band. Yes, I think it would be a good idea. Take her there, Aggie." Her eyes narrowed and her lips twisted with gloating cruelty.
Cordelia Manners' heart began to thud wildly and her eyes widened with terror. But the bony assistant had hold of her elbow, and did not relinquish it as she hissed, "Come along, you. Don't start any more trouble, because you've already got enough to settle up your score now."
Reaching out, she took hold of the knob of the door of this grim room and flung it open, then shoved Cordelia inside, with Maggie Hoskins close behind her. The latter closed and locked the door, which was the only entrance to this terrifying chamber.
Cordelia shuddered and put her hand to her mouth as she saw the wicked sawhorse with its sharp ridge, the grim iron footstool with its buckling straps, and the padded leather cot where on lay a heavy strap-the long, broad "spanker" Maggie Hoskins loved to use. But along the panoply of hooks on the wall to each side of her, she saw an arsenal of whipping implements which made her blood run cold and her throat and lips go suddenly dry.
"Three demerits, huh?" Maggie Hoskins asked her assistant. "Well, I'm sorry for you, Cordy girl, but we can't let new fish start their sentence here until the slate is clean. Now, tomorrow you're going to go out hoeing in the garden and do some manual labor and raise a Little sweat."
"Just grab on to Cordy for a minute," the head matron joyously added to her assistant as she strode to the wall and pressed the switch which lowered the vertical metal pole from the ceiling. Agatha Turlock giggled with sensual anticipation as she suddenly grabbed Cordelia Manners' wrists in her bony hands and triumphantly stared into the beautiful brunette's consternated face:
"I told you, you were going to get it, Miss Uppity! Now you're going to get a taste of Maggie's revival religion, you might say. Hold still, you little vixen! Don't you dare try to kick or try anything, or you'll prance to Maggie's tune for a good long while!"
Cordelia Manners looked up and saw the pole descending with it soldered handcuffs at the end. She uttered a cry of fright and tried to break free of her captor, but Agatha Turlock was surprisingly strong and endowed with ample experience at just such a task of managing a rebellious prisoner. Swiftly she drew Cordelia's wrists behind her back and twisted them, until the brunette uttered a cry and bent forward with pain.
"Now you hold still," she panted, "because the more of a fuss you put up, the more punishment you're going to get. I've got her, Maggie."
"I'll help you shackle her, then," the head matron called as she returned to the center of the room.
The pole had now been lowered so the handcuffs were on a level with Cordelia's head. Touching a little spring lock on the edge of each of the gyves, the head matron made them open; and then as her assistant dragged Cordelia's arms forward, she quickly seized one of the brunette's wrists, forced it into the open gyve, and then clicked it shut so it was tightly locked around the imprisoned limb. In another moment, the other wrist was treated in the same way, and Cordelia found herself completely helpless. Maggie Hoskins then walked to the switch and slowly activated the pole. It began to rise until Cordelia, uttering a cry of terror, found herself arching up on her tiptoes, her wrists aching from the cruel traction and the tight friction around her tender wrists.
"Don't you want her to dance in the air, Maggie?" Agatha Turlock hoarsely demanded.
"Not this first time. Maybe later on, when we see if she changes her antics any. All right, Aggie, pin up her skirt and her shimmy and let's see what sort of a backside she's got for spanking."
Livid with shame and indignation, Cordelia Manners tugged at her shackled wrists but in vain. The tractioning pose delineated every magnificent facet of her supple body. Her beautiful round, closely spaced titties heaved violently against the chemise and Mother Hubbard dress, which snugly shaped out the opulent hard insolence of those superb virginal love-globes.
She glanced back over her right shoulder, her eyes wide with apprehension as she saw the bony assistant matron move behind her. Then she uttered a frantic cry: "Oh, no, oh my God, no-don't do that to me! This is shameful, and you've got no right! Stop it! You cowards, you bullies, you'll see how you'll pay for this when I get out of here!"
She twisted and lunged this way and that, but Agatha Turlock had had far too much experience in scenes of this kind to be in the least deterred by the brunette's attempts at evasion. Squatting, she seized the hems of the dress and the chemise in her bony fingers and methodically dragged them up over Cordelia's luscious hips, lofting the garments to about the middle of that creamy naked back, beautifully and delicately hollowed from the chink bone up along the column of the spine. Maggie Hoskins, who had planted herself in front of the straining, tethered captive, greedily contemplated the lovely warm creamy skin of Cordelia's shuddering sides and belly, that suave goblet marked with a wide, shallow niche to symbolize the umbilical cord of life.
She admired the tight cling of the prison bloomers, so snug that they shaped out the prominent plumpness of Cordelia's virgin Venus mound, and at the back fitted almost like a second skin over the spaciously resilient, mouthwateringly rounded globes.
The elastic waistband of these bloomers was so tight that in the victim's stretched position it cut deeply into the tender skin, leaving an angry chafe mark, but this nuance of discomfort was at least to be eliminated now from Cordelia's ordeal, for the head matron made a gesture with her pudgy right hand.
At once Agatha Turlock, at the left side of the victim, inserted her bony fingers under that waistband and, grasping the sides of the bloomers, gave them an energetic downward tug.
"Oh my God, no, not that! Don't take them off, I beseech you. You've no right-oh, you abominable, cruel women!" the mature young brunette shrieked, her cheeks flaming with shame and rage. She struggled with all her might, trying to lunge to the right side and escape the clutch of the assistant matron's fingers, but the bloomers had already been fucked down to about halfway over the effulgent hemispheres of her creamy bare behind, and in front she was exposed from the lower abdomen to the luxuriant, curly, glossy mane of the jet-black hairs which covered her virgin cunt.
"Just down to about the middle of her thighs, Aggie," Maggie Hoskins grinningly directed, "so's they'll help cut down her kicking when she starts to feel it good!"
"Sure, Maggie," her zealous companion giggled. Once again her fingers attacked the bloomers, tugging them down to about the middle of Cordelia Manners' magnificently rounded, shapely ivory-skinned thighs, exposing an absolutely mouthwatering bottom and all the intimate and lascivious vista of that maiden cunthole. Cordelia uttered a wild scream of shame, desperately dragging at her shackled wrists, throwing back her head and clenching her legs, trying to curve her right thigh over her exposed privates, a maneuver which only served to accentuate the licentious enticement of her voluptuous nakedness.
The dark blue prison bloomers clung like a fetter around the columns of her writhing thighs, the tight elastic waistband and the snugness of the old-fashioned garment itself prevented its complete descent to the floor and thus acted as a hampering restraint to the freedom of the victim's limbs when the whipping should begin.
"There now!" Maggie Hoskins breathed, ecstatic over the vision before her. It wasn't often she had such an aristocratic beauty to work upon, for most of these local chippies didn't nearly have such fine, clean skin, so marvelously white and untouched. It was a bottom on which she could work wonders, she told herself as she rolled back her sleeves to the armpits, which were thick and dank with matted dark blonde hair and from which exuded a powerful, acrid odor of sweat.
"Now, then, Cordy," she panted as she waddled around the helpless half-naked victim to take her stance at the latter's left, "I'm going to spank your ass a little. This is just a warm-up, Cordy, but it'll give me a pretty good idea of how you're going to act from now on, get me? My, what a proud, saucy tail you've got there, my fine lady! I'll be you waggle it at all the fellows back up there in Detroit. Well, Missy, down here bitches like you are put in their place and taught to show respect for their men-betters, understand? I'm going to learn you a little lesson, and you've got quite a score to settle, what with hitting Jake Bunter and tossing around all those nasty insults you've been doing just now."
