American people appear to be increasingly fascinated with the theme of crime and violence. Turn to any television station, listen to the media, read the newspaper-murder, dead bodies, guns, knives, explosives. Have we grown complacent about this amorality of violence, unaware of the inhuman brutality that takes place every day in every city in America? Perhaps evil has permeated our lives, saturated every aspect of our being, to the extent that we no longer recognize it, even in its rawest, most subtle form.
Obviously, this is a problem we can not ignore.
This novel is the story of a sheltered young woman who has never witnessed crime, never felt the sting of a hand or the humiliation of violation. Nor did Janice Meredith Quincy dream, in her most wild nightmares, that she would someday fall into the hands of a ruthless gang of drug smugglers. As the reader follows Janice through the awesomely shocking experiences-threats, sexual perversions-he will begin to understand the reasons behind the lawless age in which we live.
We have here, too, the juxtaposition of two extreme classes of society. The extraordinarily wealthy girl engaged to the inheritor of a multi-million dollar estate, and a gang of underground smugglers who've known no homes but the streets they slept on. This clash of lifestyle and the attitudes-sexual, political, and ethical-that accompany them, adds to the richness of Janice and Charles' unbelievable story of intrigue. Read it for yourself and see.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
Janice cupped a yawn and, blinking her robin egg eyes against the sun refracting through the window, let her head lean limply back against the scratchy blue and beige tweed of the train seat headrest. Her long, straight, honey blonde hair caught the dancing light of the sun and tossed it towards the mirrors rimming the headrest across from her. A little sigh of travel fatigue escaped from her soft, reddened lips as she stared absent-mindedly at the countryside near Aulnoye, France as it flashed by the train's bay-sized window to the right of her, terrain where cows lulled contentedly in green meadows and birds perched on craggy edges of jutting rocks that served to the cattle confined within the stone walls of their pastoral prisons. It all seemed so terribly desolate, compared to Boston, the twenty year old coed decided. Something caught her eye, then, and she pressed her nose to the window to get a better look at the fleeting image of a bent-over country woman shabbily attired in a fashionless long dress, her greying hair tucked under a peasant scarf, her small feet protected by the high-top boots as, from a wagon, she pitched manure. A giggle rumbled from Janice's pretty lips.
The handsome young man across from her lifted his head from the Times Herald he was reading. "What's so funny, Janice?" he asked over the rim of his tortoise shell glasses that hid a pair of pale gray eyes tinged with thickly curling lashes.
"Oh, you missed it, Charles! You should have seen that poor old country bumpkin out there shoveling . . . " She cleared her throat and lowered her eyes, a smile giving away her merriment. ". . . shoveling cow droppings onto the field. Can you imagine living like that? I mean, really!"
Charles shot a quizzical look her way. "That's the beauty of traveling. You learn how truly lucky you are to be living in democratic America, instead of these socialist countries where people grovel for a living," he explained in his typically dogmatic, matter-of-fact tone that was as measured as the facts he conveyed.
"But can you imagine me shoveling manure?" she clasped her tiny hands, then hastened to cover her . mouth because of a rebellious giggle welling in her throat. Charles, she knew, didn't approve of sudden outbursts, even if they were alone in a first class compartment with the door closed and curtains drawn. "Okay, Charles, here's one for you." She sat forward in her seat making her taut, melonous breasts strain against the cool blue linen of her dress. "Who would you rather marry, me or that woman shoveling manure?"
Charles forced a tight little smile. "Oh, Janice.. . there's no choice to be made," he answered, clucking his tongue and picking up his newspaper to resume his reading.
Still, it was funny to Janice to think that women-however similar in their bodily functions, their needs for affection and desire for motherhood-could be so radically different in lifestyles. The thought amused her.
She relaxed back in the seat again and, with a swooshing sound, crossed her stockinged legs, her fingers toying with the tourist guide book in her lap while she watched Charles with his lean, handsome face, his classic features sitting opposite her in his proper long-sleeved shirt with the initialed pocket, sweater vest, and gabardine pants.
A tiny glow of pride, no bigger than the glint of a sun ray peeking through the cumulous clouds overhead lighted in Janice.
How absolutely fortunate she was to be engaged to Charles Edward Tarrington III.
He was an ambitious young man, rather quiet and intellectual, but terribly dedicated to his upcoming profession as proven in this his last year at Harvard Law School when he'd been preening himself for a political career while working for an oil company lobbyist. The extra money his part time job brought in was in essence meaningless. The Tarringtons, a well established New England family had all the money they needed, and what they didn't have, Janice Meredith Quincy's family did.
Neither of them talked about money . . . not about how much they should spend on an apartment when they got married next June, not where they could afford to take a honeymoon. Like Janice, Charles had been brought up to believe it was vulgar to talk about one's wealth as it was to talk about sex. And yet it was obvious that both families had money, and she and Charles were living proof that they had indulged in sex! She thought fleetingly of telling that to Charles, then decided against it. Charles wouldn't think that very funny. He wasn't much on humor.
That sometimes bothered Janice, though she always quickly repressed the thought. His devotion to his work compensated tenfold. In her two years at Vassar she'd never dated one boy who was as determined or conscientious or well respected as Charles who stood at the head of his class. His professors-old friends of his family-openly admired Charles for his moral rectitude and propriety, two qualities requisite if one had an eye on the political arena.
Charles glanced up from his paper, then flicked his wrist to check his watch. "Are you hungry? Perhaps we should catch a bite before we change trains in Bruxelles. I hear the trains there are abominable."
"Certainly, Charles," she nodded, wondering vaguely what would happen if she said no. She wasn't hungry and she actually considered doing it, but something in his manner put her off, and she merely said, as always, "Yes, Charles."
"Let's go to the dining car then. We have about an hour before the stop in Bruxelles. That should give us sufficient time to eat," he stated, rising from his seat and to make certain his wallet was still safe, patted his vest pocket with a delicate hand that looked as if it had never been dirty-even as a child.
They ambled down the train's corridor, Janice trailing her hand along the railing below the window, her alligator handbag slung over her shoulders, as they passed compartment after compartment. Between the cars near the water closet they nodded to the uniformed, mustached conductor who sat on a low stool munching his sandwich. The third car down was the crowded snack bar where the second class passengers munched french fries and mayonnaise and dribbled mustard on sausages. With relief, Charles opened the door to the dining car where the tables were covered with white cloths and fresh flowers were daintily centered on each table in crystal vases, while waiters in full regalia whisked around the narrow car as quietly as cats.
Charles pulled out the chair for his fiancee, then tucked his own in under the table in a most polished Bostonian manner. "Would you like to try the veal Marsala . . . and asparagus? And perhaps a fine wine?"
Charles always suggested the dinner. He gave the order in French perfect enough to make the waiter raise his eyebrows in appreciation. Janice noticed the little premature lines of age etched around his eyes. He'd worked so hard this year and this vacation was good for him, and for her, too. How else would she have dared venture off to Europe by herself, enroll in the Sorbonne and head off for Amsterdam, Munich, and London by herself, without her dear Charles to guide the way.
No doubt this coming year at the Sorbonne would be a lonely one, despite Paris' romantic allure. But she knew too, that if she was to marry Charles Edward Tarrington III she must polish off her cosmopolitan beginnings, continue with her art history degree and perfect her French and Italian. It was her duty now. to learn the language of a socialite, know how to meet dignitaries with presidential flare and diplomatically run a household full of servants. That would be her life, and if that meant eating veal when she wanted spaghetti, so be it.
The waiter appeared with the wine, carried on a silver tray. He set the long stemmed glasses in front of the couple and let Charles taste it. It was to his liking. "Perfect for the asparagus," hastened Charles, letting her know it was proper for her to drink her wine before the entree reached the table.
"Cheers. To you, Charles, for doing so wonderfully well at Harvard!"
"Cheers!" echoed Charles clinking her glass.
The wine tingled on Janice's tongue as she sipped it, and sent a warm glow through her as she swallowed. It made her very happy. Now that school was over and they had six weeks to travel together, Charles would have time for her. She" thought back over the six months of their engagement. It had been so . . . so impersonal, and now that they were traveling together maybe that would change. Not that they slept together. Janice would never have thought of sleeping with Charles any more than he would have thought to ask that of her. But still, even though they were together now twenty-four hours a day (discounting the time they slept in their separate hotel rooms) there had been none of those little intimacies between them that existed between other young lovers. No kisses after she'd slipped into her negligee and he his pajamas and robe . . . no fervent stroking of the thigh.
"Charles, are you still going to stop off in Rotterdam to visit your aunt?" she asked, watching the waiter discreetly slip a plate of asparagus before them.
"Yes, Janice. I promised mother. But I'm afraid we can't both stay there. Certainly they would find it improper for two unmarried people to be traveling together. This is risque enough as it is." He speared the lemon wedge with his fork and squeezed the fresh juice over the oozing mayonnaise.
Janice gazed intently at him. "But we are engaged, surely that must mean something to her."
"Not my Aunt Sybil, I'm afraid." He hastened to lighten her fears by lying his delicate hand on her tiny one. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you, dear. I've made reservations for you to sleep in a private compartment on the train, and when you get to Amsterdam call a taxi to take you to the Damtrack Hotel and I'll meet you there the next day at twelve sharp. Oh, and don't forget," he said, raising a finger, "you also change trains in Antwerp."
"But, I. . . Charles.. . " Janice drew in her breath and forked a mouthful of asparagus. As much as she loathed the idea of being on a train alone, there was no rebuttal to Charles' suggestion. All was safe, or cautious Charles would never have suggested it. What would he think of her, anyway, if she was too scared to spend a night alone on a train?
"I know you're worried, Janice, but the crime in Amsterdam is all centered around drugs. If you aren't foolish enough to purchase any, and nobody plants any on you . . . so why worry, Janice?" He threw up his hands to make his point.
His comment touched off a question that Janice had been wondering about for some time since she'd started college. Though she'd never put a marijuana cigarette to her lips, she had several friends who had, and somehow she couldn't consider those girls criminals because they indulged in one vice. "Do you really think that somebody is a criminal because he tries drugs now and then? Oh, I don't mean heroin or cocaine, but just plain marijuana . . . why even the president's son has admitted to smoking it."
Charles smiled indulgently at Janice, showing her unmistakably that he considered her as foolish as she was naive. "My dear, I'm afraid you've been the victim of a too liberal education." Taking another sip of his Pouilly Fuisse, he recalled one drug trial he'd attended during his first year in law school.
A commune of young people had been hauled in from the slums of Boston, a crowd of dirty, foul-mouthed, raggedly dressed bums. From the moment he set eyes on them, he considered them no more than common criminals.
The men were bad enough, with their lack of respect for the court. They didn't even dress decently, but came in work shirts open at the neck to show off their hairy chests. They didn't even wear suits and ties like others in the court!
But the women! My Lord! Some of them wore sweaters so tight you could actually see their nipples standing straight up under them. Or they wore blouses cut so low and open so wide that their round, full breasts actually bounced out. Then there was the redhead in the see-through blouse who might as well have been naked. The two round spheres of her firm full breasts and the rosy aureoles were vivid against the snowy flesh of her pert, hard little nipples.
She'd worn jeans, too . . . jeans so tight they looked painted on. They pulled and strained across the round curve of her buttocks, cupping them, molding them to her skin, rippling like flesh itself as she moved lasciviously across the room. Charles had noticed that the pants bunched and caught in the furrow of her buttocks, outlining the little pucker of her anus. And every man in the courtroom was staring at her, practically panting with sheer, raw lust!
But the most disgusting of them all, Charles remembered, was the girl who'd come in late and taken a seat in the front row. She was young and slim-about Janice's age and size, he guessed-with a waist he could have spanned with his two hands. She'd even had a certain beauty, with her olive skin, the raven hair that hung to her shoulders, the eyes round and black. She wore a blue jean skirt that barely covered the hard little half-moons of her sensuous buttocks, barely concealed the vee of her crotch.
The girl's full rich thighs were bare-why didn't these women wear bras and girdles and stockings like decent people? Her breasts were lewdly tilted, the nipples taut under the sheer summer blouse she wore.
She flashed Charles a knowing look as she passed the bench, a look that told him as plainly as words that she would be willing to do anything he wanted. Her walk had been an open invitation to him and every other man in the courtroom. Hips undulating sensually, she prowled the room like a bitch in heat, just begging for some man to shove his rock-hard penis deep into her little quivering belly. And there were plenty of men there who were willing, too!
A deceptive calm settled over the place when this girl sat down, just in the witness chair. She smoothed her skirt over the lushness of her hips, pressed her knees together, even crossed her ankles demurely. Beneath the calm, though, was a subdued current of sexuality that threatened to erupt. She answered the questions in a bored voice and when she became tired of the lengthy questions and accusations, her body went slack, and the girl sprawled in the chair now, legs wide apart, knees splayed out teasingly. Charles stared slack-jawed when he realized this girl wasn't wearing any panties. No thin strip of nylon, however narrow, however flimsy, concealed the quivering flesh of her smooth, curving thighs. There was nothing to hide the thin triangle of dark, silken curls that grew so sparsely there in the tight little vee between her legs, nothing to hide the delicate pink-tinted edges of her moist, pouting little pussy.
The girl shifted in the seat, and now her legs slid farther apart, her smooth-skinned, swelling thighs spread open even wider. The pink-tipped hair-lined split lay open now, parted like the petals of a flower, and revealed the tiny bud of her clitoris that nestled within.
Charles stared in fascinated shock. The tiny, blushing mound attracted him and held his attention riveted to it. He yearned to turn away, to ignore the tender tip of flesh, to close his eyes and his mind. But he was transfixed, powerless, trapped by her lewdity. His palms grew moist and his entire body dripped with sweat. He had no idea how long he sat there while the clerk knocked to call the court back to order.
He listened and took notes, his eyes on the ceiling, trying to concentrate on the arguments of the lawyers. But his mind kept wandering back to the girl. He could imagine her thrashing around in bed somewhere with some man she'd picked up! Lying there with her legs flung wide while he licked and sucked there between them. Or licking him, sucking him, taking him into her mouth until she almost swallowed his hard, jutting cock.
She was a drug user, a menace to society, Charles had thought. And he thought that now, too, as he sat in the dining car, staring at Janice over his wine glass rim as in his mind he reviewed the article he'd read moments ago in the Times Herald about a gang of heroin smugglers who'd crossed the Cambodian border with a purported wealth of fifty-two kilos of pure, uncut heroin, freshly harvested from the hills of the Golden Triangle. From the article's report, the police were on their tails, suspecting the criminals were heading north via train. Of course, Charles couldn't tell Janice that.
Janice nibbled at her asparagus, wondering why Charles wasn't talking to her? Whatever was on his mind, he seemed a hundred miles away.
They finished their lunch in near silence, and drank the wine to the bottom of the bottle. After Charles had paid and tipped the waiter, five minutes remained before arrival in Bruxelles where they would change trains. On their way again, headed for Rotterdam where Charles would stay with his wealthy Aunt Sybil.
The train rumbled over the bridge of Rotterdam and Janice could see to the right of her the famous Rotterdam Cathedral, dark and mysterious, not far from the waters where Dutch ships lined up laden with cargoes destined for faraway places. Her heart gave a small patter when she realized this is where she would say goodbye to Charles.
"Right on time," remarked Charles, looking at his watch. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow, Janice." His tone was cool, his manners almost offhand.
Janice sighed and sat back in the seat. Would Charles always be like this . . . even after they were married?
"I'll miss you, Charles," she whispered, slipping closer to her fianc�, inching nearer to him until her marvelously molded young thighs brushed against his. The contact sent a little electric spark charging through her that seemed to set her on fire. Tiny flickers of flame licked at her loins deliciously.
Charles' very nearness teased and tantalized, until a thrill of pleasure caressed her whole body, crawled over her flesh, making it tingle maddeningly.
Aching for him to take her in his arms, she let her head fall on Charles' shoulder. Surely he felt something, too! But if he did, Charles showed no sign of it. When the train chugged to a stop, he lifted his bags from the rack overhead, kissed Janice lightly on the lips, and deboarded the train.
Would he always be like this, she asked herself again, dreading the four hour lay-over in Antwerp before continuing on to Amsterdam.
CHAPTER TWO
Pigeons by the hundreds waddled fat, feathered bodies across the platforms in the Antwerp train station where Janice Meredith Quincy sat on a wooden bench, gazing up at the arched lead glass ceiling of the landmark train depot, her alligator baggage at her feet. This was the first time she'd been left to her own resources on this vacation, and she wasn't certain she liked it.. . not being able to communicate with any one. Certainly that wasn't French they were speaking, she thought, eavesdropping on a conversation between two young lovers.
Where was Charles now? Dining with his stuffy Aunt Sybil? And would he even mention her, his fiancee! she wondered with a tingle of resentment.
Was there something wrong with Charles that he didn't try to have any sexual contact with her? Or was the problem with her? Janice remembered her mother's scathing voice when once she had denounced a friend of hers, calling her immoral. And she had added in her aristocratic voice, "People of our type aren't interested in sex, Janice."
Well, Charles was 'of her type,' and maybe he truly wasn't interested in sex. Marriage might be only a convenience to him, and Janice an asset, rather than someone he loved. Or maybe the problem was with her. Even though she was beautiful, maybe she wasn't attractive to men in that sense.
She recalled the words of a boarding house suitemate. What was her name? Sandy Perry. She'd said, "Janice Quincy, who would go for her? She's all money and no fun." As Janice sat back on the hard wooden bench, the pigeons cooing about her, she thought about that night years ago, a night she tried to forget in her stronger moments.
Sandy Petty wriggled beneath Terry Adams' hand as it explored her slim body, caressing the firm little breasts, tracing the swell of her belly, stroking her milky thighs. But when it roamed down to the golden patch of silky pubic hair that nestled between Sandy's legs, she pushed it away.
What she and Terry was doing was wicked, she knew. Even when Terry had insisted that they sneak away from the dance, she had known it was evil. If it hadn't been from the gin they'd been drinking from his flask, she never would have done it, but it made her feel weak and warm and wonderful, and when Terry's hand slid to her swaying buttocks, pushing her so close to him that she could feel the hardening bulge beneath his trousers press into her flesh, little prickles of delight crawled up her spine.
Now, lying naked on her small dormitory bed, Sandy tried to push his hand away. "Oh, God, Terry. We can't do that!"
"I know, but it feels good, doesn't it?" whispered Terry.
"Oh, God, yes," gasped Sandy. She stopped struggling and Terry's hand moved cautiously to the small tufted vee between her legs. He probed gently and found the tiny moist cleft, gently parted the delicate hair-lined pink lips, as Sandy quivered uncontrollably from the new experience.