With this, posing her left hand on the small of Cordelia's creamy back, just above the two adorable little dimples which flanked the base of the young woman's chink bone, Maggie Hoskins drew back her right arm and delivered a furious openhanded blow that fairly made Cordelia Manners bound forward with a stifled cry of discomfort and shame as that calloused palm stingingly flattened the plump summit of her right buttock.
"I'll bet she felt that one, Maggie," Agatha Turlock crackled, licking her thin lips and standing over to her superior's left, hands on hips, from which vantage point she could see not only the punishment but the look on the victim's sensitive, aristocratic face. Cordelia Manners had tilted back her head, her eyes wide and glistening with the first telltale sign of tears, but these were of mortification and supreme agony of spirit; they were not yet the real tears of intolerable suffering which both women knew only too well would in due and inexorable course be exacted from their victim. Coarse as both women were, perhaps paradoxically for that very reason, they understood all the better what atrocious humiliation their victim must be suffering now to have to submit to such infamous juvenile discipline; and this knowledge only whetted their sadistic lust the more.
A second noisy smack rang out as Maggie
Hoskins, moving a little to the left, delivered the second spank against the twin rotundity at its ripest curve. Once again the very vehemence of the blow made the half-naked victim lunge forward with a choking cry, and this time she nervously glanced over her left shoulder into Maggie Hoskins' grinning face as well as the twisted, lean and ugly visage of Agatha Turlock, seeing indelibly inscribed in their narrowed and glittering eyes all the hate and malice and viciousness which they felt towards her.
Maggie Hoskins flexed her strong right hand, and her eyes admired her handiwork. Bright red splotches marked the imprint of her palm, equally placed on the twin ivory hemispheres. Cordelia's bottom-muscles had begun a spasmodic tightening and shifting, preparatory to the genuine "dance of the whip" which is one of the exciting phenomena characteristic to the fustigation of the female.
Still arched on tiptoe, her body, trembling convulsively, she evidenced the sensitivity of her nature in the quivering and rippling tremors which rose along her finely shaped calves and lusciously rounded thighs.
Both her executioners savored her helplessness, and it delighted them to prolong the suspense and torture by pausing to exchange lewd comments on their victim's charms. Agatha Turlock spoke up, her voice quivering and high-pitched with her mounting sensual excitement: "She's sure got a tender white skin, Maggie! Just look at the red marks on that big juicy ass of hers. Ain't she like a queen, with that hair wound round her head just like a crown?"
"That's where she gets her imagine airs from, no doubt," the head matron tauntingly responded as she flexed her fingers, adjusted her sleeve again and stared greedily at the quivering, tensing ivory buttocks before her. "I'll tell you one thing, Aggie, when I get done with her, Her Majesty's big ass won't feel comfortable on no throne no how, that's what!"
And as both women cackled in their sadistic glee, the head matron suddenly applied the third spank to the base of Cordelia Manners' right bottomglobe, once more making the mature brunette lunge forward, her slim, long fingers clawing the air as she dragged futilely on her wrists. A muffled gasp was all that she exuded, however, but Maggie Hoskins was in no hurry. The longer it took, the more pleasure she could take in this first emprise of this haughty Northern bitch. Let her go on and try to be as brave as she could, that would make it all the tastier! This bitch was going to cry and beg, get down on her knees and do anything before the evening was done!
A fourth spank attacked the very same place, deepening the bright pink blotch which besmirched the voluptuous, immaculate ivory flesh of Cordelia Manners' naked behind.
"Ohh!" This time Cordelia had closed her eyes and ground her teeth in anticipation, but the stinging impact of the matron's blow had been so acutely painful that she could not entirely suppress the anguished surge of breath which instinctively escaped her. Nor could she completely control the convulsive lunge of her body under the ferocious sting of the head matron's pudgy hand. The shadowy crease between her bottom-cheeks gradually widened at its base, hinting the most lascivious access to both her sexual orifices. Now, in the reaction of her gluteal muscles to the uncomfortable degree of warmth imparted to her behind, Cordelia's sensitive bare hindquarters tremored and tensed, and the intimate furrow at times almost disappeared in the contractions of her muscles.
To the victim's dire shame, the bony assistant matron pointed a gnarled forefinger and cackled, "She's sure got a squirmy ass on her, Maggie! Look at the way it's tightening up, she's starting to feel the spankin' now, for real sure!"
"Pshaw!" the head matron scoffed. "Why, she ain't even had a toucher-up, Aggie. I ain't even warmed up on her fat tail yet." And with this she promptly administered two sonorous and burning slaps to the base of Cordelia's left bottomglobe, drawing another muffled groan from the beautiful half-naked sufferer.
The handcuffs were so tightly locked around Cordelia's wrists that they bit painfully into her tender white flesh, and the traction which compelled her to stand uncomfortably on tiptoe caused the most painful stress on the muscles of her ankles, calves and thighs. Her eyes were tightly closed, and she compressed her lips and clenched her teeth, resolving to herself not to give these brutal women any further satisfaction. She would rather die than beg for mercy, she told herself.
But Maggie Hoskins comprehended the frantic thoughts which were now scrambling through the inchoate mind of her beautiful, aristocratic victim. Now, lasciviously, she ran her right palm over the naked, shrinking bottomglobes, as if appraising their resilience, as if seeking to detect the tenderest regions for future concentration of this salacious and juvenilely humiliating punishment. Cordelia, shrinking under that roving hand, could not help moaning a little in her desperate chagrin and squirming forward to escape the degrading, demanding touch ... a touch which was infinitely more of a Lesbian caress.
"Look at her flinch away from me, Aggie," the head matron loudly commented as she applied a wicked little pinch to the top of Cordelia's creamy right thigh.
"Oh, don't!" the victim exasperatedly exclaimed at last. "For God's sake, finish it, but don't torture me like this! It's disgraceful and criminal to treat a prisoner this way, even if I am one unjustly!"
"For land's sake," Agatha Turlock giggled, "ain't she the persnickety one, though? Still acts like a queen, don't she, Maggie? Sorry, Your Majesty, but I'm afraid you just gotta grin and bear it till we let you down. Want me to give her another pinch, maybe in front, Maggie?"
"Oh my God! You-you monsters!" Cordelia
Manners could no longer retain her stoicism under this exploitation of her helpless body.
"There she goes, insulting us again with all those big, imagine Northern words," the assistant matron complained "Are you gonna stand for that, Maggie?"
"Let her talk all she--likes. I like a girl that speaks her mind. Then you know where you stand. Oh, she'll take back all those imagine words before I'm done with her, you watch, Aggie."
With this, Maggie again stood back and delivered two ferocious swats with her pudgy white hand, flattening the plumpest curve of Cordelia's right buttock each time.
With a strident cry, the mature brunette again lunged forward, twisting her hips in a vain attempt to disperse the burning sting.
"Well, now, Cordy, girl," Agatha Turlock jeered, "how do you like them apples, huh? Or ain't Yer Majesty used to bein' spoke to that way, hee-hee-hee?"
The lascivious streaks left on Cordelia's backside flamed now in contrast against the impeccable white glory of her naked thighs and back. Her hips squirmed uneasily, and the sporadic flexions of her calves and thighs grew more and more pronounced under the duress of this tractioning, uncomfortable pose. In her struggle, her bloomers had slipped down an inch or two, just below her dimpled knees, but they still clung tenaciously, to hamper her kicking. And now Maggie Hoskins, licking her lips, her eyes narrowed with cruel joy, began to spank that voluptuous posterior with all her might. Passing her left arm around Cordelia's waist, standing close to the shuddering victim, she drew back her right hand and inflicted a barrage of sharp, stinging, rapid slaps all over the jutting nether hemispheres.
Try though she would, Cordelia Manners could not restrain the groans and sobs of pain which this acceleration of her chastisement forced to her trembling lips. Her head falling back, her titties rising and falling with turbulent rhythm, her back hollowing and her loins lunging and arching and squirming, but always drawn back in that narrow range of movement by the circling arm of the head matron, she exclaimed in a choking, gasping voice, "Oh God-it's dreadful-you cruel, cruel woman to treat me like this when I haven't done anything! It's dreadful-isn't there any justice? Ohhahhhohh Lord-end it-end it-"
Maggie Hoskins' big, melon-like bubbies were swelling with agitation, too, but hers was a sensual emotion of ruttish cupiescence for this helpless, aristocratic beauty delivered up to her sadistic pleasures. She coveted Cordelia Manners, and she meant to have her from the very outset of the latter's confinement to the prison farm.
Releasing Cordelia's waist and stepping back a little, she suddenly applied two noisy swats to the lower left summit of that furiously discolored bottom, once more drawing a strident little cry of "Ouch! Oww! Stop it!" from the panting, squirming mature victim.
"How's that, Cordy?" Agatha Turlock jeered as she moved to stand in front of the shuddering, tractioned, half-naked victim. "Is Your Majesty's big white ass getting a little hot by now, huh? What's the matter-cat got your tongue? Make her talk nice and respectful-like, Maggie. We don't want a fresh fish that don't know her place at Benton."
"You're right about that, Aggie. No need to rush, though. 'Cause I can see how red her tail is, and I haven't even hardly started to go to work on it yet," was the head matron's gloating reply.
She now directed three noisy slaps over Cordelia's right bottomglobe, over the summit and thence to the base, each vigorous slap ringing out salaciously in the punishment chamber, each making poor Cordelia jerk forward and glance back feverishly with tear-brimming eyes and trembling lips under the onus of growing pain. For by now pain was replacing mortification in Cordelia Manners' psyche, a stage which the astute head matron had so artfully prepared by sentencing her victim to the seemingly innocuous discipline of a mere hand spanking.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the punishment room of the Benton State Prison Farm, Women's Division, one could hear the sounds of a woman crying and sobbing hysterically, interspersed with the salacious smacking noise of a vigorous hand meeting helpless, inflamed, naked flesh. Maggie Hoskins had resumed the disciplinary spanking of Cordelia Manners, and had reached the count of fifty. The aristocratic brunette had long since abandoned her stoicism and was literally dancing on tiptoe, her head turning this way and that, tears running down her flushed, contorted cheeks, her mouth gaping in piteous, constant cries and supplications for mercy: "Arrowwwhhh! Oh, stop it, stop it, I beg of you! Matron Hoskins, won't you please have mercy? I can't stand it any more. Owwweeeyeeoww!"
Maggie Hoskins's face was damp with sweat and her armpits were soaked as well. Her fat breasts rose and fell with violent turbulence, and she was slavering with sensual joy as she stepped forward to send her heavy hand crashing against poor Cordelia's dark-reddened naked bottom with relentless energy.
"There," she panted, "guess you know who's boss around here by now, Cordy girl! Now maybe you won't be so high 'n mighty from now on, huh? You still thinking of suing us for the way we treated you, huh?" And once again her hand made ferocious contact with the base of poor Cordelia's flaming posterior.
"Aiii!! Oh, no, no, oh merciful God in heaven, I won't ever say anything like that again if you'll only, only stop!" the naked brunette shrieked.
Lunging and twisting, plunging and kicking, the victim's bloomers had by now sagged down to her knees, and her armpits, too, were damp with sweat, but this was the sweat of agony and genuine suffering. Maggie Hoskins blew on her reddened palm, flexed her fingers, and then slyly pursued: "Well, now, that's a little more like it, Cordy. But I ain't done with you yet, girl. That was for the three demerits. Now you gotta learn a little lesson about bein' more respectful to the Sheriff. Aggie, just you hand me my spanker, the short one. I don't think Cordy's got the strength to run away now."
Agatha Turlock hastened to bring her superior the wicked, short leather strap with its two tapered ends like fingers, while Cordelia Manners, stiffening, gulping for breath amid her sobs, turned to stare with incredulity at the sight of the fearsome implement of fustigation.
"Oh God, you're not going to use that on me now? Oh please, I'll do anything-I beg of you-I'll die of the pain-I can't stand any more, truly I can't! Have mercy, Matron Hoskins," she babbled.
In her desperate terror and her suffering, the haughty mature brunette suddenly lost the control of her bladder, and the yellow fluid of her urine trickled down to the hard floor of the punishment room. It was bony Agatha Turlock who espied this, and she chortled gleefully, "Look there, Maggie! Cordy's so scared she's peeing without her pants on, hee-hee-hee!"
The head matron went round to face the sobbing, annihilated victim.
"So she is, Aggie," she drawled. "Looks like to me they didn't teach our little Cordy up North how to tend to herself. For shame, Missy! But I'm right glad to see that you're not so uppity any more. Now, I was gonna let you have about fifteen good swats from my spanker-" with this she dangled the leather strap in front of the horrified naked captive's eyes "-but you just said something that interests me a heap. You said you'd be right ready to do anything if I'd let you off. Is that what you said, Cordy?"
The naked brunette, whose wrists ached from the pitiless traction of the clamping handcuffs which dragged her arms high above her head, whimperingly nodded.
"You're real sure now, girl?" the head matron insisted. "Let's just see."
Standing as she was, facing her victim, she now drew back her right hand and swept it out and round Cordelia's naked hips. The two savagely tapered tips which had been cut out of the last few inches of that leather band cracked diabolically against the top of Cordelia's scarlet backside. With a mad, prolonged shriek, the naked brunette lunged forward, almost bumping her cunt into Maggie Hoskins' loins, a maneuver which brought a cruel smile of pleasure to the wet, twitching lips of the sadistic matron.
"I guess maybe you meant it, then. All right, Aggie, let's let this little bitch kneel down. All right, Cordy-Aggie's gonna lower you now, and when you can, you get right down on your knees, humble-like, see? Then I'll tell you what you can do."
Her assistant touched the wall switch, and immediately the vertical pole creakingly descended. Cordelia's naked body slumped, and the naked young woman lolled forward on her knees, her head bowed, her arms still held above her head. The mechanism stopped, and the head matron now tossed the "spanker" to Agatha Turlock.
"Okay, Cordy," she purred, "now I'm going to give you just one chance to get off those fifteen licks. Look at me good-raise up your face when I talk to you, girl!"
As Cordelia raised her tear-ravaged face, the dowdy fat blonde matron tugged up the skirt of her uniform to her waist, exposing herself absolutely naked under it. Her dark blonde cunt-fleece was shaggy, the mound obscenely plump, and the suety abdomen comprised a repugnant sight for the horrified naked captive.
"Yeah, girl," Maggie Hoskins sibilantly hissed, "you get the idea. You're gonna game me, hear? I mean, use that mouth and tongue of yours right on my pussy. And you gotta do it good till I come, or Aggie there'll use the spanker on your bare ass until you do. Okay, get to work, bitch!"