She turned on the bed, now, pulling Terry's lithe boyish body close to her own, his face to hers. Little shocks of pleasure jolted through her as Terry's tongue pried into her mouth, as she swiped her own into his. Suddenly he cupped her firmly ripe young breasts in his two hands and she felt her nipples harden. He rubbed the stiff little buds between his thumbs and forefingers, and Sandy moaned with pleasure. He trailed his tongue down her throat, to the furrow between the twin snowy mounds of her breasts, then over one breast itself. As his hand slid down to her belly again, his mouth closed over one stiff little nipple. He sucked on it with tantalizing delicacy at first, then with increasing pressure. At last he nipped the little mound gently, making Sandy gasp with the pleasure-pain.
The boy ran his tongue over her plump ripe breast again, over the other breast until his tongue found the nipple there. As he fastened his mouth to it and began to suck, his hand once more crawled down her belly to the mass of golden hair and found the warm moist slit of her pussy.
A probing finger worked its way into the tiny orifice, twisting and turning inside the narrow passage, while Sandy writhed and squirmed in ecstasy under his plunging hand.
God, it was good, she thought! I never knew it was going to be like this! She lay on her back, responding to the maddening movement of Terry's fingers, pushing her hips up, rotating them, jerking them back and forth in wild, excited spasms.
"Ohhh, Baby," crooned Terry. "Like it?"
Terry's voice broke the ecstatic spell, and a small, still voice warned her to be careful. My God? Didn't she have any sense? Suppose someone heard? Sandy thought of Janice Quincy, asleep in the next bedroom. Suppose they woke her up? She'd run straight to the head mistress and tattle, the snooty bitch. Suppose she wanted to go all the way? What if she got pregnant? Oh, no! They couldn't do this! "Terry," Sandy begged him, "we've got to stop. Please! Now. Don't do any more."
For answer, Terry only wormed his finger deeper into her warm, moist cuntal hole, withdrew it, plunged it in again, fucking back and forth as she ground her buttocks into the mattress. At last he withdrew his finger to search out and caress the tiny bud of her clitoris and to tease it into hardness.
Sandy quivered, and a long drawn-out moan escaped her lips. Her little cunt was burning with hot flames of desire. As they leapt and licked at her loins, setting her whole being on fire, she knew that nothing . . . nothing at all.. . would make her stop Terry now. She would rather die, she thought. She really would rather die!
Her hand searched for his virile young cock and found it pressing into the soft flesh of her thighs. She grasped it in her hand, and heard a groan of satisfaction from Terry. It felt all soft and velvety . . . but hard, too. She rubbed the foreskin back and forth, teasing Terry, exciting him. She ran her finger over the smooth rubbery head of his glorious young prick, and tickled the parted hole, then ran it along the underside of the hardened length. She stroked harder and harder, abandoning herself to the raw young lust that possessed her aroused young body and moistly steaming pussy.
Terry's fingers plunged deep inside her once more, and began moving slowly, rhythmically while Sandy, impaled on them, squirmed in an insane rhythm of her own. A warm, sticky fluid oozed from her pulsing depths under Terry's manipulations, drenching her pussy and flowing down her sensuously naked thighs.
Terry's awakened young prick jerked in her hand and Sandy cried out in delight. All doubts, all fears were wiped away by the exquisite pleasure she was feeling as Terry finger-fucked her passion obsessed cunt.
In a frenzy of wild abandon, Sandy's other hand slipped down to the sperm-laden balls, encompassed them, and cradled them with infinite tenderness as, with one finger, she stroked the pendulous, silk-smooth sacs. At the same time, she gripped his throbbing cock still tighter, and brought first a deep groan from the boy, and then a spine-tingling wail that resounded eerily in the small dormitory room.
With a violent shudder, Sandy released Terry's sensitive tender balls and grasped his lust-rigid cock between both hands, massaging it furiously, working it back and forth, reveling in the obscene excitement that made itself felt in Terry's heavy breathing, her own overwhelming need for release from the lust that rumbled through her being, Sandy guided the bulbously throbbing head of Terry's swollen cock down to the opening of her gaping pussy. A stifled, muffled scream of "Terrrry!" . . . broke from her constricted throat, and with an uncontrollable jerk, Sandy's knees shot out further, opening a clear smooth path to her tight little virginal passage.
With a grunt, Terry rolled over onto Sandy, and one leg slipped between her open thighs. Abruptly, he withdrew his hand from the young girl's excitedly clasping cunt, and touched her small face. He bent his head to hers, his tongue darting out, finding her lips, flicking them open, finding her teeth, her tongue, to end in a long, wet kiss.
God, it was so wonderful! And how Sandy wanted him inside her! That rock-hard young cock of his plunging deep inside, plundering her virginal hole, making her a woman at last. Her burning little pussy ached for him with an unquenchable desire. Oh, God! She could hardly stand it!
Now, rolling over on top of her, his hardened young penis parted the thin silken hair that guarded her vaginal mouth, eased slowly through the gently pulsating lips and slipped hotly into the fleshy opening of Sandy's unplundered cunt. A shudder of delight convulsed her slight frame while little mewls of pleasure burst from her openly quivering lips.
The boy's surging cock burrowed deeper and deeper into the unresisting walls of her aroused drenched pussy and Sandy struggled to clasp his arching back between her legs. Her buttocks were upturned, now, exposed fully, and as his excitedly swollen shaft sank in to the hilt, his equally swollen balls slapped flatly against the cheeks of her ass. Impaled on his thrusting prick, Sandy's hip rotated wildly in response, bouncing against the mattress, sending the headboard beating against the wall.
A few minutes earlier in the room next door, Janice Quincy, who'd had no date for the dance, had lain in the unhappy darkness, listening. What on earth was going On next door? Sandy was at the dance, wasn't she? Bitterly, she thought, everyone is at the dance but me.
She muffled a sob and wiped her nose on the bedsheet, remembering her mother telling her, "Janice, you're much too young to date," in her usual authoritarian voice. Even if her mother had approved of her going to the dance, who would have asked such a gawky looking, shy girl. None, Janice admitted to herself, with another sob. If only her own flat, childish breasts were as fully developed as Sandy's, her hips as sensuously curved, her buttocks as round. Sandy had had a dozen different boys begging to take her to the dance. Right now, Janice was certain there were that many more fighting to dance with her.
She heard the noise from Sandy's room again, and again she wondered what on earth went on. If Sandy was at the dance, whirling around like a movie starlet, who was making that noise in her room? Janice had to find out. What if it was a robber?
She slipped from the bed, drew a robe over her short, sheer nightie and padded barefoot into the hall. She glided over the thick carpet until she reached Sandy's door, and stood there, afraid at first to knock. But the sounds grew louder and Janice at last summoned up her courage, stepped forward and rapped lightly on the door.
When there was no answer, she rapped again, louder this time. There was still no answer, although the sounds from the room continued. She's in there, Janice thought with annoyance. Why doesn't she answer? Again she knocked, then turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack. The sounds from the room were louder now-a low wail, followed by a moan and then a sigh. Sandy must be sick, she thought, peering into the darkness.
As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Janice froze in shock. Her legs seemed to go as soft as jelly, buckling under her and caving in. She grabbed the doorknob to keep herself from falling.
Sandy's moans changed to clearly recognizable words, and Janice heard her begging. "Oh, Terry! Honey! Do it to me. Dooooo . . . it! Please, Terry. PLEASE!"
Janice's head whirled as the lewdly pleading words registered in her shocked mind. She longed to run, to hide in some dark corner where no one could see her fear and revulsion. She tried to close the door, but her trembling hands hung limply at her sides, refusing to move. She stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to lift one foot and put it ahead of the other, carrying her away from this disgusting sight.
A blast of wind seemed to ripple up her back from the base of her spine, raising goose bumps on her neck and arms. She shivered, and her teeth began to chatter. Yet her forehead felt burning hot.
Almost fainting now, Janice's head lolled against the open door. It swung farther ajar, and in the patch of light that now fell across the bed, Janice saw Sandy nakedly sprawled across it.
She tried to shout at her, to save her, somehow, from this wicked thing that was happening. But when she opened her mouth, nothing came out but a low groan. She couldn't stand there and watch this vile, filthy scene in front of her, she thought. . . and with that boy Terry, naked like Sandy, straddling the girl as he made love to her.
He panted and writhed above her, groaning unintelligibly as his jutting penis desperately tried to enter Sandy's softly seeping little pussy. "Oh, my God," he groaned, "I want you Sandy. Sandy, do you know what I wanna do? I wanna fuck you."
The foul word struck Janice's ear. He couldn't have mid that. Janice jerked to life and clapped her hands over her ears. But it was too late, for she had already heard Sandy's mewl of obscene pleasure at the foul word and her answer, "I want you to, Terry. Honest I do. I want.. . you . . . to fuck . . . me!"
She reached out and took Terry's throbbing cock in one small hand. It's so big, thought Janice. Why, Sandy's hand could barely go around it. Don't, she pleaded with Terry silently. Oh, God, you'll hurt her!
Sandy moaned again, then guided Terry's swollen cock towards the pink, hair-lined split of her young throbbing hussy. She opened her legs wider, pulling her knees back until they almost brushed her shoulders. Holding Terry's penis in her hand, she stroked the tender little mound of her clitoris with it, moaning softly all the time.
As Janice watched, frozen in horrified shock, Terry eased his blood-swollen penis into the small hole of Sandy's tight little pussy, a twitch of excitement rippled through her own body. Drops of warm, sticky vaginal fluid oozed from her own little virgin orifice, flooding through the gold silk of her pubic hair to trickle hotly down between her thighs. A warm throbbing ache there sent small waves of pleasure darting through her blood. Her little clitoris tingled and Janice, without realizing it, touched it, tentatively at first, then stroked it deliberately.
Suddenly she was aware of what she was doing, and hot, scalding tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh God, Fm as bad as they are," she told herself. Tm evil and filthy. OH, I'm worse." Yet she couldn't stop herself.
Through tear-blurred eyes she watched her suitemate squirm against the white coverlet of her bed as the boy fucked his penis deeper and deeper into her gratefully accepting little belly. Sweat dripped from her body; an unearthly gasp that was more like a shriek of pleasure rippled from her lips.
He slid his hands under Sandy's firmly rounded buttocks, cupped them, lifting the smooth white cheeks from the bed, clenched them, and released them. All the while he forced his penis farther up between the warm moist walls of her open vagina and then, jerking back, he completely withdrew his wetly gleaming cock.
As Sandy bucked and heaved beneath the naked boy, he again with the smooth head of his cock, parted the silken strands of her cuntal flesh and his stiff, proud young cock speared deeply back up into her hotly sucking cunt. It was moving faster now, ramming all the way to her cervix, sliding out, fucking deep into the girl's desperately working belly.
Still transfixed, Janice watched the sordid scene, while the dull, tantalizing ache of her own tight pussy maddened her. She stroked her tiny, budding clitoris into hardness, while electrifying bolts of pleasure shot through her from tip to toe and she quivered. Oh, it was wrong, it was wicked, yet she couldn't stop!
Gently, carefully, she parted the thin pink edges of her cuntal lips. An exploratory finger wormed slowly into her moist throbbing little cunt, and her pleasure mounted to an almost unbearable ecstasy. She slipped another finger into the burning hole, then a third, and her tender, virginal flesh closed around them, sucking them, swallowing them on inside. On the bed the naked couple fucked with wild abandon, oblivious of everything but their own crazed desire.
Sandy rotated her hips wildly, rose to meet Terry's thrusts, then fell back as he withdrew. The rhythm of their lascivious lovemaking became faster as it crescendoed into a nakedly writhing climax. Janice, watching, began to move with them, her fingers matching the thrust of the boy's plunging cock, the lewd, smacking slap of his belly against that of the hotly twisting young girl.
Then a long wail wafted Janice's lust-fogged brain. It was Terry howling, "Ohhh, fuck back, baby, fuck back! I'm cumming! I'M CUMMING!"
Sandy grasped him tighter, her fingernails trailing across his naked buttocks, leaving red welts mingled with white fingernail scratches. Her knees were tightly back up to the twin full moons of her breasts, and pinned there by the weight of Terry's lean, strong body. The flat plane of her crotch opened wide to the pounding, and Sandy welcomed it with little mewls of pleasure. The boy's sperm-filled balls slapped against the rounded cheeks of her upturned buttocks as he rammed again and again into the wetly clinging hole.
Then Sandy's shriek pierced the night air. "Oh, my God!" she squealed, her voice sounding inhuman. "Oh, Terry. Oooo! I'm cumming too!. . . I'm cumming!"
She jerked and thrashed beneath him as his hard, virile cock hammered deep up into the soft fleshy tissue of her cervix. A shudder of overwhelming pleasure shook her, setting fire to her belly, sending tongues of flames licking through her body. She screamed again, calling his name. "Oh, Terry!" And then, with a final, convulsive spasm that signaled the ultimate ecstasy, she lay back, legs splayed out obscenely once more as the boy pumped his hot, steaming sperm deep into her belly, to mingle with those of her own thick, steamy juices.
Janice saw Terry's milk-white sperm spill from Sandy's still wide spread young pussy, flow over her thighs and drip down into the crevice of her buttocks. Her own excitedly twitching little cunt was still impaled on her own fingers, and she moved them back and forth now, back and forth, in and out, deeper and deeper, stimulating the sensitive flesh of her vagina. "Oh, God," she thought. "I can't stand it any longer. "I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!" And then with a shock and wonder, she felt her first orgasm. "Oh, God, I'm cumming too!"
A pleasure so wonderful it was almost pain surged through Janice's climaxing young body, leaving her quivering and shaking. She was lost in a world in which there was no time, no place . . . just bliss and passion.
Slowly the lust ebbed and Janice came back to her senses. A shudder of horror shook her slender body and she was convulsed again with sobs. "Oh, what have I done?" she thought. "WHAT?" She shook her head and rubbed a scalding tear from her cheek, her mother's warning sounding loud and guilt-laden in her mind: "People of our type aren't interested in sex." Janice gasped at the thought of her mother finding out how wicked her daughter really was. She began to sob aloud, now, unable to hold back the tears that flowed down her pale cheeks.
There was a sudden sound from the room where Sandy and the boy lay. Quickly, quietly, she drew the door closed behind her, as Sandy's startled voice asked Terry, "What was that?"
"I didn't hear anything," yawned Terry. "I sure did. It's probably that snoopy Janice Quincy."
"Naw, I'm sure I saw her at the dance," said Terry, bending his head to kiss her throat, then her erect nipples.
"Then you don't know Janice Quincy. Who would ever want to go out with her? She's all money and no fun."
With those words, Janice scurried for her bedroom, jumped in, and pulled the covers over her head.
Now, sitting on the wooden bench in the Antwerp train depot, watching the hordes of weekend travelers queue up for the train, Janice had found her answer. Beautiful as she was, she decided, she lacked a carnal sensuality that all men found irresistible.
Surely Charles, good, kind, Charles had never done anything as despicable as she'd seen that night outside of Sandy Petty's door. Charles was a man fully in control of himself at all times. The problem was her own. Not that she wasn't attractive to men, but that her mind was filled with evil. She would control that wickedness from now on, she vowed, watching with relief as the Amsterdam placard flipped on the board announcing arriving trains.
Yes, she would have a nice dinner in the dining car and retire afterwards to her private compartment. Tomorrow morning at seven o'clock she would be in Amsterdam, the city of a thousand bridges.
CHAPTER THREE
At some point in her younger years, Janice Meredith Quincy had developed an abhorrence for eating alone and, now, as she sat in the dining car gazing absentmindedly out of the blackened window onto the flattening green lands smoothing towards Amsterdam, she felt particularly alone . . . rather like a chastised maid in a darkened kitchen eating her soup in silence.
Except for the table across from her where sat a family of four, only three other tables were occupied-one by a burly bunch of travelers whose appearance and manners seemed far too crude for first class accommodations. They must have traveled for weeks, assumed Janice, desperately trying not to stare at the men's dirty trousers and beards that seemed to have grown unintentionally without the grace of grooming.
And the woman.. . my Lord, she was just as bad with her stockingless legs and stringy black hair. Charles would have them removed from the car, mused Janice, sitting up a little straighter. They spoke English, though whether or not they were from the States, Janice couldn't tell.
She let her wine glass linger at her lips while her shell-like ears strained for any hint as to who these disgracefully crass people might be, but they were talking too low in hushed, almost secretive voice for her to hear. Something in her New England aristocratic upbringing made her lose her appetite in the company of such tawdry folk, and she concentrated on her wine, leaving her lamb in curry sauce nearly untouched.
The Beaujolais slid down her throat with a pleasant tingle, and she poured herself another glass from the half-bottle, forcing herself to remain oblivious to the uncomely group of people blemishing the spotless dining car.
Suddenly their voices hushed to an inaudible whisper and Janice felt their eyes searching her out, cold unfriendly eyes that rose goose bumps up and down the delicate length of her spine. Was it her imagination or were they deliberately spying her out? she wondered, suspecting that her own chilly stares of disapproval had cornered their attention and now looks of disgust was her due reward for such blatant snobbery.
Mother would never allow such a thing to happen, clucked Janice, finishing her wine, then motioning to the waiter to settle her bill. By luck, he accepted French francs, not just Belgium ones, and she left a handful of coins on the tip tray, perhaps out of habit, unconcerned whether the bill included the tip or not. With her alligator bag securely slung over her shoulder, she hastened off towards the last sleeping car on the train where her reserved private compartment lay waiting, bed turned down for a night of solid rest before her eyes opened tomorrow morning upon buzzing Amsterdam.
The incessant clang of the train rumbling on the tracks was terribly loud and rattling in her delicate ears as she opened the doors to the exit of each wagon, feeling the chilling vibrations of the train's powerful speed under her size five feet, while the connecting mechanism on the wagon forced the car to weave back and forth like a sideways see-saw. Somewhere near the third car from the end she was about to pull open the heavy metal door when it opened for her.
"Oh, thank you," she smiled into the handsome face of a border policeman who tipped his medallioned hat, then held the door for her to pass by. She was to meet six of those similarly dressed policemen on her short journey to the last sleeping car.
That caused a small flicker of concern to ignite in her delicate body. What was going on here, she wondered, thankful to step into her private compartment and slipped her bag off her shoulder to set it on the bed. On several trains she and Charles had traveled on, she recalled seeing two or three conductors, and occasionally more than one border police at the border. She shrugged off her fears with the help of the wine and rationalized that perhaps it was traveling alone, a new experience for Janice Meredith Quincy, that made her more cognizant of possible dangers.
Wistfully discarding her thoughts, Janice unzipped her navy blue linen dress that cost a small fortune and slipped out of it. The fabric rustled over her body, sliding over her smooth, creamy shoulders, onto her full, round breasts, then down to her smooth, sveltely curving buttocks, her voluptuous thighs, and her slim legs. It settled on the bare floor of her tiny cabin.
She stepped out of the crumpled pile of fabric and pulled the sheerness of her slip over her head, and dropped it, too, on the floor of her sleeping room.
Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bit of black lace which was her brassiere, then slipped the straps off her shoulders and let it fall to join her dress on the floor.
Standing there in the confining room with barely enough space to turn around, Janice began to feel terribly homesick for the expensive comfort of her bedroom in Boston, with its authentic pink satin Victorian furniture and soft carpets, lush and thick as a plantation lawn.