Cordelia Manners shrank back, all her loathing and abhorrence contorting her beautiful, tear-drowned face. Maggie Hoskins nodded; her bony assistant drew back the spanker and crashed the broad portion of the leather against the base of the young woman's naked bottom. Even as Cordelia Manners screamed and tried to crawl forward, looking back with a piteously terrorized expression, Agatha Turlock whisked the strap out so the two fingers nipped the shadowy edges of those pouting bottom-cheeks very near the crease that separated them.
"Eeeeyeooowwww!! Oh, stop it! Yes, I will! Oh, merciful God in heaven, only stop and I'll do anything in the world. Only please have mercy, please! You're tearing me to pieces!" Cordelia shrieked.
"Get to work then, Cordy," Maggie Hoskins panted. Her pudgy fingers twisted in the thick coronet braid of jet back hair which circled the young woman's head and she forced Cordelia's agonized face against her cunt. "Lay it on good, Aggie, if she don't start right off," she advised her assistant. The odorous and fetid smell of the head matron's loins nauseated the half-fainting victim, but the terror of that pitiless leather band on her swollen, agony-throbbing naked bottom overcame even that supreme repugnance; with a choking gasp, closing her eyes, Cordelia Manners performed her first Lesbian act. Her mouth pressed furtively against that shaggy fleece.
"Better than that!" Maggie Hoskins insisted, forcing Cordelia's mouth more deeply against her woman-core. And she added gloatingly, "Lemme feel that tongue, too, or Aggie's gonna make it thirty instead of fifteen with the spanker." Gagging and retching, the naked brunette whimperingly performed this degrading, odious task. Her tongue at last crept between the plump labia of Maggie Hoskins cunt, and at the woman's instruction, found the well-developed nodule of the clitoris. Then Maggie Hoskins began to groan and pant like a bitch in heat, finally cupping Cordelia's tearstained cheeks with both hands, and almost suffocating her victim as she forced that chaste mouth and tongue deeper against her sex.
And when Maggie Hoskins had at last had a bellowingly announced orgasm it was bony Aggie Turlock who replaced her and stood before the kneeling, nauseated, half-swooning Cordelia Manners. And the brunette had to gratify the assistant as she had done the superior. Only then was she taken back to her cell, more dead than alive, and mockingly shoved onto the cot as Agatha Turlock cackled, "Now you can sleep real good till seven tomorrow, Cordy honey. Then it's rise and shine for breakfast, and then out you go into the garden to do some hoeing. You got lots to learn about gamming, though. But we'll learn you good, me 'n Maggie, see if we don't!"
As the receding footsteps of the assistant died away in the distance, Cordelia Manners buried her face in her hands and wept hysterically. It was the first time, but it would not be the last. And her companions, Pris and Lucy, would not go another twenty-four hours without emulating her in torment and in virginal martyrdom!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Slim, blonde Lucy Wilson found the laundry an even more onerous chore than keeping her boss, Frank Hennessey, at a distance. Although she, like Pris and Cordelia, back in Detroit, had often done her own lingerie laundry, this working in a hot, crowded room which was dank and humid from the boilers, and having to rub and scrub rough linsey-woolsey dresses and dirty prison bloomers, was tiresome and exhausting labor. After her second hour she had already incurred the wrath of Matron Edna Botts, who was in charge of the laundry detail. Edna Botts was fifty, short and dumpy, with thick gray hair which she affectatiously formed into frizzy curls along the top of her narrow forehead. She had piggish little eyes and a double chin, a broad nose with a wart on it, and she was altogether as repulsive as she was coarsely profane. She had several times gone around to inspect Lucy's tub and railed aloud at the girl in a voice that carried the length of the room:
"You stupid bitch, didn't nobody never teach you how to do laundry? Now, you watch this and this is gonna be the last time, or you're get-tin' a coupla demerits for this day's work!"
But the water was hot and the soap strong, and Lucy's fingers were trembling, and as she lifted out a rinsed bundle of bloomers, she stumbled on the wet floor and went sprawling, the bloomers flying in every direction. Edna Botts stood over her as she slowly righted herself.
"You clumsy bitch, you! I bet you did that on purpose!"
"That's not so!" Lucy flared.
Edna Botts' right hand shot out and left a perfect imprint on Lucy's fair cheek. 'You call-in' me a liar, bitch?" she growled.
"Yes, I am, if you say I did it on purpose," Lucy sobbed, unable to cope with such mahce and injustice.
"You heard that, all you fish?" Edna Botts triumphantly looked around. "All right, honey, that's three demerits right there. I'm taking you in to Maggie Hoskins right now."
Seizing Lucy by the elbow, she led the sobbing, helpless girl out of the laundry room and into the Head Matron's office. Lucy vainly protested that, being unused to such hard work and finding the temperature oppressive and the floor damp, she had accidentally slipped. Maggie Hoskins would not have believed her if she had sworn it on a stack of Bibles, for the greedy and sadistic head of the Women's Section of this inferno had already decided to profane Lucy's virginity and innocence.
"You're going to solitary for the rest of the day, Missy," she pronounced sentence, "and tonight at bedtime you're coming to my room for a smacking. Botts, you bring her."
"I sure will, Maggie," the dumpy gray-haired woman sniggered. "All right, you, come along with me to solitary."
In the same cell which she had occupied during the week, fed bread and water, Lucy Wilson wept again and despaired over the chance of getting herself and her two companions out of this diabolical bestiary. She had forgotten about the spanking, so wretched and miserable was she, so at nine o'clock when the door was flung open and she saw the grinning, cruel face of Edna Botts, she sprang up from her cot with a cry of terror.
Edna Botts seized her again by the elbow and forced her to march along quickly up to Maggie Hoskins' private rooms. She was led at once to the punishment chamber (or the "revival room" as Maggie liked to term it) without more ado, and Maggie Hoskins followed, clad only in a bathrobe and her blue felt bedroom slippers.
"All right, Blondie, strip down bare," was Edna Botts' savoringly uttered order.
The weeping young girl tried to protest the injustice of this humiliation, but Maggie Hoskins angrily warned her that argument and discussion would only worsen her punishment. Trembling, her heart beating wildly, poor Lucy began to remove the chemise and dress, and was then ordered to take down her bloomers and step out of her sandals, since these were given to prisoners in the laundry in view of the heat and humidity rather than the heavy work shoes which the female convicts had to wear if they did outside labor or office work.
Both women sucked in their breath as Lucy at last stood naked and trembling, tears running down her cheeks, head bowed, defeated in terror of what was to follow. Her high-perched, beautifully round titties rose and fell quickly, and their opulence was in direct contrast to the boyishness of her slim waist and the compact, resilient bottom-cheeks. Her long thighs and sinuous calves shivered and clenched together, as she timidly put one hand over the dark, triangular patch of pussy-hair.
"Get her over that sawhorse, Edna," Maggie Hoskins directed.
"Oh, please, please don't-b-eat me-it's not fair-this is all a dreadful mistake-we don't belong in prison-oh, please let me call my boss-he-he'll tell you-" Lucy began. Edna Botts applied two vigorous slaps to the lovely pink-and-white-sheened rondures of Lucy's firm, jouncy bottom. Lucy cried out, more in shame than in pain, and Edna Botts seized her by the wrists, dragged her to the sawhorse, made her straddle over it and drape herself upon the infamous and painful instrument.
It was made of wood, and the horizontal ridge came to a triangulated peak near the top. When her wrists and ankles had been strapped and buckled to the top edge, Lucy Wilson found herself pressed down so her tender virgin cunt was chafed by the hellish ridge of the saw-horse.
"Start her off with a good smacking on the ass, Edna, to make her take back calling you a liar," Maggie Hoskins directed.
Lucy did not have Cordelia's courage, and moreover, the apparatus to which she was fettered was in itself a martyrizing ordeal. Each time Edna Botts' hard hand landed on those jouncy, springy bare bottomglobes, poor Lucy's loins were ground mercilessly against the probing ridge, and the chaffing of her tender cunt became an intolerable torture. By the tenth spank she was crying like a child and pleading for mercy. But she received fifty spanks, all the same, just as Cordelia had done.
Maggie Hoskins approached the head of the sawhorse and, reaching out her hand, twisted her fingers in the victim's honey-colored hair and yanked up the agonized, tear-bathed face.
"Are you sorry now for speaking out of turn, Lucy baby?" she demanded.
"Oh, yes, y-yes, please-no more. Oh, let me down from here-it rubs me horribly-"
"Well, now, your sweet little pussy is sort of sensitive, huh? Doc said you was cherry anyhow, so I guess that's why. Now, Lucy, if you don't want to get about two dozen with the spanker on your big sore ass, you're gonna start kissing my pussy and telling me what a humble, nice, obedient little bitch you're gonna be while you're with us."
"Oh, my God, don't make me do a horrible thing like that-oowww! Ahhrrr-oh, no-oh, NO MORE-I can't stand it-Eeeeeyeeowwooohhhh!! ! I will, yes I will, only stop beating me, stop it-I'll do it!"
Edna Botts had seized the spanker which had been put to such efficacious use on Cordelia Manner's creamy bottom, and had applied two violent thwacking blows over the fullest curves of the young woman's huddling, inflamed bare bottomglobes.
And thus Lucy Wilson, too, acceded to the lascivious Lesbian desires of the head matron, and then had to perform the same ignominious, degrading office for Matron Botts.
"Now you see how easy it was to get along with your betters if you only tried, bitch?" Maggie Hoskins cackled as she had Edna Botts help poor weeping naked Lucy down from the saw-horse and forced the weeping girl to kneel on her palms and bow her head as she seated herself on a footstool. "Just you promise to be a good girl from now on, I'll take you out of the laundry and have you work right in my private office. They tell me you was a secretary back in Detroit. Well, would you like that better?"
Lucy nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
"Okay," Maggie Hoskins chuckled. "Botts, put her to work in my office right after breakfast tomorrow. Only, seein' as how the weather's so hot, she don't have to wear no shimmy. Just a dress and her bloomers and the sandals. She's got such a cute slinky figure, I want to have it ready for spankin' easier if she starts acting up any. Now, Lucy girl, before you go back to beddy-bye, come kiss my pussy and tell me you're gonna be a good obedient bitch from now on. Use just them words I said, you hear?"
And thus Lucy Wilson's ignominious capitulation was achieved!
* * *
Auburn-haired Pris Loring began her work in the library, and by the end of the day was almost warily congratulating herself that she had managed thus far to survive the brutality of prison regimen. She reckoned, however, without Doctor Julia Dark.
The prison medico entered the library just ten minutes before the supper bell and authoritatively ordered Pris to find her a certain medical book. Actually, the book wasn't there and Julia knew it, but Pris didn't. She hurriedly looked on the medical shelf and timidly reported she couldn't find it. Julia began to upbraid her, and Pris sobbingly insisted that she had done her best.
When the supper bell rang, the lesbian doctor commanded, "No, you don't. No supper for you until you find that book, girl!"
"That's no fair," Pris sobbed. "I've looked everywhere, and all the medical books are catalogued and put right on this shelf, and you can see for yourself it isn't here."
"Why, you insolent Little tramp! You dare talk that way to me? You'll report to my rooms at bedtime, Loring!"
With this, Julia Dark left the library and spoke briefly to Matron Jennie Farbish, a tall, gawky brown-haired woman in her late thirties who, though she had no lesbian tendencies, had no love for pretty girls, either. Her younger sister had been a raving beauty and had made a fine match: her own homeliness had doomed her to a job at this prison farm.
So it was Jennie Farbish who came to take poor Pris from her cell and lead her to Julia Dark's quarters, which were at the other end of the hall from Maggie Hoskins.
Julia, svelte and very authoritative, was wearing black leather boots, a black nylon negligee, and black leather gloves of elbow-length, reclining on a couch as the matron led in the trembling Pris Loring.
"So, Loring," Julia Dark stared insolently up at her, "do you know why you're here? To be punished. Take off all your clothes. I want you naked as a worm. Naked as the day I examined you."
Pris blushingly obeyed. Singularly, she felt no shame at this, for the enigmatic and provocative medico emanated not only an aura of dominance but of sensuality, which stirred Pris's own latent Sapphic lusts. When she was naked, Julia Dark critically examined her, this time not clinically but as a woman who lusts after another of her own sex. Her eyes dwelt lingeringly on those luscious pear-shaped titties; then she made Pris turn around and she feasted her gaze on the lovely oval buttocks. The thick, dark patch of auburn pussy-hair which covered Pris's virgin mount made her own titties rise and fall with the voluptuous awakening of desire.
"I'm going to be lenient with you this first time, Loring," she announced. "Put yourself across my lap for a spanking."
Pris trembled and blushed, but slowly obeyed, stretching out in the couch over that svelte lap. Her naked loins pressed against Julia Dark's, and she could feel the warmth of her executioner's luscious flesh through the thin nylon negligee. Encircling Pris Loring's slim waist with her left arm, Julia Dark began to slap those insolently jutting oval bottom-cheeks, pausing from time to time to glide her sensitive long fingers over the quivering, reddening flesh. After about ten or twelve spanks, she would pause and then pass a forefinger along the sinuous ambery crease which separated Pris's naked bottom-cheeks. These contacts were so enervating that Pris Loring began unconsciously to weave herself as the warmth of the spanking created strange sensations in her being.
By the fiftieth slap, her bottom-cheeks were a fiery red and she was crying, but strangely, she was not trying to escape. Instead she was trying to rub herself distractedly back and forth over her dominatress's lap.
Then it was over. Julia made Pris sit beside her and, an arm around the girl's waist, caressed her cheek and murmured, "That was the first time you were ever spanked, wasn't it?"
Pris nodded.
"Then give me the kiss of peace to show that you're not resentful, Loring," Julia Dark haughtily demanded. She had taken off her gloves to administer the spanking, but now she drew the right one back on, and she began to fondle Pris's tittie as Pris's trembling lips merged with hers. The medico's pink tongue darted between Pris's soft lips, and Pris Loring was lost in the lesbian trap. She felt herself pushed back on the couch, and then there was the rustle of nylon as Julia Dark flung off her negligee and mounted over the panting and quivering, tearful redhead.
Soon Pris Loring had forgotten that she was in prison. Julia's cunt was grinding against hers seductively. Julia's left hand was squeezing her spanked bottom, Julia's right hand was fondling one of her titties, and Julia's tongue was rapiering between her lips.
And thus Pris Loring capitulated, but in her own way, one which would vastly ease her situation in this sadistic institution.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two weeks had passed, two weeks of living hell for Cordelia Manners and Lucy Wilson. Only Pris Loring seemed to have reconciled herself to the unjust sentence at Benton State Prison Farm. It was true that Julia Dark had forced her to yield herself also to Maggie Hoskins, and Pris had found the fat, dowdy head matron distasteful. But Julia had simply taken her by an earlobe, forced her to drape herself over the spanking stool; and while Aggie Turlock strapped her wrists and ankles and fastened the broad strap around Pris's supple waist, Julia herself took the short spanker and applied a dozen stinging cracks over Pris's wriggling, flaming bottom, while Maggie Hoskins planted herself before the unfortunate redhead and, twisting her fingers in Pris's long pageboy, dragged the victim's face up to her shaggy mount until the weeping Pris willingly gamahuached her.