Her flimsy nylon panties came off next, followed by her panty hose and a pair of black leather pumps. Her silken body shivered with a chill as she hastily bent down to her suitcase on the bed and opened it, drew out a yellow satin robe and wrapped the lace-trimmed slinkiness around her naked body. Her pretty mouth ovaled into a yawn as she stepped to the sink in the far corner of her humble accommodations and stared into the small mirror above the porcelain basin.
The day's travel had left her feeling soiled, a feeling she loathed; and staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror, she splashed water on her face in preparation for night cream on skin that was so clear it was almost translucent, glowing with subdued color. Her cheek bones were perhaps her finest feature, yet her small, pouty mouth was good, too, and her teeth perfect.
Her eyes, she had always thought a bit too wide set, but the limpid blue of them made up for any imperfection, as did the black lashes that shaded her eyes. Toweling her face dry, she swathed a fine layer of expensive night cream under her eyes-needless, really-then flipped off the light and slid between the cool sheets.
She lay awake thinking for some time, listening to the mesmerizing rumbling vibration of the train charging toward Amsterdam, its entrancing sound creating a contrapuntal rhythm in her head like that of a drum beat.
The stained glass windows of Notre Dame, the spaghetti she'd been craving all day, Charles' Aunt Sybil (she was as stuffy as Mrs. Tarrington?). . . the sleepy young woman thought about all those things, and she thought, too, about the six border patrols who'd come aboard the train in Antwerp. Why? Suspicion stirred a thread of tension in her lithe body, but she shook it off and turned on her side to slip one fragile arm under the flat foam rubber pillow. Eyelids grew heavy and thoughts more wistful and scattered as she fell into a deep slumber.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Jesus Christ, patrols are swarming this goddamned train like a beehive!" Hank stormed through the narrow door of the sleeping compartment number 2 and locked it fast behind him, his thick fingers working deftly, fingers that had itched on many gun triggers, fingers that in their thirty-four years had cracked many safes. "Those bastards have been on our tail since Turkey and by God, three fuckin' hours away from Amsterdam and the sonofabitches catch up." A distraught hulk of a man, he sank down on the cot, smoking furiously at a strong-smelling cigarette, the tiny room that was to become their prison in the hours to come blue with smoke while his comrades scattered around him: Lisa, Theo, and Gunnar, three heroin smugglers with whom he'd run heroin from the Golden Triangle around Cambodia to Amsterdam for the past four years.
Gunnar braced his military boot up on the porcelain basin in the corner, hunching his body into a contorting posture, that made his short, stocky German frame appear even more compact. He spit into the sink, a look of disgust on his pock-marked face. "Shit. They've been searchin' every goddamned passenger and piece of luggage. The only way we'll get to Amsterdam is in handcuffs."
Lisa, who'd been leaning against the wall, moved to stand in front of the door. She was quickest to respond rationally. 'Time to make a choice. Either we dump the shit, we jump the train, or we take a hostage and bargain our way out." She was a lean, dark haired woman, pretty, too, had she showed more concern over grooming. One by one, she surveyed the faces of her comrades, her dark penetrating eyes reading their minds, searching for signs of weakness. She knew them all well. They'd been through hell and back together in the four years they'd been runners-'astronauts', as those in the underworld call them-for a Chinese headed syndicate in Amsterdam.
The four of them had met in Amsterdam years back when they'd hung out around the Paradisio where heroin was easy to buy, if one knew the right people. With no work and too many occasional arrests, the habit became too expensive to support and payoffs began to take on the character of favors, leading finally to the ultimate-working for Ti Wong.
"Choice? You call that a choice?" Theo, a lean, fair-complexioned Swede of thirty-two years rasped sarcastically, his eyes squinting with emotion. The still burning ashes of his cigarette crumbled as he stubbed out the end of it on the heel of his shoe and tossed it in the toilet bowl with an angry gesture of defeat, which in Lisa's eyes registered as fear. She'd seen enough of it in the past four years to smell it. "You know what Ti Wong did to Christine for fuckin' up."
The room fell silent, save for the maddening drip of the leaky faucet in the corner basin. Their minds were horrifyingly vivid with the memory of an Amsterdam girl found nailed to a door, razor blade cuts lacing her body in cross-hatchings that oozed blood till she bled to death. She had ratted, gone to the police and given names after being arrested on a smuggling charge. Ti Wong's men had busted her out of prison and killed her. Christine had been one of Lisa's closest friends.
Which was why this was to be Lisa's, Gunnar's, Theo's, and Hank's last run. Christine had wanted out but wasn't quick enough to leave. This was it: the final run, the big one before they ran separate ways, trying to save their necks from the scrupulous Chinese madman whose control of Amsterdam's drug world was undisputed, even by the police who tracked him night and day like dogs after the fox. And like the fox, he managed to disappear into a hole right under their noses.
Hank scratched his thick black beard, then stroked it thoughtfully. "Hostage . . . we need a hostage."
"But we can't hold the whole damned train hostage, you idiot! You have any idea how many cars are on this thing?" Gunnar drew a stick of chewing gum from his pocket and stuck the wad in his mouth. When he was nervous he chewed gum; perhaps that's why his teeth were half rotted. "We need one person . . . somebody that means something, not just some dumpy Dutch dude."
A Mona Lisa smile etched Lisa's sallow face. "I think I know who. I followed her from the dining car. In fact, our ticket to freedom is sleeping next door to us.. . she's the only one sleeping on this car except for us."
Hank looked up from the spot on the wall where his eyes had been focusing unblinking as camera lens. "And she's got to have money, if it's that sexy looking blonde bitch. Christ, judging from the way she dressed, her daddy probably owns Manhattan Island."
Gunnar snapped a bubble from the wad of chewing gum. "Pretty damned nice ass on her, too."
Everybody looked grim, and especially Hank, the realist of the bunch, also the leader when times got rocky, like now. He drew out a train schedule from his work shirt pocket and followed it with his finger, reading aloud. "Okay, we stop in Den Haag. That's where we cut loose. Gunnar, you used to be a brakeman, you get your ass workin' on disconnecting this train car, and Lisa, you keep him covered. Theo keeps an eye on the police while I kidnap the girl."
The ammunition was checked, watches synchronized. Tension was heavy in the room.
It was a terrifying dream. She was on the north elevator of the Eiffel Tower headed for the third level when it broke, the elevator carriage plunging with sickening speed to the deathly ground below, when Janice was suddenly awakened by the screech of iron that sounded as if it had come from directly under her train car. Bewildered and shaking with fright, she bolted up in bed, her yellow satin robe gaping open in the front, letting her full, creamy breasts and their strawberry nipples quiver in the cool air. Heavy footsteps running past her door pounded threateningly in her delicate ears and in the dark she heard the gut tearing sound of someone working at the lock of the door to her sleeping compartment.
"Who-who's there?" she called out in a voice that echoed with the same fear that scorched her body. "Please, get away from my door . . . I.. . "
Suddenly the door burst open and in the dark all that Janice Quincy could see of her assailant was the evil, wide, white grin of his smile. Then his hand shot out, and he grabbed her brutally by the shoulder, pinning her back down on the cot. "Don't try anything," he warned, slapping her. He drew a small bottle from his pocket and uncorked it under Janice's nose. She struggled, trying desperately to free herself from the evil smelling fumes that she breathed, making her eyes water, causing her to cough and gag. She felt dizzy and the world around her whirled; the man's face-what little she could see of it-went blurred and fuzzy, and then everything fell dark again.
It was still dark when Janice awoke and she had no idea where she was. She only knew that she was lying on a narrow cot in what seemed to be a small room, terribly stuffy it was, with only a tiny window to let in the growing pink of the rising sun. Her head ached and her mouth was bone dry; her stomach churned and when she tried to turn over she found she had no strength to do so.
What had happened to her? Time was a complete blank. How long had she been in this room, she wondered. The effort of thinking exhausted her, as well as the fear she felt in her constricted throat, and she fell asleep again.
Later that evening when she awoke, she made out a shadowy figure standing by the bed. A shiver and chill shuddering through her lithe body, she discovered that she was naked. Her yellow satin robe had disappeared, as had her blue linen dress that she'd hung on the door's hook the night before.
Where were her clothes? Who took them, and why?
A cry of pure terror welled up in Janice's throat, only to be strangled there. That filthy evil man who broke into her room must have taken them, clawing at her body as he removed it.
Oh, God! He must have touched her poor, defenseless body, forced her to submit to lewd, indecent acts. Oh, dear God, no! Janice clenched her teeth, holding back her screams of fear and horror that wracked her body like a fever.
And what would happen to her now? Was she to be attacked, assaulted, her helpless virginity plundered and invaded by this figure in the room? Raped? She shuddered, and with no control left at all, she began to scream wildly. "No! Don't touch me! Please don't touch me."
The figure moved, and Janice cringed and flung her arm over her face as she waited for his obscene touch on her trembling body. Then she heard someone coming through the door. Janice peeped through her fingers just as someone turned on the light overhead. In the illumination she saw a man whom she instantly recognized as one of the filthy brutes in the dining car last night. And the other was a woman.
The man's voice was loud and sudden. "Lisa, for Chrissakes, keep her quiet. They'll think we're torturing her!" he barked.
"She's hysterical, Gunnar. What can I do?"
"Rough her up a little bit."
"But we agreed not to hurt her, remember? One rap is enough."
"Do anything, just shut her up!" Gunnar scratched his crotch. "I know something I'd like to put in her mouth to keep her quiet."
Janice writhed in shame at the obscene joking, struggling to cover herself with the skimpy sheet to hide her bare shoulders. God, how foul this man was! Base, depraved man who would rape a woman as casually as they would smoke a cigarette. She thought of Charles, fine decent Charles, and she sobbed.
Gunnar's eyes roved over her sheet covered body, and Janice shrank back as if they had actually touched her. She winced as Gunnar nudged Lisa with his elbow and asked, "You suppose she's got an old man to suck that high class twat of hers?"
Lisa whirled on him. "Cut the clowning," she rasped in a shrill voice.
"But I was kinda hopin'. . . "
"We don't touch her, remember?" Lisa walked over and leaned against the sink in the corner. "What's goin' on out there? The patrol's here, no doubt."
Gunnar shook his head. "You got that right! Looks like World War II all over again. It's gonna be tough." Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, and Gunnar jumped to his feet and stormed from the cabin.
Lisa walked slowly over to the bed. "Scared?" she asked Janice.
Janice turned her face to the wall. "How can he talk like that!" she wailed. "He's so crude and vulgar-and oh, God!"
"Sure he's crude and vulgar," admitted Lisa, "but he's never had a lot of money like you." She sat down on Janice's bed. "Anyway," she went on, "he probably won't bother you. We've got enough trouble on our hands without adding rape to our rap."
Janice sat up on the bed, "Who are you?" she demanded.
"I'm Lisa."
"But who are you?" persisted the blonde with saucered eyes. "And why am I being held here? The train's not moving is it?" she put in suddenly, as if recognizing that fact for the first time. Amsterdam seemed impossibly far. "And where are my clothes-my blue dress and my robe? What's going to happen to me?"
"Look, little girl," Lisa said. "None of us are happy about this damnable situation. We want to get to Amsterdam worse than you do."
Janice sat upright on the bed, trying to focus her attention on what Lisa was telling her, but nothing made sense. Here she was on a train in a country she'd never been in before, in a train car with a whole gang of awful people who had taken her clothes, with her head throbbing and aching and whirling from whatever it was that had been in that bottle-so that she couldn't seem to grasp anything she was told. And she felt tired, too tired to think, to figure things out. "I don't understand," she said at last.
Patiently, as if she were talking to a small child, Lisa began, "You are a hostage."
"You mean I've been kidnapped?" Janice whispered the words.
"Of sorts . . . you see we're in a mess just like you are now. The police are after us-have been for a long time and now, in order to bargain our way out, we're trading you for a couple years in prison. Understand now?"
As Janice thought about it, things started to fall in place, even in her fogged, chloroformed brain.
But that was no reason to take her robe, was it? She looked at her luxurious curves of her naked body under the thin sheet, and felt the full humiliation of her position. "Don't hurt me, please," she said in a half whisper. I'll give you money, anything you want-Charles will too-but don't hurt me."
"We aren't planning to," said Lisa. "We don't want to hurt you any more than we want the police to start shooting at us."
There sounded a rap on the door, and Janice slid down between the sheets, pulling the coverlet up to her chin as Hank sauntered into the room, a tall, burly looking man with thick black hair and a beard to match. Every inch of him seemed to be covered by hair, like some kind of evolutionary throwback. She dived deeper into the bed. Again she fell into a heavy sleep.
When she awoke it was to see Hank and Gunnar in the room, deep in discussion with Lisa. She strained her ears to hear what they were saying, and, although their words escaped her, she knew by the solemn tones that it was bad news.
By the evening of the second day, Janice had a sense of impending doom. A heavy pall of gloom hung over the train car and all five within its metal prison. Lisa sat by Janice's bed wrapped in deep thought from which she stirred occasionally to pace nervously back and forth in the tiny prison of gloom. Once in a while one of the others-Hank, Gunnar, or Theo opened the door a crack, poked his head in and held whispered, mysterious conversations with her.
As the night dragged on, Janice's nerves began to give way. The slam of the door made her teeth clench with fear. With trembling fingers, she lit one cigarette after another, snuffing them out half smoked.
By morning, she awakened to find Hank in her room.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hank sat on the commode in Janice's tiny prison and stared at the hostage's sleeping form. Christ, but the innocent little bitch was built! Just looking at her was enough to make his balls ache and his thick cock stiffen and jerk inside his pants. Especially the way she was lying now, her magnificently rounded breasts just bursting out from under the sheet, the soft pink flesh of her naked shoulders displayed so provocatively, and her swanlike neck. One leg had kicked out to the side in her sleep, making the sheet bunch up and expose her full white thigh. God, if she stood up and stood at her side, he could see her pink little pussy and the thin golden patch of pubic fleece there.
Even the way Janice's hair curled down against her cheek, the way one smooth arm lay across her forehead, sent a dull pounding ache coursing the length of Hank's rigid penis. God, but he'd like to have it up in her now, ram it deep inside her while she moaned and thrashed and bucked under him. And begged for more, too. By God, that would be half the fun, to hear the snooty little bitch actually begging for his cock. That would take the edge off the wait, while the police gathered and decisions were made as to how to arrest Ti Wong's runners without endangering the captive's life . . . if indeed, they even knew she was there.
Hank sucked in his breath, remembering the hands off policy. When she was released, it had to be the way they found her-in good health, or else they's send them all up the river for rape, assault, and God only knows what else.
Janice stirred and opened her eyes. She wasn't sure of where she was at first, or who was sitting there in the room. But his intentions were unmistakable. His lecherous eyes crawled over her like dirty little insects, and Janice, crushed and humiliated, tried to brush them away. What was wrong with these people? Were they a bunch of perverts? Janice saw with disgust the bulge under the man's trousers, and turned away in revulsion.
With an angry gesture, she pulled her sheet up to her neck and tucked in her leg, then shot Hank a demeaning look. "Do you have to sit there and stare at me?" she spat at him.
"Here, put this shirt on." His fingers worked at the buttons of his work shirt, blue, but black with filth. "I promise I'll close my eyes while you slip it on." He sat there on the commode, his hairy chest grizzly looking while his captive sat up in bed and, grabbing the shirt at the foot of it, hastily slipped her arms through the gaping holes of the sleeves. Then she got up and rummaging through her alligator suitcase, drew out a pair of panties and slipped them on, too. Hank sucked in his breath with an obscene panting sound, then let out a long, low whistle that made Janice turn and hiss icily: "Well, do you have to stare at me?"
Her captor grinned and licked his thick lips repulsively. "Don't have to . . . want to."
A cry that was half rage, half shame escaped Janice's tightly pursed lips. "You're rotten, you and your bunch of no-good thugs!" her voice began shrill, turned to a scream of fury, ". . . kidnappers . . . rapists!"
Hank leapt to his feet and strode across the room. He seized Janice by her shoulders and his nails dug cruelly into the soft, tender flesh as he shook her savagely. Janice squirmed and writhed, trying to escape his powerful hands, but Hank held her tight. She threw her head back, and laughed hysterically. "Oh, you're so big and strong and brave, aren't you?" she taunted him. "But you're not so smart are you . . . otherwise you wouldn't be in this situation, huh? Yeah, you criminals and dope addicts are all alike. You take what you want and then whimper like a hurt puppy when you get caught."
Janice stopped, panting for breath, and Hank pushed her away from him, holding her at arms length. His voice was cold and cruel when he spoke, and his dark eyes glinted with something Janice couldn't identify. "Okay, maybe you're right. But if I'm an animal I'll act like one."
"What do you mean?" Janice asked with a sudden fear that she had said too much.
Hank held her, motionless at arm's length, and stared insolently into her small frightened face. "I mean I want you and if I have to whimper about it later I will." He gave her a shove that sent her reeling backwards two steps to land flat on the cot. With one giant step Hank was beside her, clutching her by the shoulder again, pulling her to her feet. "I'm going to fuck you, puppy dog that I am, Miss whoever you are," he said, "like you've never been fucked before." He gave a short laugh, his mouth curled back evilly over his cruel, sharp, tobacco-stained teeth.
HO
"Oh, no you don't! Do you know who I am? Janice Meredith Quincy, that's who, you stupid brute. And do you know who I'm marrying? Charles Edward Tarrington the third, and he's awfully smart and wealthy and when he finds out about this he'll kill you!" She'd broken the family rule of not discussing their money, and she paid for that mistake, dearly.
"Shut up!" Hank's hand shot out, seizing the fragile nylon of her panties and with one swift motion, he ripped them from her, letting them fall to the floor. His hand shot out again, this time to send the buttons on his workshirt popping across the room, and he tore the shirt from her heaving breasts, then wadded it in a ball and tossed it on the floor.
Holding the frozen Janice by one hand now, he struggled out of his pants. Quickly, deftly, he unbuckled his belt, then unzipped his pants, easing them and his cotton undershorts down over his hips. His thick, rock-hard cock sprang free, stiff as a pole, its bulbously swollen head oozing drops of lubricating fluid. Janice gasped in terror. Good Lord, it was huge! Would he really try?
Hank followed her glance downward as she stood mesmerized by his jutting penis. "What's the matter," he asked with an arrogant sneer, "haven't you seen a prick before?"
Janice stiffened as his hand slid down over her stomach to the gentle mound of her pelvis, then 'til down between her legs to crawl with provoking slowness along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She gasped, struggling to free herself from his lecherous fingers; even so, a tiny spark of unwanted pleasure burst in between her legs. What if Charles should find out? Huge wet tears rose in her eyes and cased down her satin cheeks. Even if dear, good Charles never knew of this depravity, Janice would never be able to face him again, with this guilty secret on her conscience.
She began to plead pitifully with Hank. "I'll do anything . . . ANYTHING . . . if only you'll let me go. I won't tell. . . " She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. "Oh God, please let me go!"