Later that night, to be sure, Julia consoled the still sobbing and squirming Pris by first anointing her flaming backside with a soothing cream, and then making her mount over her while they lay in Julia's low, wide, comfortable bed. Pris Loring was taught the exquisite and perverse thrill of having her virgin bottomhole probed with a finger while she was French-kissing and pussy-rubbing Julia Dark, and she achieved the most passionate climax of her young life . ...
Sheriff Jake Bunter had decided to arrange a special show for the benefit of his friend and legal superior, Judge Homer Wadling. There would be a trusted member from the New Orleans syndicate smuggled in to watch this "stag," for the purpose of obtaining new girls for the exclusive houses controlled in that profitable operation. And all three Detroit beauties were to be "star performers," in die proposed show....
As Maggie Hoskins' private secretary, Lucy Wilson found her chores even lighter than with Frank Hennessey ... but the difference was that many times even in the morning or the afternoon, her sadistic dominatress forced the lovely blonde to take off everything except her bloomers and come to kneel between Maggie's fat, flaccid thighs and gamahuch her, or sometimes go over her lap for a playful spanking with her bloomers down, a session which invariably was concluded with Lucy's having to mount over Maggie's plump, naked body in the bed and rub pussy until the plump matron had achieved her climax.
Lucy had access, of course, to stationery and typewriter, and on the fifteenth day of her incarceration she managed to type a letter to her boss in Detroit. Maggie kept no stamps in the secretary's drawers, since all letters were posted in the main section of the mail under the men's head warder, Dan Wimbold. Lucy hid the letter in her bloomers, and during the recreation period in the afternoon, sauntered near a section in the wire fence way over by the garden, which was really the only connecting link with the men's prison farm.
Her heart was in her mouth as she scanned the area for one of the guards, and then she saw one. It was Dan Winbold's favorite enforcer, Doug Randall. Doug was black-haired, lantern-jawed, tall and lanky, and he could lay a snake on as well as Winbold himself. Lucy beckoned to the black-haired guard, who scowled and hastened to the wire fence.
"What the hell are you doing going this way, bitch?" he asked. "All I have to do is tell Maggie Hoskins, and it's your ass."
"Please, you've got to listen. My two friends and I, we-we're in here through a terrible mistake. We came here from Detroit on a vacation. I've got lots of money back home, and I'll give it to you if you'll just mail this letter. All it is is to my boss, so he can come down here and bail me out. Please. I'll give you-I'll give you a hundred dollars."
"Yeah?" Doug Handall drawled. "Where you gonna get that kind of money, bitch?"
"I told my boss that he was to bring money to pay the man who would mail this letter for me," Lucy truthfully explained.
Doug Randall scratched his chin. He had a yen for this bitch, all right, with those juicy big bubbies and that neat boyish ass of hers already giving him the hots. Though Dan Winbold, would let the guards have an occasional go at a chippie whom Jake Bunter would bring in about once every two weeks to offer a "Gang-bang" free of charge in order to keep her own tail out of one of the cells on this farm, it wasn't nearly enough pussy for a horny man Like Doug Randall. Besides, this was really choice pussy, the table kind of stuff.
"Tell you what," he finally decided. "I'll mail it for you, but you've got to let me fuck you."
"What?" Lucy gasped, turning a violent scarlet.
"You heard me, sister. What's the matter? Ain't you never fucked a guy before?"
Lucy shook her head, biting her lips almost to the blood. The guard guffawed. "Well, sister, that makes it all the better. Now, all I ask is that you be real nice and cooperative, and I'll take you out in the tool shed right now. Then I'll mail your letter. Is it a go?"
Lucy drew a long, shuddering breath. Even that was preferable to staying here for only God knew how long. She had seen Pris and Cordelia, and she had heard from the latter's lips how cruelly the matrons had used the lash and to what despicable and filthy sexual practices poor Cordelia had been forced. Pris was surprisingly chipper considering her situation, and she wouldn't say a word about what had been done to her. Just the same, Lucy knew they had to get out of here.
"All right. But you've got to promise and give your word of honor you'll mail it," she whispered.
"You're on, sister. Come along. Down to the end of this fence, there's a tiny little gate you can just squeeze through when I open it from the other side. Hurry!"
Lucy ran quickly to the end of the fence, glanced around to make sure there was nobody watching, while Doug Randall took a key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and then slid back the narrow grate. Lucy had to turn sideways to get in, and he grabbed her, shut the gate, then hustled her into the tool shed which stood right next to the passageway. It was dark and musty, and he locked the door, then growled, "All right, sister, peel down raw. I haven't seen a naked piece of ass in longer than I want to remember. Make it fast, you've only got about ten minutes."
Lucy trembled and closed her eyes. Then, with a prayer, she stooped and pulled up her dress, drew it off her body and let it drop onto the floor. Then, fumbling in her bloomers for the letter, she drew it out and laid it on the floor, then pulled down the bloomers and stood naked in sandals. Doug Randall hadn't bothered to undress; he just unbuttoned his trousers fly and pulled out his stiff, long cock. He clutched Lucy's compact, velvety bare buttocks and groaned, "Boy, do you feel like a nice piece of ass! Spread those sweet legs-I'm going to poke you standing up. It's good that way the first time, you'll see."
His fingers sank into Lucy's tender bottom until she whimpered. Then she gasped and groaned, for the stiff, hot head of his prick had pressed through the dark blonde curls of her pussy, probed through the labia, and had come up against the membrane of her maidenhead.
"Oh, please, go easy-ahhhh-oh, it hurts-please take it out-ouff!" Lucy cried, trying to push him away.
"You crazy little bitch, you just yell once more like that and you'll really have 'em down on us both," Doug Randall panted. He had clamped his hand over Lucy's mouth when she cried out as he tore through her hymen, and now his prick was embedded to the balls.
Gripping her ass-cheeks vigorously, he fucked her with a rapid, furious gait, and suddenly exploded his bubbling spunk deep in her matrix. Nauseated with pain, sick with shame at her own libidinous abandon, Lucy tottered as he drew himself out and then, taking a handkerchief from his trousers, handed it to her and snarled, "Clean yourself off and get your duds back on and let's get out of here. There went the bell for the end of recreation, sister."
"My l-letter," Lucy quavered, stooping and handing it to him.
"Okay, I'll see to it. And you better have that money ready when your boyfriend comes down here to bail you out, or I'll tell him a couple of things about what a little whore you are," he sniggered.
Lucy put her dress back on, drew on her bloomers, and hobbled out slowly, very pale and trembling. Maggie had to reprimand her two or three times for faulty letters that afternoon, and condemned the girl to a bare-ass spanking over her lap. Lucy almost welcomed this as a distraction from the shame she was experiencing as an aftermath, for Doug Randall had fucked her so vigorously that he had hurt her. Fortunately she had been able to go to the bathroom and efface the evidence of her virginal loss, and she had lied to Maggie and told her it was her time of the month that made her so apathetic, a story which Maggie readily accepted. To top off the spanking however, Lucy had to go down on her knees again and gamahuch the head matron ...