He gave her a look of contempt as he forced her naked body back to the bed, then down upon it. In a moment he was on his knees, over her defenseless form, his snaky eyes filled with lust, his mouth twisted sadistically.
"I'll do anything," whimpered Janice. Her voice trailed off as the utter hopelessness of her situation registered in her mind. There was nothing she could do, she knew, and tears flowed down her cheeks now.
Hank bent his head to Janice's and fixed his lips wetly on her tightly closed mouth. Brutally, he forced his tongue between her futilely resisting lips, flicked it in and out, then pressed it deep into her throat.
Janice struggled against him until the last ounce of her strength had died away, then submitted weakly. She lay beneath him, sobbing softy as his hands roamed at will over her helpless body, stroking her neck, her throat, the soft, naked flesh of her smooth white shoulders. They moved down and he cupped a breast in the huge palm of each hand, kneading and squeezing. His hot, hungry lips explored her face again, his tongue sank deep into her mouth, teasing. Then he ran it down the valley between her milk-white breasts. With a lewd, savage cry, he fastened his teeth harshly into the small bud of her nipple while Janice recoiled in pain. She began to struggle feebly once again, her naked flesh squirming up against the hard, lean body that pinned her down.
With a quick movement, Hank caught her small wrists in his powerful hands, crushing them until she winced with pain. He lifted his head and with an infuriating growl, snapped, "You little bitch, what did you do that for?"
Janice suppressed a sob, then pleaded: "I want you to stop. Oh, please, stop!"
"Bullshit you do, baby. Deep down inside that snooty little mind of yours, you love it!"
"Oh, no. NO!" But even as she denied it, Janice felt a lewd twirling in her stomach, a low, involuntary groan of pleasure rising in her throat.
"You do like it." Hank mocked again. "Pretty soon you'll be loving it even more." He bent his head again, and now his thick lips roamed moistly over the snowy whiteness of her heaving breasts, teasing the nipples into taut little cherries. At the same time, his two hands slid down the flesh of her belly, roved over the soft, sensitive curves of her hips, slipped under the twin half moons of her smoothly rounded buttocks.
His touch again sent little quivers of unwanted passion tingling through Janice and against her will, she found herself responding to his teasing touch. She made no effort to stop his hand that sought the thin, softly curling wisps of her pubic hair and there slipped slowly, deliciously into the narrow slit of her pussy, searching teasingly between the warmth of her inner thighs until he found the tiny bud of her clitoris and stroked it into throbbing erection
Then, as suddenly as he had begun, Hank slipped his fingers from Janice's helpless quivering cunt and knelt up over her again. "Liked that, didn't you?" he asked, and his harsh tone brought Janice's mind back to the reality of her gloomy situation with horrible abruptness. She thought of Charles again, and the hate he would feel for her for giving in this way to such lewdity. With a little cry of fear, she clamped her thighs together against the man's vile degrading of her naked virginity.
Roughly, Hank pulled her thighs apart, then hunched over her, his head just above her loins. As she realized what he was planning to do, she let out another cry. She'd been right all along! This man was a pervert, going to perform obscene acts on her defenseless body as she lay pinned beneath him. She wouldn't let him, though!
She thrashed about, flailing her arms until she was exhausted, while Hank's superior strength held her with a mocking grin. When she lay back at last, limp and unresisting, he fixed his eyes on the thin, tight slit up between her trembling legs, already moist with unwanted desire.
Hank rested the palms of his hands on her soft inner thighs, while his thumbs sought out the fleshy edges of her cunt. Then with a slow, teasing outward movement with them that brought a low cry of shame from Janice, he pressed the softly hair-fringed lips apart, exposing the pink, glistening little hole of her pussy completely to his gaze. He uttered a low appreciative grunt, then slipped himself forward and buried his face in the vee of her openly spread crotch. His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, running over his parted lips with lascivious expectation. Then, darting forth like a lizard's, it slipped deep up inside her wetly throbbing pussy.
"Oooooh, God God! Aaaahhhh!" Janice cried out at the lewd, delicious sensation that raced through her whole body, making it tingle against its will with a mad all-consuming desire. Convulsively, against every effort of her will, her legs jerked wide apart now, splaying out obscenely, hanging over the edges of the bed as though they belonged to a limp doll.
Hank ran his tongue up and down the thin, virginal furrow, probing and exploring until he found the tiny bud of her clitoris again, and, once again with maddening spiraling motion of his tongue, he licked the quivering little mound to trembling erection. Janice whined with agonized pleasure, torn between the exquisite feelings that the man's insistent licking of her virginal cunt aroused in her, and the shame and humiliation at the wicked delight her traitorous body was feeling. At last Hank's mouth closed over the hardened flesh that strained against his flicking tongue, and breathing heavily with his insane passion, he began to suck it as if it were a berry. Satiated at last, he gave the tiny, tender titty of flesh a sharp, cruel nip with his teeth while Janice cried out with a tortured cry of pain that mingled with the intense pleasure she felt, also.
She arched backwards, struggling one more time to free herself from the monster who ravaged her so obscenely. Then with a mingled groan of despair and desire, she slumped back against the bed while he began the maddening licking of her cuntal lips all over again. He slithered his tongue in and out of her saliva drenched pussy, flicked at the soft folds of throbbing pink flesh there, then withdrew to push her legs up and lick downwards at the narrow crevice between the smooth twin mounds of her nakedly upturned buttocks.
Christ, but she was a hot little bitch! Ready to fuck now, just aching for it. And Hank was the one to give her what she wanted, he thought maliciously, eyeing her with a triumphal gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes. He took his thick cock in one hand and, kneeling up between her widespread thighs, guided it to the tiny vertical little mouth between her legs, pushing forward insistently until the thick, rubbery head slipped through the long golden strands of her pubic hair towards the tightly giving lips of her pulsating pussy.
Janice gasped and held her breath as feelings of irrepressible desire mixed with those of agonizing guilt within her. She fought against the delicious quivering that wracked her body, while the thought of the disgrace of this vile rape of her open pussy wracked her mind. Then, as the blood-swollen tip of Hank's enormous prick slipped into and penetrated slightly the tightly clenched opening of her naked cunt, she seemed to see Charles standing before her, dressed in his proper gray flannel suit-the lawyer's suit-judging her.
The searing contact of Hank's huge cockhead with her young cuntal lips sent her into sharp little spasms of pain and pleasure and she began to scream. "Oh, don't" she begged. "For Godsake's! Hank! HANK!"
But then, with a sudden thrust, he flicked his hips forward and thrust his cock deep into her narrow tight cuntal slit, spearing into her without mercy. "Hank" she called him, and a feeling of elation warmed his whole being. "Hank!" Well, now at least he was a person to her-a man. It was up to him to show her how much of a man he was, too, and that was just what he intended to do. In no time at all, he would break her to his will.
He thrust his hips forward again, plunging on and on until Janice felt as if his huge fleshy shaft had exploded up inside her to fill the very center of her being, sending forbidden waves of painful ecstasy crashing through her. Vainly, she tried to save herself from this ultimate humiliation, struggling against this cruel man's rape.
She lay still and exhausted beneath him at last, impaled on his stiff cock that filled every part of her insides, pressing against the soft, ridged flesh of her cunt, inflaming it, turning it into a searing sheath of fire. Hank lay still, too, then suddenly arched back, raising himself above Janice to stare contemptuously into her face. "You love it, don't you, baby?" he asked with a mocking leer.
Janice's lips trembled and she stifled another sob, refusing to answer his question.
Hank flicked forward, fucking deep into her trembling belly once more, and now Janice let out a long wail of pain. He partially withdrew once more, again raised himself, again said? "You love it, don't you?" His tone had become brutal, his manner cruel. Janice, terrified, at last found her voice and gasped, "Y-yes!"
"Yes, what?" Hank's voice left no doubt that he knew he had her in his power.
"Want some more cock?" Hank grinned with lewd delight at Janice's meek submission to him.
"Oh . . . no . . . o . . . o . . . ! " she wailed.
"No?" There was a threat of retribution in his voice.
"Y-yes. Yes, Hank, I d-do!" Janice hurriedly amended as, even through her pain, she caught his tone of displeasure.
"Then ask for it!" ordered Hank.
"Please, Hank . . . "
"Not like that. Beg, you God damned snob!" Janice sucked in her breath. "Do it," she pleaded. "Do it."
"Say 'Fuck me! Fuck me with your cock.' And make it sound like you mean it."
Janice's head lolled to one side in abject humiliation and shame as she submitted even more completely to his degrading demands. With tears streaming down her face, she pleaded, "Oh Hank, fuck me. Please fuck me. For God's sake, fuck me with your cock!"
Hank's mouth twisted scornfully. He slipped his hands beneath the smoothly rounded cheeks of her buttocks as he began the slow rhythmic thrust which would soon build to climax. He slaved above her, fucking in and out of her tightly clenched pussy in long, smooth strokes, sending his cock deep up into her moist pussy that clasped and released it, clasped and released it of its own accord, then withdrew to plunge deep again. Then, as though wishing to press the ultimate humilation upon her helpless young genitals, the tip of his outstretched finger invaded the tiny puckered opening of her anus, and Janice groaned in unexpected pain. But moments later, the groans turned to soft, mewling sounds of pleasure, as he slowly wormed it deeper and the rubbery stretching little rectal passage slowly grew used to the unaccustomed presence there.
Hank fucked in and out of her cunt wildly nowin and out-quickening his stroke until Janice felt she was on fire with exquisite tongues of flame searing her loins, her quivering belly, shooting high up through her body to lick at her tender, sensitive breasts. She seemed possessed by an insane passion that blotted out all but the ecstatic pleasure of this man's hard driving penis, his finger skewering deep inside her rectum.
As he thrust again and again, his cock throbbing with his impending climax, Hank felt Janice jerk and lurch beneath him. A wet, sticky fluid gushed forth from the walls of her hotly clinging pussy and then, unbelievably to them both, as she writhed and churned wildly beneath him, Janice began her weird, rhythmical scream. "Ohhh, God! I'm cumming. I'm cummming . . . oh, my God! I'm cumming . . . ! "
Hank felt his own lust tormented cock expand in agonizing spasm, the inside of his testicles seemed to explode and split wide open. The hot white liquid churning there raced the full length of his rock-like prick, and then he spewed it into the depths of Janice's hotly contracting young belly. It mingled momentarily there with her own excitedly flooding juices, then overflowed back out her tightly locked cuntal lips to trickle in thin, lewd rivulets of surrender down the soft whiteness of her thighs. With a loud sigh, Hank collapsed on her voluptuously curved young body, already gone limp and exhausted beneath him . . . her legs spread lewdly open in utter and total defeat.
CHAPTER SIX
Charles Edward Tarrington III drummed his manicured fingernails on the heavy mahogany of the policeman's desk, his mouth twisted scornfully at the Dutch gibberish rumbling from John Jorgerson's mustached mouth, contemptuous that he could not understand this message two days in coming. He tried to calm himself, staring out the window at the Leidsplein Square directly across the street where unkempt young people with long scraggly hair, dungarees tucked into high boots and hash pipes hanging out of their mouths sauntered in and out of the Milky Way, Amsterdam's well known drug bar, where buying hash was as common as buying a beer. Crime right under the nose of the police. What did they do about it? Did they crack down? No! Absolutely not. No wonder it had taken them two days to locate Janice.
A little laugh rumbled from Jorgerson's huge belly and he set the receiver back on its cradle, his merry blue eyes reflecting none of the gut-tearing anxiety Charles had suffered the last two nights suspecting the worst. That angered Charles. He leaned over the desk, his cheeks pale with lack of sleep and nourisliment. "So tell me, have you heard?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Tarrington. But it's not the best news," apologized the uniformed policeman in an unconcerned tone that Charles didn't take kindly to. Ineptitude infuriated him.
"Well, for God's sake, tell me what you've heard!" snapped Charles between his angrily clenched teeth.
"Well.. . " Jorgerson leaned his hulkish body over the edge of the desk, resting his elbows on it sluggishly. "We know, sir, that she's been kidnapped by a gang of heroin smugglers. The high jackers have disconnected the sleeping car that your. . . " he spread his hands expansively and grinned, "lady friend, shall we say, was sleeping in."
"That's great. Just great," snarled Charles. "And how do you know it's Janice? My God, how do I know she's not murdered somewhere?"
"They've sent her clothes, sir . . . and her passport."
Charles' hand trembled violently, and he lowered his head and cradled it on his arms which were across the top of Jorgerson's desk. Two blackened, sleep weary eyes glared out over the brown tweed of his sports coat sleeve. "And just what clothes do you have?"
Jorgerson cleared his throat and stiffened. "We have a navy blue dress, a yellow robe, and . . . and a brassiere, sir."
There came a stifled cry from Charles . . . then a groan of heartfelt despair.
"Sir, could I get you something?" Jorgerson's heavy eyebrows knitted with sympathy. "A cup of coffee . . . pastry, perhaps? Or how about a cognac to soothe your nerves?"
He got up from his squeaking chair, and Charles forced himself to sit up, his hand to his forehead, eyes closed. Janice's robe and bra. That meant that Janice was running around naked. No, he thought. God, no! Not Janice, decent Janice!
Maybe she's pulled a sheet or towel around her, he thought. Yes. He gripped the arms of the chair, his nails clawing into it. So she's pulled a towel around her. He closed his eyes, imagining what his voluptuous future wife looked like.
The towel would just cover her lovely, large breasts, and the slim swell of her belly, would be slung low in back, almost, but not quite, to the bottom of her cheeks of her firmly rounded buttocks. They wouldn't be able to see between them to the pucker of her anus, but they would be staring. God, would they stare! In no time at all the guy's prick would jerk and lurch inside his pants, hardening until it ached unbearably.
It wouldn't take long, then, before the guy had his pants open, and his grubby hand yanked out his stiff cock and maneuvered it out into the open, stroked it, drew the foreskin back and forth while drops of thick fluid oozed from the tip as his lust mounted. And moments later, his other hand would be on one of Janice's breasts, taking one small budding nipple between his finger, rolling and squeezing it, manipulating it into a hard point, while Janice squirmed under the ever increasing pressure, finally screaming in pain . . . and possibly pleasure, too.
She would, too, Charles knew. She would find pleasure in something as obscene and filthy as that. Oh, she'd fight it. He had to give her credit for that. She'd be shocked and horrified-she was a sheltered girl. Later, after she'd been forced back onto the bed, as she lay there stripped completely naked with her legs open and the thin, hair-lined slit of her cunt exposed to his evil grin, the plundering fingers of this drug crazed rapist would rip through her quivering pussy.
My God! As he got on top of her, entering her, his thick cock plowing into her narrow unused vaginal passage, already drenched, already steaming and hot, Janice would begin to moan and mewl, thrashing about under his heaving, bucking body, rising to meet his fucking thrusts, falling back, rising abain . . . responding . . . willingly. And then . . .
Charles closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead. It was drenched with sweat, and he wiped away the perspiration with the back of one hand, wishing he could wipe away his nightmare as well. He wiped it again, and gasped for breath. Oh, God! Janice would submit! She would resist at first, but Janice-his lovely, beautiful, charming, intelligent Janice-would submit like a common whore, begging if they wanted her to. And then, God help her, she would lose herself in wild abandon, spreading her legs wider in welcome, coming to a climax with screams of joy.
Charles wiped his forehead again and looked over his shoulder to see John Jorgerson standing beside him, a glass of cognac in his hand. Charles took the glass between his trembling fingers. He held it to his lips, and a drop sloshed over the side, dribbling down his chin. He set the glass down, took out an embroidered handkerchief and wiped away the cognac, then mopped the beads of perspiration from his brow. He drained the glass.
Jorgerson patted him on the shoulder. "Control yourself, sir," he said quietly.
Charles stared moodily into space. Control.. . ? That's precisely what Janice lacked, not he. Janice had never been able to control herself, he thought. He remembered the embarrassing way she had almost offered herself to him on the train on that last day in the Rotterdam station. Her mother . . . his mother would never have done such a thing. There was an unexplainable strain of the tramp in Janice, he was forced to admit. He'd hoped that marriage to him would somehow wipe this lascivious spark out of her . . . the otherwise lovely woman he wished to marry. That would make her an asset to his career.
Sex, he thought, between a husband and wife was normal and even desirable. But Janice, he reflected, was given to indulgence. And now there she was alone with those sex fiends! But to think of Janice enjoying it! OH, God, that was hell! What would happen to her mind if she were exposed to raw animal sex? Nothing, Charles thought blankly. Nothing at all! He sat still and pale with shock, staring blankly into space until John Jorgerson's voice filtered through the void.
"The problem here is a complicated one," began the chief of police, sipping at his own cognac which he'd poured into a coffee cup. He smacked his liverish lips and leaned back in his chair, its springs complaining of the weight. His jowls jounced as he spoke. "We've been trailing this band of smugglers for some time now. You see, the problem with drugs in Amsterdam is getting harder to crack because of the syndicate-run by a bunch of Chinese. Now we know . . . " he sat forward and pressed his fingertips together in thought, "if Ti Wong, the kingpin of this smuggling operation, were to get hold of these people before we do . . . poof!" He threw up his pudgy hands. "No evidence. Nothing to jail his ass. So we need to get those smugglers alive so they'll talk to us. We don't want to shoot our way into that train car . . . unless, of course, they start shooting first, and then your Miss Quincy's life will be endangered. But.. . " he hastened to add. "They're not going to want to add to their prison sentences with her murder, so my guess is they'll take good care of her."
Jorgerson held up his hand to hush him. "Please understand our predicament, Mr. Tarrington. Miss Quincy is the only thing they have to negotiate. None of them are stupid enough to rat on Ti Wong--he'll have them killed no matter if they're behind bars or not. We're playing with a double-edged sword. On one hand, we have your fiancee's life to worry about. . . and then we have a precedent to set, otherwise high-jacking and kidnapping is going to be an open invitation to crime. Do you understand, Mr. Tarrington?"
Had Charles been in his own country, one phone call would have taken care of this mess. "Y-yes, I suppose so," choked the law student, feeling like an impotent child instead of the inheritor of the multi-million dollar Tarrington estate. His head lifted and his spirits, too, for an aborted moment. "Money.. . if it's money they want.. . I . . . "
Jorgerson shook his fat head. "Not money, sir. Freedom."
Charles sat back in his chair, feeling weak and dizzy from cognac, no sleep, and plenty of worry. He gazed out the window pf that filthy bunch of humanity gathering across the street from the police station.
Drugs! Filthy, rotten drugs. He ground his jaws together, gnashing his teeth with a tight squeak, his eyes narrowing into slits. That's what Janice's kidnappers were-a bunch of socially diseased drug pushers . . . the same breed as those vile people he'd witnessed at the court hearing in law school. He then shuddered, a cool chill winding all down his spine.
"So are you saying, sir, that a precedent is as important as Janice?" He withered as Jorgerson nodded the affirmative.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Janice lay on the narrow cot in the prison cell of her sleeping compartment, the stuffiness nearly overwhelming her. Her ravished young body ached under the sheet. She'd been given an old shirt and a pair of men's underwear. Perhaps to add to her humiliation?
Her head throbbed and ached with a tortured rhythm that recalled the terrifying events of the hours before to her; the sawing into her now widely stretched cuntal passage, the hard thrusting of the young man called Hank's huge, rock-hard penis grinding up into her helplessly quivering vaginal passage. Tears welled up in her blue eyes and straggled down her cheeks. Oh, it was unbearable to think that she, Janice Meredith Quincy, shortly to be Charles Edward Tarrington III's wife, had been debased and defiled in the most humiliating way by a heroin smuggler when Charles, whose wife she was to have been, and respected her virginity, had demanded nothing of her that she was not willing to give-had, in fact, demanded even less than she would have given. And now she had been degraded at the hands of nothing more than a common criminal.
She could never face Charles again. He would need only look at her face to know the terrible guilt she harbored. And Charles would never he able to forgive her.
And why should he? For he would know that even though she'd struggled, terrified, that in the end she had submitted willingly. Yes, she was vile, and yet her gratification had been so intense that she regretted nothing. She was not fit, she knew now, to be the wife to a fine man like Charles, to be the mother of his children. No decent man would ever want her knowing that her belly had been filled with another man's hotly scalding sperm. She turned her face to the wall and sobbed.
When Janice heard the door open softly, she shuddered, waiting for Hank's laughter, his rough voice mocking her again. Instead, she heard Lisa asking quietly, "Are you okay?"
Janice lifted her head and shifted in the bed, her body aching agonizingly as she pulled herself painfully to a sitting position. Lisa came close and held a glass to her. "I brought you some whiskey," she said. "Thought you might need it."
Janice took the glass and drained it. It was warm and soothing going down, and she smiled gratefully at Lisa who offered her another glass which she accepted and drank. When she had finished it, her mind dazed slightly, Lisa seated herself on the side of the narrow bed, putting an arm around her. Slowly, tenderly, she began to stroke Janice's shoulder as she spoke, lulling the broken young girl into a soft sleep-like state.
"That no good Hank!" she began after a few moments of slow, hypnotic caressing. "He's been out there bragging to Theo and Gunnar about fucking you. Said you were begging for it, too!" She half-whispered, offering Janice her sympathy, and her fingers slipped under the loose shirt Janice wore, and eased the fabric down, slipping the shirt partially off, fully exposing one firm, lush breast. "Men!" she tutted in Janice's ear, as she began to stroke the lovely rounded semi-sphere with a soft movement. "You can't trust them two feet."
With her other hand, Lisa unbuttoned Janice's blouse, drew it off her and dropped it on the floor. "Now women are different. A woman can give you something . . . warmth, tenderness. Men . . . nothing!" There was anger in her voice. "Men care about men and that's it! Isn't that right, Janice?"
Janice mumbled, too surprised, too weakened by the whiskey and her earlier ordeal to speak, as Lisa's fingers trailed lightly over first one breast and then the other, gently teased the nipples into a taut erection, then slipped lightly down over the smooth white skin of Janice's belly, itching for more. Janice instinctively crossed her legs, pressing her thighs tight together to prevent any new ravishment of her vagina. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she saw that Lisa was stripping her own clothes off, working awkwardly with one hand while she continued to caress Janice, teasing her nipples once again into hard little knobs.
"It's different, isn't it, Jan?" she murmured softly, her breath excited and heavy with passion. Without waiting for an answer, she drew the young girl to her, pressing her own nude body next to Janice's. Her pointed breasts crushed against Janice's, their nipples meeting, as Lisa's hand moved down the soft flesh of Janice's stomach underneath the elastic waistband of the jockey shorts she wore to the luxuriously tangled triangle of silken hair that graced her vagina. "Oh, Jan," she murmured, "You're so beautiful. I can make you happy. Not the way Hank did, but in a soft way."
Janice's head seemed to swim in helpless confusion, and she let it fall on the girl's shoulder, resting in the hollows of her neck, letting Lisa cradle it between her shoulders and her chin. She had no idea of what was happening. She'd heard of scandals in boarding schools. Daisy chains . . . wasn't that what they called them? She'd thought it idle rumor . . . vicious talk. But now it was happening to her, and Janice felt strangely relaxed and peaceful, as if she were a small child, cradled in the arms of a loving mother, and at the same time, she felt like the most desirable woman in the world, responding to a strong man.
With a strong but gentle hand, Lisa cupped Janice's chin and raised her face to the level of her own. Her full lips brushed Janice's as if by accident, then returned, pressing them close. Her tongue darted out, expertly parting Janice's lips, easing between them, searching and finding the woman's tongue, while Janice let out little gasps of shocked delight. She was aware of Lisa's hands roaming over her body, aware that the girl was playing in some way with the clothes she still wore, and then, as she felt the cotton of the men's jockey shorts drawn slowly down over her hips and thighs and a cool breeze waft across her body, she realized she was lying stark naked next to a woman.
She closed her eyes again, as Lisa held her tight, her own body rubbing against Janice's, her thighs curled around Janice's body, clasping it tight to hers while she moved slowly down on Janice until her dark curly pubic hair mingled with Janice's honey-colored strands. Janice felt a tiny thrill of pleasure rip through her, even as her alcohol-dimmed mind flickered warning signs of slight revulsion at the perverted attack on her naked flesh. With a shudder, she realized that Lisa's hand was caressing her buttocks, gently at first, then parting the softness of the twin mounds until her fingertip teased into the tiny puckered mouth of her anus, shocking her again, yet delighting her too.
She moaned faintly, then collapsed back quietly as Lisa suddenly twisted around, moving her head sideways and down to the trembling white flesh of Janice's thighs. Lisa began to kiss the tender skin there, making the sensitive nerve ends quiver with that strange, wonderful excitement Janice had felt so recently, under Hank's forced attack. As Janice moaned again, her legs falling open, Lisa's lips wandered to the tingling little triangle between her thighs, moved down to it, searching out the fleshy lips, the soft hair-lined slit of Janice's pussy. Her pink, pointed tongue parted the cuntal lips, licked slowly and hotly at the moist pulsating hole, then explored the narrow slit until it found the tiny pink bud of her clitoris.
The tantalizing touch of Lisa's tongue was sending new waves of lust crashing through Janice's receptive body, while her brain reeled with a dull horror of what was happening. Good, God, but it was wonderful! Janice thought, and yet she found herself longing to fight off this further assault against her once pure body. Yet she was powerless under the delicious ravishment of her loins, and could only mewl with pleasure as she submitted, one more, to an overpowering sexual stimulation.
Janice, through her involuntarily rising passion, was dimly aware of agitated noises somewhere off in the other part of the train car. Sometimes she heard an excited voice shouting orders to one person or another; sometimes she heard obscene words hurled. At other times she heard a loud speaker, but she couldn't understand the language they spoke; though she knew it concerned her kidnapping. Luckily, her kidnappers spoke English and she heard them translate the word 'police'. Once she roused herself enough from the wildly pleasurable sensations that engulfed her down between her open thighs to comprehend the fact that the police had surrounded the train. But the importance of the news faded before the erotic sensations that fanned her body.
She lay still again, thrilling to the excitement that rose almost to the bursting point in her now drenched, hotly pulsing pussy. So intent was she that the sound of Hank, calling from outside their cabin door made no impression on her at all. It was only when the door burst open and Hank's voice broke the silence that Janice remembered where she was and how she came to be there. His voice soared with a tinge of panic as he began to explain the latest developments. The negotiations had begun. Janice Meredith Quincy for freedom and an escort out of Amsterdam; but the police weren't about to settle on such flimsy terms. What about Ti Wong? charged the negotiators. We can't let you get away with this, or how many other heroin smugglers and criminals will try kidnapping hostages? His words stopped brusquely as he gazed in amazement at the sight before him. "My God!" he exclaimed. "I never would have believe it had I not seen it with my own eyes."
Lisa raised her head from the soft curling triangle of Janice's slowly grinding little pussy, recognizing Hank with a cry of anger. "What the hell do you want?"
A lewd, lecherous grin spread across Hank's face. "Just what you're getting," he said coolly, striding briskly the two steps to the bed. With a vicious gesture, he yanked Lisa from her position above Janice's prostrate body, tossing her to the floor as if she were a discarded newspaper.
"Let me at that!" he said, with a short, coarse sneer that sent shivers shooting up Janice's spine.
In an instant Lisa was on her feet. "Why aren't you out there bargaining with the police? How the hell do you expect us to get out of this mess if you spend all your time fucking this poor woman!"
"Oh?" Hank said laconically. "And you?"
"That's different. She wanted it."
A groan of protest escaped Janice's lips. "No.. . I didn't . . . really, I didn't!" she howled.
Hank grinned at her maliciously. "Then let's see if you want this, baby," he said with an arrogant sneer.
Janice noticed with a shock of renewed fear the bulge in Hank's pants, knew, somehow, that he had been watching her own lascivious performance with Lisa for a long time, that it had excited him, and that now he would force her to submit to being fucked by him right before Lisa, who crouched whimpering in a corner. He stood over her, the sneer still twisting his mouth, enjoying her anguish while Janice cowered her nakedness down against the mattress as if she might somehow burrow her way into it. She closed her eyes and felt the scalding tear course down her cheek. Blinded, she groped for the blanket that had covered her before. Where was it! And her clothes. The shirt and those horrid men's jockey shorts, that Lisa must have stripped from her! They must be there somewhere!
A sudden movement startled her, and her eyelids fluttered open. She uttered a shrill, half-muffled cry as she saw Hank standing only inches from her pillowed head. He gave a brief, short laugh, then with a sudden movement jerked his zipped fly open. A second later he had reached it to bring the fleshy hard rod close to Janice's mouth. "Ever sucked cock, baby?" he demanded lewdly, with the young naked woman cringed at the crude words he had uttered as if she had been struck with a clenched fist.
Wide-eyed, paralyzed with fear, she watched him straddle her naked breasts, pinning her arms to her sides with his knees and saw the blood-swollen head of Hank's penis thrust forward and press wetly against her tightly clenched lips.
"Come on! I need something to relax me!" He grinned and lewdly reached down with his thumb and forefinger and pinched the nostrils of her finely chiseled little nose tightly together until she couldn't breathe.
"Mmmmmmph! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-mmmmmph!" Janice groaned desperately, trying to hold her breath as long as she could so she wouldn't be forced to open her mouth.
"Come on, open up and get a little fresh air . . . and a big bite of cock!" he laughed cruelly, watching her desperately twisting face slowly turning a bright crimson from the desperate struggle not to breathe.
And finally, her lungs burning from lack of oxygen, her lips popped open wide, sucking in great gulps of air.
"Oh ho, now you want a little cock!" he mocked above her and then he shoved it into her helplessly gasping mouth, ramming it down deep inside, until it seemed to brush all the way back against her tonsils. Janice gagged and fought wildly to force out the rock-hard length that filled her mouth so cruelly. She moved her head from side to side, struggling helplessly, gasping for breath. My God! She would suffocate . . . she would die!
Viciously, Hank grasped Janice's head in both hands and pulled it forward, as Janice broke free just long enough to suck in more of the cool fresh air, filling her lungs, panting with relief. Then the grinning young man's lust-hardened pole sank deep into her mouth again . . . in . . . in up to the hilt, and the short, wiry hair around his organ grazed and tickled Janice's lips, while his sperm-filled balls slapped lewdly down against her chin. Now he began to fuck in and out of her widely ovaled mouth with long, quick strokes, and strangely, partly due to the alcohol, and partly due to a rising tide of masochistic acceptance to the lewd, debasing act she was forced to perform, Janice began to feel a whirling tide of unwanted passion again rising in her that took hold of her body, leaving her helpless to fight against this obscene cock stretching her lips. Without looking, she knew that Lisa was watching her, despising her and Hank, and the thought added a new thrill of perverted pleasure. Chills of excitement were beginning to whip up and down her spine, little sparks of ecstatic joy seemed to explode, fluttering like butterflies in her stomach. With a terrible shame, and yet an undeniable pride, she felt the sticky moistness seeping more fluidly between her now wide-spread legs, felt the warmth of it suddenly hotly flooding her pussy. The old ache and desire between her legs had renewed itself.
Oh God! How wonderful and horrible it was! Wicked and evil though it might be, it was wonderful, too, and now she, with a moan, abandoned herself to the delight of the lewd, cock-sucking act she was performing, running her tongue back and forth over the sensitive surface of Hank's huge prick, teasing the tiny slit in its tip, licking the drops of sticky fluid that oozed from it, tasting it, savoring it as he jerked his hips forward and fucked deep down inside the saliva-filled cavern of her mouth, withdrew to plunge in again.
Now Janice's lust distorted brain brushed aside all rational thought of her lewd position, and gave herself up completely to the ecstasy of being fucked in the mouth, of actually sucking a man off. No, she'd never sucked cock before, she thought hazily, remembering Hank's question a few short minutes before. And now it seemed she could never get enough of swollen penis down her throat. She couldn't bear to wait for him to shoot his cream-white sperm, filling her mouth with the pungent male liquid, pouring it down her throat, letting it flood out over her lips, dribbling down her chin while she moaned and thrashed in lustful bliss below him.
Madly, insanely now, Janice sucked on and on, her cheeks of their own volition contracting, tightening around the fleshy staff that moved in and out between her tight, pursed lips. And then suddenly Hank's body above her was seized with a violent, wild spasm, and his abruptly jerking testicles sent the eagerly welcomed stream of thin, milky sperm gushing warmly into her tightly locked mouth, welling up and over her pursed young lips like a flowing fountain of half whipped cream. Janice gulped to swallow every precious sweet drop, her throat constricting and relaxing alternately, hungrily, like a famished child sucking at its mother's breast. Close to satiation, her brain deranged with passion, she licked and swished her tongue hotly around the now slowly deflating penis, clinging possessively to it with her elastically ovaled lips in a last desperate effort to prolong the joy for another moment. At last Hank pulled away from her mouth with a wet, sucking sound, and reeled backwards, a thin, glistening strand of his sperm following him away and across the firmly rounded mounds of her naked breasts as Janice's exhausted head sank heavily down onto the pillow once more.
Just before she closed her eyes, she caught sight of Lisa edging towards the door, her face livid with fury at Janice's betrayal of her. Janice smiled to herself. At least now the records were set straight. She was no dyke.
Janice was drifting off to sleep when she heard Theo translate the Dutch broadcast to his comrades, mostly for the benefit of Lisa who did not speak the language.
She strained her ears, and once or twice caught her own name. Struggling to her feet, she crept to the metal door of her prison and put her ear to it. Slowly, she began to fit the pieces together.
The police had moved in on all sides now, surrounding the train car with guns. Negotiations were being made between the heroin smugglers and the Minister of Justice who, at this time, had refused to grant them amnesty in exchange for the American girl, claiming that a precedent was being set here, one the tiny country could not afford to uphold for its own safety. How many other criminals would trade a kidnapped hostage for freedom? was the ethical question that was being argued.
Oh, my Lord, Charles! In her lewd sexual pleasure Janice Quincy had all but forgotten about her fianc�. Now she dared not think of him or how he would react if he ever found out about what had just happened between she and Hank. Why had she allowed herself to sink to such despicable depths of depravity? With a sob, she collapsed back down on the bed, burying her face in the pillow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The travel agent hadn't marked Den Haag on Charles' itinerary, but he was getting his first glimpse of that city now as he rode in the Volkswagen police car with John Jorgerson along the narrow strips of road that paralleled the railroad tracks through the manicured landscape of Holland. Who were these people who'd snatched Janice and held her now, he kept wondering. How did they behave, cooped up in that hot train car? The police officer stepped on the gas, his eyes gazing toward the frail man sitting beside him. It didn't take much to read his mind. "Just because they're dope smugglers doesn't mean they're rapists, Mr. Tarrington." He shook his heavy head. "But you can never tell what people will do under stress."
"What does that mean?" Charles began to question him, but the Chief of Police paid little heed; he'd heard those questions a hundred times in route from Amsterdam, and, if the truth be known, he was getting a bit tired of making up answers. To change the subject, he pointed to a train depot, not far in the distance, small by European standards, situated on the outskirts of tidy Den Haag, and there, sitting alone, gleaming like a newly polished gun barrel in the sun was the sleeping car where Janice had spent hellish days and nights with a group of kidnappers.
Charles choked, gaped, and reached up, grabbing his knotted tie and loosened it. Then he cracked the window a bit. For days he'd conjured up images in his mind of where his fiancee was held captive, and now that he was there at the scene, it took on no more reality than it had in his wildest imagination. He felt as if he were watching a television program, or a movie.
Jorgerson slowed the car and pulled up alongside the lineup of polished blue police cars surrounding the train car and, with one foot out the door, started giving orders, calling officers to him, sending them off in all directions. From time to time he spoke into a small transmitter, informing police headquarters of developments, requesting reinforcements, ordering officers posted at strategic points. Then he turned and put his arm on Charles' shoulder.
"I've been given orders by headquarters to settle this nonsense as soon as possible. All trains are being held up, rerouted through Utrecht. You have any idea, sir, what that's doing to our revenue? Seems the Minister of Justice isn't sympathetic." He took one look at Charles' withering expression and said, "I'm sorry, Charles. But I'm only following orders."
* * *
Inside the stuffy train car, Theo, Gunnar, Lisa, and Hank lay crouched below the low windows that lined the side of the car facing their enemy, fingers clutching sweatily at the safeties of their guns while they listened anxiously to the loudspeaker behind which a voice blasted. There would be no amnesty. This was it.. . the end . . . fini.
With a loud curse, Theo dropped his gun and buried his face in his dirty hands. The world seemed to whirl around him, and he shook his head as he tried to work things out in his mind. Calmer now, he considered the situation facing him. He had vowed once to die rather than spend the rest of his life behind bars, and now it looked like he might do just that. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I don't want to die yet," he mumbled, not caring who heard him.
He tried to think of a way out. He could turn Janice over to the police and try to save his skin that way. But Lisa, Hank, and Gunnar would never stand for that . . . not to mention what Ti Wong would do, knowing Theo had defected. That was certain death at the hands of a madman. Thoughts of Christine fleeted through his mind, and he froze, paralyzed with fear. There had to be better ways to end life than bleeding to death, nailed to a door in some Amsterdam alleyway.
Their supplies were running low. They'd drunk all the water from the faucets, and nobody had thought to stop Janice from flushing the toilet so that now, except for a bottle of whiskey, liquids had run dry. Hank knew that, too, Hank who sat on his haunches next to Gunnar, his eyes peeking occasionally out of the window at the infestation of cops milling around the lineup of police cars.
Today it would end, and they all knew it.
Tension between Lisa and Hank was tight as a bowstring, almost tangible, adding to the pervading tension in the train that seemed to crawl over their flesh, making them quake, jump, snap at any misunderstood word or gesture. All they had was each other now. "How is that American bitch?" he asked of Lisa. "We've got to keep her from getting hysterical or they're likely to bomb this goddamned train car. We've really got to keep her cool and happy."