It was a Friday night, exactly three weeks to the day that Lucy, Cordelia and Pris had made their unfortunate turn in the road that brought them to Benton State Prison Farm. All three girls had been notified by Maggie Hoskins that they would be expected to take part in a little "prison entertainment show" this evening. During the past few days Lucy had been on pins and needles waiting for the telephone to ring in Maggie Hoskins office, and every time it did, she had hoped it might be Frank Hennessey, but it wasn't.
At nine o'clock this fateful Friday night when the other inmates went to bed at lights out, Pris, Cordelia and Lucy were led out of ther cells by Agatha Turlock, Edna Botts and Maggie Hoskins herself. They were taken to the basement, and there in the wall which separated the men's prison from the women's, was a door which Maggie Hoskins unlocked. The three girls were pushed on through the narrow doorway, and then led down an even narrower dark corridor. As they turned to the left, shouts of acclamation rose. There was a kind of assembly hall, walled in completely except for this narrow doorway which led off the corridor they had just traversed. There was a stage, and rows of wooden seats below for the audience. There was a bed on the stage, and a couch, and a deep loveseat. One of the trustees from Dan Winbold's section, a huge Negro wearing only a jock strap and sandals, sprawled in the loveseat.
In the front row, masked, were Sheriff Jake Bunter and Judge Homer Wadling, along with Al Murcer, the syndicate runner out of New Orleans. Al was a short little man with glasses, a moustache, and an insatiable appetite for pussy. The Sheriff and the Judge had been telling him of the three delectable recruits from Detroit who could very easily be taken off to New Orleans without anyone being the wiser. Then the Sheriff took out of his pocket the letter which Lucy had written, and handed it to Al Murcer.
"This little bitch has a nerve. Read it, Al. I guess she thinks her boss is sweet on her. Well, all we have to do is dye their hair, give them new monikers, and you take them out of here tonight. They won't be able to get back to Detroit for a good long time, and once you've broken them in the way you do your girls, I don't think they'll want to. Especially when Hercules up there gets through with them," Bunter chuckled.
The three matrons led the now really frightened roommates up to the stage and made them mount the little stairway at the left.
"The Sheriff and the Judge are here, girls," Maggie Hoskins told them, "and you do just what you're told or you'll have me to deal with in the revival room, get it?"
At this, she and her two assistants left the assembly hall. It was filled by about sixty convicts, those who had money and had won special privileges for good behavior. Pris and Cordelia and Lucy cowered there on the foreground of the stage, clasping hands and looking scared. Dan Windbold himself was in charge of the entertainment, and his assistants were Sam Caswell, the snaggle-toothed guard who could lay a snake on with artistry, as well as Doug Randall. Doug grinned at Lucy and winked. "Hi there, baby. Nice to see you again."
Dan Winbold now announced: "Gentlemen, we're going to start off with a little dyke act, just get you all boned up for the main events. All right, girls, strip down bare!"
"What do you mean?" Cordelia Manners indignantly burst out. "You can't force us to do this-we're prisoners, we don't have to be whores for these men!"
"This one needs a good snaking, Doug," Don Winbold turned to the lanky guard. Doug Randall chuckled and nodded. He bent to the floor of the stage, picked up a blacksnake ship, made it crack in the air about an inch away from Cordelia's coronet braid. She uttered a scream of terror and backed away and then, convinced, hastily began to pull off her chemise and dress. Lucy closed her eyes and shuddered, knowing she had been betrayed. Doug Randall now approached her and whispered, "Your letter got delivered all right, honey. I turned it over to Sheriff Bunter on Dan Winbold's say so. You're going to be taken care of real nice, don't you worry. You're going out of here tonight. You just put on a good performance tonight, and you won't have to worry about taking Maggie's guff any more. No, nor licking her off, either, haha-ha!"
At last all three girls were naked, and the two guards with their blacksnake ships cracking around the trembling trio, urged them to the wide, low couch.
Cordelia and Lucy were commanded to he on top of each other and start girl rubbing, while Pris was ordered to kneel beside them and fondle both of them, a task which the auburn-haired youngest girl of course did not find repugnant in the least.
Nonetheless, it took two lashes of the blacksnake whip over Cordelia's creamy hindquarters before she could bring herself to this terrible shame and degradation of rubbing her cunt against Lucy's.
They were forced to go on until they both had climaxed. Then Pris sat on the edge of the couch and Lucy was made to gamahuch her, while Cordelia knelt on the couch beside Pris and turned her pussy to Pris's lips and tongue until she too had climaxed.
Now it was time for the giant Negro to take part in the fray. Stripping off his jockstrap, he revealed a cock of at least eight inches in length, hideously broad, the lips of the meatus puckering with pent-up gismic fury. Dan Winbold now loudly announced through a megaphone: "Hercules there is going to chase these little bitches, and the first one he catches is going to be brown-holed. The second one is going to be fucked, and the last one gets to suck his dong off to go to work again. All right, Hercules, go to it!"
With a roar of glee, the giant Negro sprang at the three girls, who began to run like frightened mice around the stage, their titties and bottoms jiggling, while the avid spectators shouted encouragement to the massive-cocked Negrd. It was Pris whom he caught first by extending his hand and grabbing her by her long pageboy and flinging her down on the floor, he rolled her onto her stomach, then yawned apart her buttocks with his strong black fingers and crammed his prick into the dainty little virgin brown-hole of the Lesbian-attuned redhead. Pris's mad shrieks and wrigglings excited the audience, most of whom were already masturbating.
When Hercules finished buggering Pris, he left her lying on the floor of the stage and resumed his pursuit of the others, his prick still bulging despite the burst of gismic lava he had left in Pris's bowels. He caught Lucy next, flung her down on the couch and mounted her, roughly ordering her to wrap her arms and legs around him and "fuck real good or I'll take that blacksnake whip and whup yer tits off, white gall" A moment later Lucy's sobbing cry announced that his massive prong was buried to the hilt in her still tender cunt, and he began to fuck her with deep, long persuasive thrusts, sticking a finger in her bottomhole and wriggling it while he squeezed one of her bubbies with the other hand. To her own devastating shame, Lucy Wilson found herself soaring to the seventh heaven of erotic bliss as his fingering and fucking brought her to her very first sexual climax in the embrace of a man.
Cordelia was therefore condemned to French him, but she revolted at this, only to capitulate a few moments later when Doug and Dave began to lash her buttocks and titties with their blacksnake whips. Almost eagerly, it seemed, she wrapped her arms around the Negro's sinewy black buttocks, pressed her mouth to his still rampant weapon, and began to suck noisily until at last he spurted into her mouth ...
Before that night was done, the Sheriff, the Judge, and Al Murcer himself had all enjoyed Pris, Cordelia and Lucy, and Al Murcer pronounced them the "three best pieces of fresh cunt I've poked in the last six months. I'll see that you get a check for ten grand by Monday, Judge. The Syndicate is mightily obliged for this good work. You'll hear from us soon again when we need new bitches for the houses. And Biloxi wants some new pussy, too, so you might keep your eyes open, Jake."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It's early October now, three months since we last saw our three lovely heroines from Detroit make their professional "acting debut" on the basement stage of the Bentam State Prison Farm. Professional, you ask? Quite so. That night turned out to be their "graduation" from amateur ranks and the beginning of their lives as high-class call girl-prostitutes for the Syndicate, the situation which Al Murcer had in mind for them when he paid Judge Homer Wadling ten thousand dollars (of which Sheriff Jake Bunter gratefully accepted his share of $3500 for having apprehended these virginal beauties in the first place).