Lisa reached into the deepness of her skirt pocket and drew out a matchbox. "Dope," she said, offering it for Hank's approval. "We could slip her a little H in it, but I'm afraid that if they give her a blood test . . . or an autopsy . . . " she gulped, fear edging her voice, too, ". . . it's not gonna look good for us."
"Yeah, roll her a couple of reefers and keep her smoking. I'll keep the cops covered." He squinted into the sun, two beady eyes peering over the window ledge. "They're getting antsy out there . . . trigger happy sonsabitches."
* * *
Uniformed policemen lay on the ground, some digging holes in the soft earth like World War I trench war face reenacted.
Charles was growing impatient. Hands thrust in his trench coat pockets, fingers playing with a tiny ball of lint, he paced the distance from the police cars to the train depot and back again, ignoring the calls from the officers to keep low. I dare the bastards to take a pot shot at me! he thought, grinding his teeth angrily, his head pounding with fear.
He caught Jorgerson waddling back from the men's room in the train depot, and he cornered him, demanding an answer. "Why don't you just storm that train and rescue Janice?"
Once again, Jorgerson placed a restraining hand on Charles' shoulder. "Suppose we start shooting. What happens if we hit Janice?"
A low, sarcastic snicker whistled from Charles' nostrils and he threw up his hands. "So what are you going to do?"
"Wait for them to shoot firsi," answered Jorgerson in a deceptively calm voice.
Charles Tarrington sat down on a rock alongside of the road, his legs spread, hands folded limply, hanging between his knees and staring up into the blue sky at a flock of geese winging high overhead. He bit his lip. God, but he envied them their animal stupidity! His eyes fell back on the metal box that was Janice's prison.
If only this could have happened in the States . . . Christ, he'd have the whole goddamned army and every FBI agent on the Eastern seaboard out there . . . not to mention the Chief Justice of the United States, an old college pal of his father's. What an outrage; he thought, taking off his glasses and folding then, tucked them in the breast pocket of his vest.
Then a cold blast of what felt like Artie air chilled him as fleetingly he thought of his mother hearing of this insipid kidnap from the lips of Walter Cronkite. Charles froze to the rock. God, she'd have a heart attack. Reluctantly, she'd allowed her son to accompany his fiancee from Boston to Paris, where Janice was to stay while Charles traveled on to pay his respect to Aunt Sybil, the couple meeting at Orly Airport to wing back to the States together.
Scandal would rock the newspapers' social sections, not to mention what his Harvard Law professors would think of their dandy boy whose conduct up to now had been as clean as a baby's buttocks at birth. He could see the headlines now: "Boston Debutante Kidnapped While Traveling With Heir to Tarrington Estate."
Charles closed his swollen eyes, lowering his head, and rubbed the reddened lids between his thumbs and middle fingers, feeling victim, for the first time in his life, to the public that had a knack of keeping tabs on the wealthy. What of a political career, now? Sometime-just when he'd gotten national attention-some boorish columnist would dig up the dirt and smear his face with it, wiping out his career for ever. That would be it for his senatorial seat. Then what would he do? Sit behind a desk and settle divorce cases for the rest of his life?
The day wore on. The sun beat down on the train, on the policeman's backs, on the gun barrels.
Charles sat under a tree, waiting . . . waiting. Everything remained the same, nothing changed. Nobody changed his mind. The Dutch police wouldn't shoot, the Dutch Ministry wouldn't change it's mind, and the smugglers wouldn't give themselves up.
Charles had shed his trench coat and dropped it on the ground to sit on top of it; then he'd torn his tie off, loosened his shirt to the third button and sat waiting like a hawk. From time to time he'd sneak around the train car, despite the barrage of pleadings from the police officers, and strained to see any sign of Janice within. His body ached and his stomach grumbled, but Charles could neither eat nor sleep.
Jorgerson picked up the bullhorn for the countless time. "We've got you surrounded. Come on out with our hands up and then we'll negotiate." No response came from the metal box.
"How long do you think it will be?" Charles demanded. "How long will we have to wait?"
Jorgerson's patience was growing thin. "God only knows," he blasted, then turned back to confer with a group of officers, some in plain clothes.
Charles stomped off, pondering what he'd heard. He kicked at a rock with the toe of his hand sewn shoe, scuffing it, then wondering why he did a silly thing like that. He felt slightly faint from the heat and the anxiety and the fear for Janice that tore at his insides now. All the thoughts he'd had before came flooding back to his mind. Had she been violated already by one of these wretched dope addicts . . . smugglers . . . dregs of society?
The whole sickening scene passed again in his mind, like the thousandth replay of an old movie: Janice lying naked, on a cot in that toyish looking train car in front of him, pure and lovely and beautiful. He saw one of those foul, dirty men approach her, begin to stroke that tender, milky skin, run his huge, calloused hand with its dirty nails down the smooth, slender curve of her buttocks, her thighs, her legs, while his other hand squeezed and manipulated and . . . mauled . . . and here Charles nearly broke. Yes, mauled one of her snowy rounded breasts that was perfection itself. He saw the leer on the face of the man, the lips curled back obscenely, the glint of sheer lust in his evil eyes as one hand glided from her beautiful breast to the lovely naked curve of her belly, to the golden thatch of silky hair that hid her femininity and finally dropped between her knees and entered her!
"Jorgerson!" he snapped in a voice so filled with pain that Jorgerson turned his bearish body to gaze into the anguish-filled eyes of Charles Tarrington.
"Yes, Mr. Tarrington?"
"How do we know Janice is in there? What if they're bluffing?" His eyes were wild with hope and fear, giving a wolfish kind of visage to his otherwise delicate face.
Jorgerson stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I'd never thought of that, chap. Yes, we need proof." Patting Charles on the shoulder, the chief of police ambled off to confer briefly with another officer, while Charles tried to content himself under the aspen tree, his future life as well as Janice's welfare pounding in his temples.
Whatever happened today, he decided, picking up a twig and striping off its bark, he must uphold the Tarrington family tradition.. . yes, to death, if necessary. His delicate fingers worked at the twig, breaking it into a million pieces, then scattering the bits to the wind. Again he wiped his brow, then let his elbows rest on his knees.
Maybe this was is recompense.. . maybe this was the price he, Charles Edward Tarrington III, must pay for those favors society flits in the direction of the rich. The draft board his father bought off . . . yes, there was that to pay. And how about the private tutoring of top Yale professors . . . old friends of is fathers . . . ? There was another example. Perhaps, he wondered, this was the first time in his life he had really suffered.
His future . . . and what did that mean now? Scandal? Not to mention the possibility of losing Janice. His potential political career was all but sold up the river if he passed the buck this time. Charles Tarrington had never thought of being a hero, in the physical sense, but the blood boiling in his veins, his head dizzied with hunger was radioing messages to his brain, and before a second thought stopped him, he jumped to his feet, heading for the group of officers gathered around the cars.
"Mr. Jorgerson," he demanded, "let me change places with Janice. Let them take me hostage."
The hulky set of shoulders shrugged. "Mr. Tarrington, do you have any idea what you're asking? But.. . " he threw up his arms, ". . . that's one way of finding out if Janice is still inside that car."
* * *
Janice sat up on the bed, legs curled under her, sweltering in the stifling heat. She wished that somebody would open a window to let in some air. But in her compartment there was no window to open, so she contented herself, cooling herself with an accordian-pleated newspaper with which she fanned herself. Someone . . . Gunnar or Theo . . . brought her a bottle of whiskey to nip from, but it was Lisa, she well remembered, who later offered her the sweet-tasting cigarettes which she'd rolled herself and lit for the hostage.
As Janice inhaled deeply, letting the smoke swirl around her lungs as long as possible before blowing it out again, a strange feeling of peace and well being came over her. She, oddly, was no longer frightened as she had been before, although it was obvious that she was in greater danger than ever. She was certain, though, through the drug she was unknowingly taking, that nothing could touch her, nothing could harm her, and she was just as certain that, if she were threatened, she would have no desire to protect herself.
Happily, she rocked back and forth on her buttocks, staring at the blank wall, humming to herself. For a while she concentrated on the smear of rust around the sink's basin, a rich deep red color that seemed to grow more intense with each second.
She heard someone call her name . . . blast it, from somewhere outside the train car. Yes, there really was a world outside this train car, she mused profoundly. That seemed terribly silly, and she giggled behind her tiny fist and resumed her rocking. It came again: "JANICE QUINCY . . . JANICE MEREDITH QUINCY . . . " It seemed to come from the skies, maybe heaven itself, inviting her to emerge forth like Boticelli's Venus drifting ashore on a seashell.
The door burst open then, and Janice smiled up at Lisa, a broad, good-morning kind of grin. But Lisa wasn't looking very jovial; her eyes were wild, dark, sloe eyes that to a rational Janice would have registered fear. Janice cupped her ears as she heard the voice louder this time: "Attention!" John Jorgerson was bellowing. "You are surrounded by police, and we will attack unless we see Janice Quincy!"
Hank burst into the room just then. "We'd better show them the girl," he shrugged at Lisa. With a crisp gesture, he motioned for Lisa and Janice to follow out the door of the sleeping compartment to the line-up of windows on the open side of the car. His dirty fingernails gripped at her flesh, squeezing it painfully, as he thrust her towards the window. "Here she is!" he called out. "Okay?"
Janice waggled her hand back and forth.
"We wish to make an offer!" came the answer from the bullhorn. "Do you hear?"
Inside the car, the three men whispered excitedly among themselves. "You hear that?" Gunnar's sweat-streaked reddened face seemed to pale a little. "What is this, some kind of trick? Yesterday they wouldn't even talk to us, and now they want to make an offer."
Hank reached up and opened the window a little and called out between cupped hands. "What is your offer?"
"We will exchange Janice Quincy for Charles Tarrington. Do you accept?" the bullhorn blasted again.
Hank turned to the others, a broad grin on his face. "Well, I guess we can accept that. Two hostages are better than one. Besides if they're gonna open fire, chances are, they're gonna be a little more careful with two Americans."
CHAPTER NINE
The sun was setting, a huge ball of flame over the smooth green of Den Haag, when Charles Edward Tarrington III edged out of the protection of the police barricade and walked slowly, steadily across the no-man's land between the police infested line to the iron rails of the railroad tracks toward the train car that resembled more a child's toy than a hide out. He did as Jorgerson instructed, holding his hands high. All eyes were on him, both within the train and behind him.
Reason told Charles he might well be shot to death, out there in the open, the perfect target for the guns of a trigger happy, exhausted policeman who'd heard the order wrong. But he stoked his courage and optimism with the heartening thought that whatever happened once he set foot inside that train car, it would happen out of his defense of his family name and for his career. His conscience would be a clean slate. Analysis told him, too, that they would not harm him . . . yet. After Janice had been released, it would be a different story. Certainly, reasoned Charles, they wouldn't harm a hostage, or what good would it do? But human behavior was irrational, he thought, and he wondered how many ways there were to die. At least he would save Janice.
He walked on, mechanically placing one foot in front of the other, the short distance seeming to space for miles; the few minutes it took to walk across the three sets of railroad tracks seemed to take light years. Halfway across, he took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure and then walked on once more, slowly, steadily. Janice would be waiting for him, just inside the door, he remembered. As he saw the chute open and the metal steps emerge from the train car, he expected to see her standing there, ready to leave. He hoped he would at least have a few minutes to talk to her, to find out what had happened that by some ridiculous fluke, she'd ended up in the company of this savage drug smugglers. Janice, as the agreement was made, would leave at their release the moment he walked on that train. Charles sighed, wondering when and if ever the smugglers would release him, too . . . or would his dear mother hear about this, too, from the lips of Walter Cronkite?
He had reached the opened steps now, and turned to take a last glance in back of him before he entered the train.
Where was Janice? She was to pass him, leaving freely, at this very moment. And then someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside the car, closing the chute with a violent metallic thud that was to echo in his ears for much of that evening.
He had been tricked! Janice was not released.
Hank had been sitting at the train window with his comrades scattered around him, while he reported Charles' progress across the railroad yard. "He's half-way here! Hands up, by God! Oops, he's looking back. Hey, come on you sweet sonofabitch, keep those Pucci shoes walking. Yeah, man . . . "
He'd expected a muscle bound Mr. America, after the threats Janice had hurled at him regarding her fianc�'s strengths, but now he knew all that strength was in his head, not in the flimsy arms that he held over his head. . . and God knows not between those whimpish legs.
The bearded smuggler guffawed, thinking of young Janice Quincy's luscious body, her wild, bottled-up passion being wasted on a weakling like this man stepping towards him. "He's almost here, the sucker . . . "
Theo paled. "What's he gonna say when he finds out you been pumpin' it to his ol' lady?" Visions of a judge pounding his gavel on a mahogany desk, sentencing him to years in prison for a crime he didn't commit, pounded in his temples. "I ain't getting stuck with that rap, Hank. I didn't touch the girl." Theo's finely chiseled cheekbones moved under his skin as he worked his jaws back and forth on tightly clenched teeth.
But Theo's monologue was cut short as Hank continued his running account of Charles' approach. "He's cuming right on. My God, he's two steps away. Gunnar, get ready to grab that sonofabitch!"
The heavy slam of the metal door reverberated throughout the car and Gunnar let out a loud, "Yup! He's ours!"
Charles was shaking with fury when he was led, arms pinned behind his back, into the main body of the train car to face Hank who quickly rose from his position to greet their hostage.
It was Charles who spoke first. "You're nothing but a bunch of animals, worse than criminals. If you were in America, I swear to God I'd have the bunch of you hanging from flagpoles . . . " Charles paused, searching for more words. Gunnar pushed him against the wall, and Charles slumped down against it, landing on his buttocks, head fallen to the side, like some limp rag doll.
Hank smiled cockily. "Thanks for the compliment, you sonofabitch!" he bellowed while Charles glowered at him through a paling expression. Hank towered above the slumped over, defeated looking hulk of male flesh, his thick tongue twirling around inside his mouth, making his cheek pooch out above the hairy line of his beard. He seemed to be thinking, cogitating, as he stood with legs spread wide, hands on his hips. "You know, I think you're gonna be worth something to us, friend. You're gonna be the one who gets us out of Amsterdam. You know what you're gonna do.. . ? " He knelt down on his haunches next to Charles' crumpled body. "You're gonna escort us out of Holland to Sweden, you imagine-assed sonofabitch."
Theo stepped forward, yanking at Hank's elbow, spinning him around, a gesture which, judging from Hank's narrowing eyes, he didn't take kindly to. "Come on, Hank, let's give up. There's no way in hell this man is gonna give up without a fight. . . not after the way you been fuckin' his old lady."
Janice . . . Fuckin' his old lady? The words registered in Charles addled brain, and a snarl curled his lip. "Janice!" he called out, as if remembering for the first time the purpose of his mission. "Where is Janice? I swear to God, if you've touched one single hair on her head.. . . " Charles whipped off his glasses and braced himself against the train wall ready to spring at his tormentor.
"You stupid bastard!" charged Hank, his heavy jaw set, his ball-sized fists clenching, unclenching like a machine while he charged Theo. "You don't have a brain in your head!"
Hank was cut off by a curse from Charles. "You bastard!" he bellowed.
Hank shook a warning finger at the American. "If you want us to be nice, friend, you'd better change your attitude real fast. Like it or not, we're walkin' you through that line-up of cops out there, straight on through to one of those nice clean cars with lots of gas, and guess who's driving us to Denmark?" he smirked. "Oh, you can go home after we get to Frederikshavn 'cause we've got a friend there with a boat, and he's gonna putt us to Goteburg."
For the first time, Lisa heard this new plan, and she stepped forward desperately wanting to ease the tension between she and Hank, now that freedom seemed less of an impossibility. And it was Hank, too, who had the connections-all the more reason why she should make amends. "Janice . . . what do we do with Janice?"
"That's entirely up to Charles here," was Hank's curt reply.
Charles hung his head, shook it slightly, and rubbed his tender jaw, wondering what he'd done to deserve such cruel fate as to end up in the mercy of these burly smugglers, these less than human scums of society. Through their own lack of foresight and intelligence they'd dragged themselves down to this filthy level, and now they were taking him along with them . . . demanding that he, Charles Edward Tarrington III, submit to accomplicing them in an escape plan. Were they crazy? He'd never do that! Never! What would that do to his career? Oh, how some columnist or Democrat would love to get ahold of that story, how truly un-American that would make him look. Hostage or not, it was still aiding and abetting, a nebulous position which could easily be misconstrued by someone wishing to degrade his name.
"You think I'm gonna help you, you're crazy! People like you belong behind bars." Charles leaped to his feet and took one step toward Hank. Immediately Theo and Gunnar pounced on him and wrestled him back to the floor.
"Don't play Superman," mocked Hank. "You think you can take care of yourself . . . fine, but what about your lady friend in there? What kind of lily-livered sonofabitch is she gonna think you are for letting us cut up that pretty little face of hers because lover boy doesn't wanna go for a little drive?"
This time Charles struggled free of his captors, knocked over a gun causing it to fire, blowing a hole in the side of the train car, and threatened Hank with his clenched fists. Hank warded off the blow, then with the help of the others, seized Charles' wrists, twisting them painfully. "Let's not try that again, huh?"
Charles was forced back onto the hard floor of the car. He tried to think of something else, concentrating on the barrel of the gun poised inches from his head from where Gunnar stood, his German genes making his finger itch on the trigger. He stared at the hole . . . hole-oh, my God! he thought-holes! Like Janice's lovely little puckered anus would look, with its rubbery, brown-tinged ring-he'd never let himself think of that consciously-then thought of the beautiful pink hair-lined slit of her cunt that would open to him. He tried to push the idea from his mind as he'd always done before and knew now that he couldn't and sat trembling, covered with cold sweat as Hank's words rolled on and on.
"We're gonna have to do something with her, you know. I hate to think we'd have to kill that pretty little thing, but we might have to." He looked to his comrades, all of whom nodded solemnly, all but Theo that is who looked away, turning his head. "Of course, there are ways to make you change your mind. Certainly with a pretty little thing like Janice you've had occasion to take a peek at those pretty breasts of hers, all nice and firm and soft in your hands . . . or that hot little cunt of hers, nice and silky. Oh, did you know, Charles, she's got just the tiniest little birthmark on her right inner thigh."
"You bastard! You sonofabitchin' bastard!" screamed Charles, drooling from the mouth with fury.
"You like to see it? There's lots about Janice you don't know, sir. Come on . . . " he gestured, his voice overly friendly and deceptive. Hank ran his tongue lasciviously around his lips, and stared mockingly at Charles. Then, with a loud sigh, as if he dreaded the job that lay ahead, he said, "Let's go see her."