All three of them work in the same house, though for special and well-heeled clients whose trustworthiness is unquestioned by the Syndicate and the madame of the house, they occasionally are sent out in a chauffeur-driven limousine to their assignments.
The madame is Estelle Manley, and in some ways she suggests her name. She's almost a dead ringer for Doctor Julia Dark of the Prison Farm; black-haired with a mannish, short cut, an oval, haughty face, wears black satin slacks, white silk peasant blouse and bow tie. Pris Loring is mad about her new boss, and wouldn't leave the house if she were given the chance
About the first week of Pris's sojourn at the house, Estelle Manley called her in for a heart-to-heart (or rather, a pussy-to-pussy) interview, since the madame, a woman of thirty-four who's worked for Al Murcur for a decade, first as a Lesbian hustler, then as manager of the exclusive house just off the French Qurter, gets a bonus for breaking quotas of the take from Johns, and it's in her own interest to keep the girls happy and know just what to expect from them. Pris had been put to work her first night with a fat bald canned foods sales manager from Chicago, and the client had reported that she wasn't too cooperative. He'd asked her for a French job to start with, wearing just her slip-a black lace-trimmed nylon one under winch all she had on was a sexy bikini-type pair of flesh-colored panties and a skimpy bra of the same material-and Pris had started to cry and bag off doing that. He'd got angry and told her he'd report her to Estelle and that Estelle had a Negro bouncer named Jeff Haines who took unruly bitches like her down to the basement, strung them up by the thumb and used a blacksnake on their titties and even their pussies till they saw the light. So Pris had grudgingly knelt over the man as he stretched out on the bed and, closing her eyes and digging her nails into her palms, had sucked him, but none too expertly. Then he'd made her sit on his lap in a chair, and insert his bulging ramrod into her soft quim and ride him up and down, while he played with her bubbies. It had been a lackadaisical performance, so he'd grumbled to Estelle that the new redhead had acted like a frigid virgin.
Pris had been sent for after she'd finished her third trick of the night, exhausted and ashamed, because both had been vigorous men in their late thirties who had wanted to be Frenched and then had fucked her energetically. Myrna, the pretty Creole maid who brought in towels and drinks and made everybody feel at home when clients came calling, had been sent to bring Pris in to the madame, and at the latter's orders, Pris was to wear just her high heeled pumps and the slip.
Pris had been terrified when she'd been ushered into Estelle Manley's parlor, for the dominatress was wearing knee-long black calfskin boots and elbow-length gloves, a one-piece skin-tight black calfskin body sheath, and her cold brown eyes were fixed on the quivering redhead while she toyed with the handle of a braided little brown leather whip.
She'd made Pris stand before her and then given her the riot act, ending by threatening Pris with a good thrashing from Jeff Haines in the basement, at which the redheaded had started to cry and knelt down and embraced Estelle's shapely booted legs and begged, "Oh, Miss Manley, please don't turn me over to him, please-p-punish me yourself, but I'd just die if he touched me, please! They-they forced me to have s-sex with a N-Negro brute on the stage at the prison farm, and I almost died. Oh, be kind to me, I'm so unhappy, Miss Manley!"
From the way Pris had looked up with eyes swimming in tears and her lips trembling, the madame had divined that here was a sexy piece who was more on DC than AC, so she had determined to find out for sure. "All right, Pris, I'll punish you myself. Now take off your slip and lie over my knees for a good whipping," she'd ordered.
"Yes, oh, thank you, Miss Manley, oh thank you so much," Pris had gasped, and hurriedly doffed her slip and stretched her voluptuous young body over the dominatress' lap.
Estelle Manley's eyes had narrowed at the view of those magnificent huddling bare buttocks and the lithe thighs, the smooth, deeply cleft back, and had caressed Pris' bottom for a lingering while before proceeding to action. At last, tucking her left arm around the redhead's waist, she had begun with a gloved-hand spanking, under which Pris had begun to squirm and wriggle in the most licentious way. As her bottom reddened, the smarting sensation incited her to sensual desire, such as Julia Dark had known now to fully arouse in her psyche. Slyly, midway through the spanking, Estelle Manley had removed her left glove, then slipped her bare hand under Pris's loins and her questing forefinger had discovered that the girl's cunt lips were moist and twitching. She had frigged Pris's clitoris gently while she resumed the spanking, till her lovely naked victim had kicked and writhed and shrieked in the bliss of hot girl-come.
Then she had made Pris undress her, and, on her knees, kiss and lick her boots and then ascend to the shapely long pale ivory thighs and the dark patch of pussy fur at their peak. Pris had done this so expertly and ardently that Estelle Manley knew she had a passionate Lesbian in her crew of hustlers. And so she had decided to save Pris for wealthy dowagers and young matrons who were frigid when their husbands fucked them, and so now Pris is the happiest girl in the house and wouldn't think of leaving her dear Mistress Estelle, as she always calls the madame. Later at night, often during the week, after Pris had finished her tricks, she steals into Estelle's quarters and there rhapsodically offers her shapely bottom up to the gloved palm of her beautiful and despotic mistress, knowing that she will taste the elixir of soixante-neuf of a passionate bout of pussy-rubbing in compensation...
Cordelia Manners has changed a great deal, too. She's discovered that she has a secret penchant for being spanked by a man before she submits to him, and it makes her exceptionally passionate and, the clients say, one of the hottest fuckers that ever stretched out on a mattress in Estelle Manley's establishment. A man, Cordelia knows, can make her forget how horrible it was to be beaten by Maggie Hoskins and then have to gamahuch that dreadful, cruel fat creature. Some of Cordelia's best "REGULARS" happen to be expert muff divers, too, so she never minds a spanking if they'll go down on her and bring her to gushing climax with their lips and tongues. Then she doesn't even mind if she has to French them in turn to get them ready to thrust their stiff cocks into her narrow, warm, itching cleft and fuck her till every drop of love cream is used up.
Even Lucy Wilson has changed. She's found out that Pris Loring always had a secret case of hots for her, so after a hard night's work at the house-that is, on nights when Pris isn't subject to Estelle Manley's summons-she often creeps down to Pris's room and slips into the red-haired young beauty's bed and the two girls talk over their day's work and console each other with fingerings, fondlings, tongue kisses and girl rubbings. It's a good thing Pris's room is soundproofed, as otherwise the shrill cries of ecstasy might wake up the other girls--
On their arrival at the New Orleans house, all three girls were made to write letters back to Detroit, explaining that they'd found fine jobs in the South, were engaged and expected to be married. They keep writing Jacqueline Browning at U-Drive, just so she'll never get suspicious, though in her replies to them care of General Delivery, New Orleans, she's hinted that she'd like to come visit them ... she probably won't though, because she's married to Bob Glossup and a baby is already on the way.
So again Torture Farm has contributed to the growing list of illustrious and lovely alumni.
Judge Homer Wadling is about ready to send Belle Lorrimer there for a three-month training spell before he sends her off to the house in Biloxi. Al Mureur has offered three grand for Belle alone, so Dora Pinson is resigning herself to saying goodbye to her lovely niece.
In case any of you are planning vacations down in the Ozarks, well let you in on a little secret. Just so you don't happen to pinpoint your itinerary to take in Torture Farm, we've changed the geographical location and we've called the town Benton-but it really isn't. More than--likely, you won't run across it, though such a place does exist. But if by some unlucky stroke of fate you do happen to head down that forbidden road, be sure your wife or best girl isn't along. You might lose her to Maggie Hoskins and eventually to the houses in New Orleans and Biloxi.