The rest, pushing Charles along with them, followed. Hank opened the door to the stuffy room where Janice was sitting on the bed there, smoking another of the thin, brown cigarettes, while Lisa, who'd gone ahead of the rest, sat on the commode across from her. Janice looked up at Hank and smiled, as she inhaled deeply on the marijuana. It made everything seem so beautiful, she thought, so perfect. Nothing mattered except the warm, wonderful sensation of the moment.
She looked up with a start of pleasure when Hank entered the room, got up off the bed and went over to greet him. Hank was a wonderful young man, she thought, Lisa was a nice friend, everything was nice, and she wouldn't for a moment change anything. "Hi," she said, grinning lopsidedly, her eyes squinting slightly to focus.
"Hi," Hank grunted, waving his hand.
Janice squinted dreamily at the others. Charles was there, too, she saw. Everything was wonderful! Hank-and in her drugged state, the memory of Hank's hands on her naked body sent her soaring. Everybody was there! And when Hank moved forward pulling her brutally to him, she responded with an unearthly thrill. Her entire body tingled with anticipation of the pleasure to come when Hank fucked her again as she knew he was going to do.. . yes, that was the word-fucked her-just the way he had before, her mouth . . . her vagina . . . everywhere.
Without a word of protest, she let Hank ease his hands under the loose cloth of her work shirt she wore, slipping it down, unbuttoning it in the front so that Janice sat there with her lovely rounded white breasts thrust out like twin moons, hanging suspended in the open air for all to see. There was a burst of applause from the group standing in the doorway, mingled with a groan of fury and agony from Charles, and then Hank's hand slid down across the tender, pointed breasts to Janice's slim waist, moving back and forth gently caressing the pale skin. Then he slid his hands under the ridiculously out-sized jockey shorts she wore, that grotesque, mannish garment that belonged to a man, and not around the undeniably feminine body of
Janice Quincy.
Slowly, patiently, he traced the deliciously rounded orbs of her buttocks under the panties, sending tiny, electric thrills of pleasure coursing through Janice's body. Then he yanked her to her feet, and let one hand stroke her lightly, casually, and then the fingers found the smooth white cleft between her buttocks, traced the line of it, down, down, thrust forward between her legs, spreading them wide, found the petal-pink slit of her cuntal lips, and caressed them, too, before he removed his digits.
Once again, Hank traced the thin, fuzz-lined furrow of Janice's buttocks, moved between the rounded cheeks of her ass. This time, though, he paused at the tiny puckered opening of her anus and smilingly wormed one fingertip in while Janice grunted softly in unexpected discomfort, then withdrew it quickly, with a dry little sucking sound. Charles, watching a few feet away, slumped in the corner next to the commode, let out a shriek that sounded like that of a wounded moose, and then made a final, desperate attempt to break away, to rescue Janice. A blow to the side of his face knocked him back reeling against the wall, a second blow set him sprawling to the floor. He opened a reddened eye to see Gunnar standing over him, sweat pouring down his pock-marked face. "Come on, Theo, help me stand him up so our friend can get a better view," he said contemptuously as Theo helped haul Charles to his feet, standing him against the wall.
Now Hank ripped at the underwear Janice wore, tearing the cotton away from the thick elastic band at the top, making them tumble to the floor, tangling around her ankles. Hank offered Janice his hand, in some parody of gentility, and she took it, stepping from her clothes with the grace of her upbringing.
Across the room, Gunnar sucked in his breath at the sight of Janice's naked body. My God, she was gorgeous. He'd never seen a woman with such delicacy, such sheer beauty. Her lovely arms might have been smoothed by the hands of a craftsman. . . from marble or alabaster. Her legs were long, her thighs rich and full and heavy. Gunnar whistled in amazement. So this is what Hank was doing back here while he, Gunnar, stood watch at the window. He'd have his turn soon enough, and so would Theo if this sonofabitch didn't break.
He watched, spellbound, as Hank placed his hands on the young girl's ripe, full breasts, pressing his thumbs and forefingers against the tiny little buds of her nipples, rolling them into a tight, taut erection. He felt his prick jerk inside his pants as he anticipated the pleasure in store for him in a short time.
Now Hank's hands roved down Janice's supple body, caressing the firm flesh of her gently swelling belly, moving to explore the mass of thickly curling pubic hair between her legs. Janice stood transfixed in her drugged haze, a rising tide of passion surging through her at the delicious touch of the young man's fingers, the palm of his hand. Tingling with excitement, she stepped backwards and, mouth hanging open expectantly, seated herself on the edge of the bed. In an instant, Hank was on his knees beside her, stroking her thighs again, running his hands down the outside of them, over them, spreading them apart in a slow, methodical movement, running his hands up and down the tender flesh of her inner thighs.
Janice whimpered in ecstasy, and then drew her legs together in shocked surprise as the air blew across her long, narrow vaginal slit. Again Hank spread her thighs wide, and now his hand slipped closer to her pinkly glistening pussy, gently parting the sensitive fleece-lined lips while Janice closed her eyes, head hanging backward, gasping with pleasure. She felt the surging deisre flowing through her whole body, but converging there a wild, throbbing sensation that was beyond her control, a desire that turned her narrow cuntal passage into a hot seeping tunnel of moisture. She groaned softly and lifted her feet up with heels far apart on the edge of the bed and presented the whole of her naked pussy to his lewdly gaping eyes.
Now Hank's finger wormed tenderly into the wetness of it, and Janice's entire being tingled. He probed deeper, fingering the fleshy folds, withdrew to find the hard, taut bud of her clitoris. He stroked that, too, gently, slowly, until Janice responded with a sudden little spasm of pure delight and sensuous grinding of her buttocks that was visible to all the onlookers.
She remembered them in some dim way, their faces merging with the bright colors and sweet sounds which were the setting for the marvelous sensations she felt, and turned her head to see Charles.
She loved him so much, she knew. But he seemed angry. Now why should he be angry? Janice searched her dazed mind for an answer and at last found one. The Tarringtons and the Quincys didn't believe in sex, she remembered. They thought it was nasty. Necessary, sometimes, but nasty.
But they couldn't have known what it was like, could they? They couldn't have known it was so wonderful. Janice could understand, quite rationally, that they thought that what she was doing was wrong. Looking at it from their point of view, she almost agreed with them. But on the other hand, from her point of view, it was so wonderful. And how could anything so nice be wrong? Janice brushed the question aside, lying back now, as Hank's finger eased gently into her hotly steaming little cunt, probing deeper and deeper into her moistly welcoming cunt. She moaned and tossed beneath him, then with a sudden movement threw her arms up and around his neck, as she began to rotate her hips against his searching finger.
She caught sight of Charles' face again, bright red now with fury, with hatred, with disgust. I'll make it up to him, she promised herself. I'll explain very rationally to him and Charles will understand, dear understanding, rational Charles. And we'll do this together and Charles will know how nice it is and he won't be mad at me any longer, and he'll feel just the way I do . . . she thought through the dim haze of her drugged, aroused passion.
She held Hank closer to her, but there was something wrong.. . something terribly wrong. It didn't feel right. At first she didn't know what it was, and then it dawned on her that Hank's body, which should have felt smooth and warm and pungent, for some reason was rough. She stroked him again. He was rough and dry and uncomfortable. She focused her eyes on him, puzzled, and then it dawned on her that Hank was fully clothed, that he was wearing the scratchy Levi's he'd been wearing for so long, and the shirt, too, the one he'd put on after he'd given her his.
He shouldn't be wearing those, thought Janice, frowning at how it spoiled the fun. She began to rip the buttons off his shirt, but when her limp fingers slid around them, she reached for the zipper of his pants. That was easier, she found. She pulled and something snapped, and then she pulled again, her fingers on the metal tab, and there was the whining sound of a zipper being slid down. Then Janice put her hand inside, maneuvering under Hank's jockey shorts to find the hidden, half-hard length of his penis.
Carefully, as if it were sacred . . . Janice clasped her fingers around the man's blood-swollen rod, massaged it gently, moving the foreskin back and forth, back and forth, until Hank's prick grew strong and wiry, springing to life. And then she drew it out, holding it in her hand. She gazed at it, admiring its gigantic size, its now rock-hard rigidity, staring unblinking, unwinking at the small hole that was like an eye, at the very tip of his penis, noticing with a smile of pleasure that the drops of lubricating fluid that gathered there, oozed from it slowly.
"Ohhhhh!" she moaned, falling back on the bed, her legs spread wide, her heels splayed out over the sides of it. "Ohhhhh, Hank!"
With a quick twist of his wrist, he pulled his shirt off, unbuckled his belt, letting his pants slip down. He'd been kneeling, but now he stood, leaning over Janice lying limp and waiting on the hard mattress. "What do you want me to do, baby," he asked coldly.
"Ohhhh," moaned the captive. "Ohhhh . . . you know."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do.. . you did it before!" she winked up at him.
"Tell me, sweetheart," ordered Hank.
"I want you to fuck me," admitted Janice, all inhibitions wiped away by the exhilarating feel of the marijuana. "I want you to fuck me, Hank."
Hank shot a quick, evil glance at Charles, who watched the scene as a child would a horror movie . . . in complete shock and utter horror. "Say it again, Janice," he ordered her, twisting the emotional knife one more time. "Say it loud so your friend here can hear it!"
Charles wanted to hear her say it, Janice thought. But of course she would for him. She would do anything to make Charles happy. They were engaged to be married, and someday they would be married, and they would do this sort of thing then, too, and she would make Charles so happy when that time came. But now she would make him happy by saying it again. "Fuck me Hank," she said in a low, passion-thickened voice. "Fuck me like you did before."
She heard a scream that sounded as if it came from Charles, but she couldn't understand why he would scream when she was doing what he wanted her to, and then the scream died away and she forgot about it as Hank, kneeling eagerly between her open thighs, used the thick, bulbous head of his cock to part the soft, silken strands of her pubic hair, sweeping them away from the pale pink lips of her pussy, leaving the exciting little mouth up between her legs completely open to him. And now he forced the lustfully throbbing head into her moist, pulsing pussy, thrusting inch by inch into the softly yielding walls of her welcoming cunt. He settled his body upon Janice, grinding his hips between her open thighs, filling her to bursting, then withdrew for a moment, penetrated her again, deeper this time until the head beat rhythmically against her cervix.
"Ohhhhh, God, darling, you fuck me good!" she moaned and mouth open, moved her head from side to side.
He rotated his hips, and Janice moved against them, rotating hers in turn, while beads of perspiration formed on her upper lip. Hank reached down around her hips and cupped her naked buttocks to pull them closer to his own surging loins, and Janice was filled with an insane pleasure, a bliss so intense she found it almost unbearable. Nothing was real now, nothing existed except Hank's huge, impaling cock fucking in and out setting her quivering, quaking body on fire with pure lust.
"Oh ohohohohoh God!" she grunted softly as though speaking to herself beneath him.
His strokes quickened now, as Janice's cuntal lips grasped and sucked at his charging cock hungrily, milking it. His soft, hairless, sperm-filled balls slapped flatly against the naked cheeks of her upturned ass, and Janice shrieked in wild abandon as she gave herself up to the lewd, obscene act she was performing before the others, oblivious of all but the overwhelming ecstasy it brought her. She writhed beneath Hank's tough, muscularly hairy bod, her legs jerking back spasmodically to wrap themselves around his torso, ankles locking behind his back, while he ground his fleshy, lust-hardened cock ever deeper into her greedily devouring young belly. And then, before Charles' horrified eyes, Janice began to lurch from side to side, her face contorted, mouth open wide, in the mindless grip of her great passion. She gasped, panting hard, her breasts heaving, and her mewls of pleasure grew to a frenzied cry. "Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhh!" she half-wailed, half-sang.
Hank felt the warm, sticky fluid of Janice's beginning orgasm as it rose and spilled into her warm, tight pussy, oozed around his plunging cock, bathing it hotly in its slippery wetness. Oh, my God, he thought.
"Oh God . . . Ohhhh! God! I'm cummming!" wailed Janice, and the satiated Hank thought, Christ, me, too. Then he felt the boiling sperm in his inflated balls bubble up and spurt forward, mingling with Janice's own hot juices, felt it spray the inside of her pussy, felt the incredible tensions of the past few minutes dissolve in a wildly exploding moment of joy.
He fell back, exhausted, beside Janice on the bed and lay there next to her for a few moments, eyes closed, savoring the exquisite delight of the moment. Then he heard his name called, and recognized Gunnar's voice. "Okay, Hank. It's my turn now."
Dizzily, he rose, found his pants and shirt, pulled them on, moving away from Janice who lay back on the bed in a look of utter depravity. He caught a glimpse of Charles' face, and at first he didn't recognize him. The man was like a mad tiger, snarling at the leash, ready to kill. Hank gave him a wink and moved across the small room to sink against the wall, too tired now to watch the fun and games Janice was going to indulge in with Gunnar.
She was lying on the bed when Gunnar approached, and she made no objection when he knelt between her legs at the foot of the small bed and gazed down hungrily at the sperm-glistening lips of her open cunt. Then, moments later when he ordered, "Put your legs up over my shoulders!" she did, and she felt a new thrill surge through her as he bent his head over her pulsing, still-moist pussy, and placed his hands on her cuntal lips. Carefully, in her German precision, he opened them, exposing the pink flesh to his lust-filled eyes. As his hot breath blew across Janice's cunt, still dripping from
Hank's sperm moments before, she writhed in delight, then curled her legs and wriggled her toes with the sudden, exquisite sensation. Gunnar bent his head still nearer, and then his tongue lashed out, finding the tiny, narrow slit, and began to tease back and forth inside it.
It was so good, Janice thought again. How could this be bad, when it was so good? The idea puzzled her and so she dismissed it from her mind and lay back, opening her thighs wider to his face and enjoying what was happening to her. Gunnar slaved over her, his tongue and mouth worming into the warmly quivering little crevice between her thighs. It followed the narrow slit from one end to the other, savoring every delicious taste as it advanced. Then Gunnar stopped and began slowly to lick the entire pubic curl-fringed length once more. But he paused when he reached the tiny bud of Janice's clitoris, and devoted his entire attention to rousing it into a taut erection.
Janice thrashed and bucked under this lewdly exciting assault on her sensitive little cuntal mound, letting out sharp little screams of pleasure from time to time, that split the silent air like a knife. Gunnar's tongue flicked in and out between her legs, faster and faster now, making a wet sucking noise echo through the room as the young nakedly writhing woman's heart pounded like a hammer and her breath caught in her chest, then spurted out.
Suddenly, the delicious sucking of her warm, moist pussy stopped, and Janice uttered a tortured cry of mixed dismay and disappointment. "Don't stop! OH, God don't stop! Go on, lick it. Lick it!"
Oh, God, what happened? What was happening? Why had Gunnar left her lying on the bed, her legs still spread wide, her hungrily churning cunt exposed and waiting for the wonderful licking and sucking of his rough tongue. Janice turned, strained to see. Through the fog of drugs that clouded her mind, she somehow understood that everyone was looking at Charles, over against the wall where Theo guarded him. Something had happened to him, she thought. He was white as a ghost, and now he'd slumped down against the wall collapsing like a deflated balloon.
Hank got up from where he sat against the wall to poke a foot into Charles' inert body, Charles didn't budge. Now he leaned over him, his head bent down, listening to his heartbeat. "He's okay," said Hank straightening. He grabbed Charles by his collar and pulled him to his feet, giving him a brisk slap across the mouth that seemed to wake him up again. "You changed your mind yet?" he sneered.
Charles' head fell forward, onto his chest, and Hank jerked it up. "You change your mind yet?"
Charles mumbled something Janice couldn't catch, and then Hank slapped him again. This time
Charles lifted his head, threw his shoulders back, and gathered all his strength as he confronted Hank, looking every inch as aristocratic as his name implied, dirty and disheveled though he was. "No," he said clearly. And with a supreme effort, he answered coolly, fixing Hank with his stare. "I will never aid and abet you to escape the punishment you deserve."
Hank shrugged. "I guess we'll have to try harder."
Charles put his arm over his eyes, as if he could shut out forever what he had seen, and what he would yet see. Hank looked at him with contempt, then called Gunnar.
"Let her have it.. . where it hurts!" he ordered.
Gunnar looked at Hank, scratching his head, smiling. "Where it hurts, you say?" he asked and shot an evil glance at Charles, who covered his mouth to keep from screaming again.
"Fuck her in the ass!"
Gunnar, with a quick, deft movement, turned the blonde debutante over on her stomach on the bed.
At first Janice made no effort to resist. Everything had seemed so beautiful, so wonderful, she thought. Not Charles, of course. But then Charles never had been much fun at parties. And there was something wrong with him, he didn't look well. Perhaps he'd been working too hard again. Charles always worked too hard and didn't play enough . . . even his mother said so. She let her mind wander, just as she felt her legs being spread wide, as she felt Gunnar's tongue search out the tight, tiny hole of her puckered, brown-ringed anus. And then she understood what Hank had said, when was it? So long ago. It seemed she'd been born in this train, she'd been there so long.
"Fuck her in the ass!" That was what Hank had said.
And up her ass meant-sodomy! She was to be lewdly sodomized, right here in front of everybody, in front of Charles. Janice's drug befuddled mind whirled again, and even though the hazy bits and pieces of things she had heard came back to her. They couldn't do that to her. It wasn't legal. She'd seen that in one of Charles' law books, that she'd taken down from a top shelf where he'd thought she wouldn't find it. And now these people were going to do it to her, right in front of Charles, and Janice knew she could never let that happen. Never. She believed in the law, too, like dear Charles believed in it, and she had to fight against such awful things because Charles expected her to. And then she felt Gunnar kissing the lovely round orbs of her buttocks, nipping at them, flicking his tongue against them. Furiously, she kicked her legs, thrashing out to rid herself of this unwanted intrusion. But the strong German caught her ankles and pinned them to the bed, like a wrestler pinning his opponent on a mat. "Spread your legs," he ordered in a voice of steel.
Janice did as she was told, opening them until she was afraid she would split in two. "Like that?" she gasped.
"Not like that!" Gunnar said, giving her a swift slap on her firmly rounded young buttocks, leaving a red, angry print of his palm on them. Janice winced in pain and then screamed aloud as Gunnar took her by the thighs and forced her legs farther and farther apart. Janice screamed in agony, then gasped again as Gunnar's finger teased at it momentarily, then wormed its way deep into the little puckered orifice of her anus. In and out it ground, in and out, and Janice felt a terrible, terrible, searing pain that moments later, when her rectal walls had adjusted, turned to a dull, but strangely soothing pleasure, bringing an aching longing in her, a weird masochistic desire she knew in her heart to be wicked and evil. But she knew she could never resist, not when she felt such excitement and joy and sheer ecstasy in the act.
She groaned and wiggled her hips salaciously back up to trap more of it as Gunnar's fingers prodded and probed inside her tightly clenched little anus, widening it, expanding it, bringing a pleasurable throb to it that made her gasp for breath. Then a second finger joined the first, forced in with a terrible thrust. Gunnar began to work the two fingers back and forth in the narrow hole, preparing it for the entrance of his already lust-swollen prick. He was almost ready, Janice knew, he was breathing hard, panting over her prone body, and his fingers thrust in and out as if he no longer had control of them, skewering Janice on the hard digits. And now Gunnar, like Hank, was demanding that Janice beg him, to perform this perverted outrageous act. "Want it?" he asked coldly, cruelly, as if she were no more than an animal to be debased for his pleasure. Janice hesitated, frightened by the sadistic tone of his voice. Gunnar, impatient, added another swift slap, and Janice cried in agony, "Ohhh! Yes!"
"Yes, what? Tell me! Tell me what you want me to do to you," he commanded savagely.
"I.. . I. . . " But Janice could not bring herself to speak the vile words. "I can't," she wailed.
"Like Hell you can't," said Gunnar, giving her another slap. "Maybe you'd rather watch us when we cut off your boy friend's balls, or maybe you'd like to see his cock slit up the middle."
"No, you couldn't!" screeched Janice.
"Oh, but we would, if we have to." Another slap. "Now beg!"
"Please . . . " she whimpered, trying to hold back her tears. "Please fuck me in the ass. Please."
"Why?" Gunnar prodded, tormenting her still further.
"Because that's what I like," Janice said pitifully.
Gunnar twisted around, leering obscenely, while Hank shrieked triumphantly. "Hear that, Charles! That's what your precious fiancee likes!" He poked Charles, who tried to cover his face with his hands, and now groaned with sheer horror. "Let that be a lesson to you," Hank went on. "If the two of you ever get out of here, and if you ever do get in the sack together . . . " he taunted. "Think you can get a hard-on, Charles, or is that too low-class for you?" he grinned evilly at Charles, poking him again. "Well, if you ever can, remember, that's what the little lady likes . . . gettin' fucked in the ass."
His attention turned once more to Janice, lying on the bed while Gunnar pulled her naked young buttocks up to a kneeling position and mounted her as if he were a dog, and now he took his thick, swollen shaft and wrapped Janice's tiny fingers around it. "Put it in," he ordered, guiding Janice's hand down toward the hairless, rubbery little circle of her rectum. She, too terrified to resist, and with an overwhelming desire to comply at the same time, placed the tip of the stiff, blunt cock head against the tiny opening of her backside. With a quick, brutal thrust that this time brought a scream of pain from her, Gunnar popped the blood-filled head just up inside the small, tightly cringing orifice, then slowly pressed forward and forced the elastically yielding walls further and further apart until he was sunk deep up in the tightness of her bowels.
He began to grind it back and forth, and the pain Janice had felt as he entered her suddenly blended with the intense humiliation she felt and slowly, but surely, turned to an oddly rising sexual stimulation. She moved experimentally back against him, arching her body, thrusting her buttocks up and outward, rotating them in tiny teasing circles, meeting Gunnar's forward movements. Oh, God, she thought again, as a helpless ecstatic moan rose deep in her throat, this was horrible, horrible . . . but at the same time, wickedly beautiful to be used and fucked in the ass like a common whore. There was agony and there was hell, but it all whirled together in one great sensual moment of bliss, and Janice thought, in spite of her initial revulsion, that the last few hours had been just that. . . wonderful and horrible. She had lived through the most sensually exciting moments of her life while poor Charles had experienced the worst.
Someday, she thought, she would make it up to him, explain it to him, and she would let him do just this to her back in her rectum and would make him as happy as he'd been before. Now he was miserable, but there wasn't anything she could do about that.
The man's sperm-bloated balls smacked hard down against the slavishly kneeling Janice's cunt as his thick cock sank deep up inside her rectal passage, pushing almost to her pelvis. He was ready to cum, holding back for just a moment to enjoy even more the climax in store for him. He withdrew, pulling his penis out almost to the tip, then with a loud grunt, he rammed it deep up into her bowels again, as she moaned aloud with the joy she felt.
Then Gunnar began to jerk in a wild spasm of intense pleasure as the white hot sperm spurted the length of his thrusting, pulsing rod, to gush into a torrent into Janice's now openly accepting rectum. The now half insane young woman half-moaned, half-screamed as the boiling white liquid surged hotly up through her waiting bowels. She thought, Oh, my God, I'm cumming again. And then, mouth open wide, grunting heavily, she jerked her body backwards, bucking furiously to meet his rhythmically fucking movements and a great gush of pleasure filled her, filled her just as the man's thickly boiling sperm was doing to her at the same time. Oh God, all her joy seemed to overflow out of the tips of her lewdly jiggling breasts as Gunnar's sperm overflowed up inside her body and splashed back out again around his hard driving penis to run down the crevice of her wide-split buttocks to the sensitive open lips of her moistly throbbing pussy below.
She felt the man's final withdrawal as he pulled his now limp penis from her rectum with a slight wet sucking noise that sounded as though a cork were being pulled, and then the two collapsed, completely exhausted. Gunnar panted for breath as he lay by her side-Janice covered with sweat, but weak and happy.
Janice would have liked to fall asleep-just to close her eyes and sink into sweet oblivious slumber-but as she dozed off, a blood-curdling scream brought her back to reality. She raised her head wearily, and saw that it was Charles who had screamed, and now he had slumped forward again, all strength gone, a shadow of a strong and proud man. Again Janice wondered what had happened to Charles to make him behave so strangely. But she was too tired, too confused to think about it. She would sleep awhile, she told herself and, when she awoke, perhaps then she could talk some sense into Charles.
CHAPTER TEN
Like a pathetically broken toy, Charles lay slumped to the floor again. Hank looked at him with disgust in his dark eyes, then chortled gleefully and called Lisa to his side. "We got any smelling salts?"
Lisa hurried off to look, then came back with a bottle to revive their male hostage. As he opened his eyes, blinking with effort, Charles asked, "Wh-where am I?"
"Back at the show, remember? Our star tonight is one hot little pussy by the name of Janice.
Remember her?" he chided, passing the smelling salts beneath the aristocratic nose of Charles Edward Tarrington III. "Come on, man, don't get sick on us. We've got a long ways to go before you're finished."
Charles shook his head, wondering what had happened to him and why. How had they forced Janice to put on this obscene exhibition for him? He had feared all along that Janice had some spark of the lascivious in her veins, and this proved it. More than proved it. What he had witnessed was beyond the wildest imagination of any horror writer.
He felt his knees buckling under him and closed his eyes. If only he could shrivel up, melt away, and be gone. God, why didn't they just put a bullet through his brain . . . kill him, and Janice too? That would have been a far more noble means of degradation than this. Anything but this! He nodded, blinked, then shook his head. Hank was shaking him by the shoulder, asking him a question again. "Now will you drive for us, sir, or would you like to see more?"
Charles' head spun. No, he couldn't give in, especially not now, or he would be conceding to their demands through his own weakness. Charles clung to his last shred of family honor when he shook his head. "No."
Hank stood up, working his huge fists as if he had a rubber ball in his hand. "Okay," he said to Theo and Gunnar. "He wants to see more. If we're gonna have to spend the rest of our lives behind bars, we might as well have a good time gettin' there," he muttered defeatedly, getting in line first, unzipping his fly as he took one giant step.
He bent over Janice and whispered, "Come on, girl, show 'em your stuff," and took her hand to guide it to the jerking length of his cock still hidden in his soft, cotton undershorts. "Take it out," he demanded, and Janice drew out his cock, feeling it stiffen in her hand. Blue eyes closed dreamily, she began to manipulate the foreskin, easing it back over Hank's now swollen prick, pulling it forward again. Then she ran her fingernail along the rigid flesh, along the vein that stood out beneath, her fingernails scratching gently over its surface to send shocks of joy through Hank's tense, expectant body. His spasms set off her own, and Janice rocked back and forth, massaging Hank's erect penis, thrills of rapture coursing through her quaking body at his pleasure as she responded to his every motion. Oh, she thought as she had before, I'm making him happy. I'm so happy, too. Everybody's having a good time at this party, except for poor Charles.
That made her want to cry; she loved Charles, but Charles never wanted to have a good time . . . always had to remain the rational intellectual. She continued to stroke Hank's penis with one hand, while she wiped her eyes with the other. Someday, though, she'd teach him the true meaning of happiness and how to just let yourself go and do what you want to do, rather than what people expect you to do. Maybe that small miracle would happen when she and Charles were married. Someday, she solemnly vowed, she would make him as happy as she was making Hank right now.
And Gunnar, too, she thought, looking up to see him standing near her. Without waiting to be asked, she reached out and herself unzipped his fly, drawing his thick cock out just as she had drawn out Hank's. With little mewls of pleasure, she caressed it, too, into a hard, erect mass of stout flesh.
She struggled to sit up, but Gunnar pushed her back on the pillow, then knelt over her, legs straddling her shoulders. "Take this in your mouth," he ordered, as she continued to stroke his rigidly pulsating hardness. "Come on, baby, suck it!"
Without a murmur, Janice opened her lips to receive the tip of his stiff, swollen cock, closing her mouth around it, clasping it, sucking it in, her cheeks hollowing as she worked. She ran her tongue around the throbbing head, felt the tiny opening there, licked at it gently at first, then more roughly as tiny droplets of a thick, pungent tasting fluid oozed from it. Janice ran her tongue over them, savoring their acrid taste before she swallowed them. Next, she ran her tongue along the ridge beneath the stout German's wetly burning penis, and an electric shock seemed to go through his body, jolting him convulsively. God, this little bitch sucks cock good, he thought.
He arched his back, withdrawing his thick, piston-like rod, then with a sharp, sudden motion, rammed it deep inside Janice's mouth, thrusting it back almost to her throat.
Janice gasped at the unexpected violence of the movement, then fought for breath. She caught it as Gunnar withdrew again, beginning to fuck in and out of her roundly ovaled lips, the short pubic hairs surrounding his loins tickling the tip of her perky nose, while his balls swung back and forth and smacked against her chin with a loud, resounding slap. Janice increased her sucking of Gunnar's cock, grinding down hard on the penis that filled the hot, wet cavern of her mouth. One hand snaked around his hips, slipped beneath the top of his pants, and Janice uttered a little cry of disappointment because he didn't have his clothes off, while she lay there without a stitch on, her slim, luscious body exposed to him and Hank, and Charles and everybody.
Without stopping her feathery fingers on Hank's penis, she used her other hand to struggle with Gunnar's clothes and take them off. She slipped her free hand under his pants, wiggled them down as he rolled his hips to help. And then, as they slid low, she touched his bare skin, ran her hand lightly over it, slid it around to touch his balls, to tease them, cupping them, gently squeezing them. She slid her hand on, her fingernails tickling the base of his pulsing cock, running along the underside of his prick as he withdrew it on the backstroke while he continued all the while the rhythmic fucking of her open mouth.
Gunnar could feel the boiling sperm building up in his scrotum, and a sideward glance at Hank's lust contorted face told him that his balls, too, were almost bursting, his loins aching with the excruciating excitement Janice's hand was giving to his ramming cock. She held it tighter and tighter now, a moving back and forth on it, manipulating it, drawing it down and then releasing it, teasing it, tantalizing it with an expertise Hank had never expected. He couldn't stand it any longer, he thought, bursting out with a weird, harsh cry. Janice felt his prick expand and contract in her hand, and then heard his helpless gasps of passion as the hot fluid spurted thickly and wetly in an arc, gushing onto her nakedly rippling stomach, then flowing down over the smoothness of her thighs, seeping hotly down between them like a searing stream of molten lava. .
As Hank cried out, Gunnar's own grating shriek mingled with his voice, and his balls exploded, too, shooting their load of warm male semen into the soft, fleshy warmth of Janice's hungry mouth. The young blonde woman moaned, her body contracting and heaving rhythmically as her own moist juices seeped wetly from the walls of her pussy again, flowing to flood her pink cunt. Gulping to keep from choking, she sucked and swallowed the churning semen that flooded her mouth, groaning with pleasure as she did so, fighting to hold every drop of the pungent liquid in her mouth, licking at the few drops that trickled lewdly from the corners of her mouth. As Gunnar's penis went limp and Hank's collapsed in her hand, Janice lay back, sperm smeared, still, satiated. Her eyes were closed now and she lay motionless.
From feet away, Charles had stared at the whole lurid scene with a disbelief so overwhelming it actually blotted out his disgust. His pale gray eyes bulged from their sockets, his face was red and blotchy. The world whirled around him, making him feel dizzy, sick, as if he were balancing on the edge of a dangerous precipice. His fingernails clawed at the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists in revulsion and pain, and now he looked down to see red claw marks on his hands. That didn't matter; nothing physical could hurt him. But his spirit had been withered by the disgusting things he'd been forced to see. He wasn't even sure he wanted to live.
When Hank ambled over to him to stare into his blank, unseeing void, Charles turned his head. Then with renewed hatred, he realized he did want to live, if only to rip apart these inhuman beasts who'd forced him to suffer through the last hours with agony. "Had enough, Charles?"
Charles averted his eyes, refusing to answer. Hank grabbed him by the shirt collar, nearly tearing it off. "I asked you a question, mister," he snarled, his white teeth clenched through the wiry black mustache and beard hiding his heavy set jaw.
When Charles refused to answer, Hank flew into a rage. "Are you going to cooperate or not?"
Charles turned his head and said, "No."
Hank tore at his hair in fury. "Okay, mister, from now on anything goes. We'll bang that pussy until there's nothing left but a piece of pulp." He turned to Theo then, who'd been quietly guarding their male hostage. "Your turn, Theo, give her a piece of meat she won't forget!"
Theo, pale, frightened, stood limply by, not hastening to take his assigned position between Janice Quincy's milk white widespread thighs where she lay eager and waiting on the bed in the sweltering heat of the single sleeping compartment, barely large enough to accommodate one person, which now, in the mad fiasco of the orgy, bore the unbelievable burden of six sweating bodies. Theo leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, dizzy from the tension and high-strung emotions vibrating in the room, nearly bouncing around the room in nearly visible flashes of color.. . like lightning bolts storming night skies. He wanted no part of it.. . not even the luscious, naked body of Janice Quincy . . . not if it meant he must pay for it later.
He'd had enough pain in his life, and he'd paid dearly for every small favor life had afforded him, which wasn't much, he thought, glancing around the room as if coming out of a deep trance, hearing his name being called from somewhere close by. Was it Hank? Lisa? His mind had been wandering years back, tracing the steps that led him to the impossible inveiglement now facing him.. . prison.. . and he thought about his father who'd drowned when the sea swallowed up he and his fishing boat, and he thought of his cruel stepfather who'd turned Theo out on the streets, like some old dog nobody wanted, to make his own living, and he thought, too, about that blonde girl in Amsterdam who'd taught him the joys of sex and the highs of drugs. She had been the only sparkle in his whole dreary existence . . . and that too, had been taken from him. Not since then had he wanted a woman. Not perhaps, until he'd laid his blue, moody eyes on Janice Quincy's nakedly voluptuous curves.
He felt someone tugging him by the shirt sleeve, then, and he turned to stare into the bearish face of Hank, who snarled his demand. "Come on, I said fuck her!"
With a supreme effort, he placed one foot in front of the other and bewildered, he stared down at the blonde feast awaiting him, wondering if this was another him, wondering if this was another of life's cruel jokes or a feat of martyrdom . . . giving him a taste of something beautiful, only to have it snatched away from him. Anna . . . like his dear Danish Anna.
Softly, he stood over the reclining figure of Janice, smiling down at her. And then he squatted down on Janice's bed, leaning over her, spreading her full, sperm drenched thighs apart with his rough, calloused hands. The pink slit of her cunt was exposed to full view, now, quivering and unbelievably coming to life again along its full, hair-fringed length. Theo drew his finger slowly, carefully, along the line of it, stroking it gently, searching out the bed of her clitoris, bringing it to a full erection.
Janice gasped in delight at the welcome pleasure that sent little feather-like twitches spinning through her vagina, and Theo felt her response and smiled up into her face, a far off dreamy expression spreading across the fine cheek bones of his handsome face.
"Ohhhhhh," moaned Janice, knowing nothing but her mad desire for more sex.
And then Theo plunged his forefinger deep inside Janice's warm, moistly palpitating womb, worming it into the hilt, with drawing, plunging again. OH, God, it felt good, she thought, it felt so good she wished everybody in the room could feel as good as she did then. Especially Charles. Then she opened her eyes and looked up and she gasped to see that Charles' wasn't frowning anymore . . . rational, intellectual Charles had joined the party!
While Theo's finger moved in and out of her tight little pussy, finger-fucking her, Lisa was on her knees before the unresisting Charles, unzipping his pants, poking her hand inside them, feeling under his shorts and finding his soft penis. She began to stroke it gently at first, then more vigorously, nursing it to life, until it sprang into full erection and jerked upright.
Lisa drew it out then, holding Charles' cock in her hand, and then began to tease it, forcing the foreskin back, then running her finger along the tender underside of it. Janice saw her future husband's prick swell to enormous proportions. Was that her party-pooper Charles? she wondered in amazement. Then she saw him begin to respond to Lisa's manipulations, moving back and forth as she clasped him tight, just as Hank had done when Janice had held his organ in her own hand. And now Lisa was bending her head, taking Charles' cock into her wide-open mouth, closing her lips around its tender flesh, sucking on it, her cheeks working madly as Charles' shaft became rock-hard, and began to plunge in and out of Lisa's widely ovaled mouth, shooting forward almost to her throat, withdrawing, then plunging in again. The fear and anger he had felt such a short time before seemed to fade away, and Charles began to feel nothing but the wonderful joy that Lisa brought to him. He shook his head, trying to work things out for himself. For a moment he thought he understood it: He, Charles Tarrington, was indulging in perverted pleasures. But it wasn't really perverted, was it? No, he decided and relaxed and his pulsing cock moved in and out of the young girl's warm buttery mouth, and he felt the churning in his loins, the dull, throb, and knew that this was perhaps the most important, the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to him.
He looked over at his fiancee, and saw that she was doing just what Lisa was doing, sucking the desire-swollen cock of some man. At the same time, Charles saw that Theo was between Janice's legs now, his thick hard cock moving against her pussy, parting her softly curling pubic hairs, and then that Theo had taken his cock in his hand and was guiding it forward, using the rubbery head to open the full lips of her cunt. Now the tip slipped through the tight opening, sliding along the smooth, moist cuntal hole, sinking in farther and farther, while Janice opened her legs as wide as she could and pulled her thighs back to take this hardness deep up inside her belly.
Charles plunged forward into Lisa's mouth, withdrew, plunged in again, while shivers of ecstasy rippled over his whole being, and a strange, uninhibited wave of joy washed over him that he had never believed possible.
Charles glanced at Janice again, and saw that Hank was kneeling beside her and had inserted his finger deep into Janice's nakedly twitching anus, and that she was swiveling around it, her hips rotating. She groaned as he thrust a second finger into the soft, warm buttery depths, and then, as she became accustomed to the intrusion, rammed his thick cock into her rectum as she began to moan with insane sounding pleasure.
Charles quickened his thrusts into Lisa's ovaled mouth, fucking into it hard and deep, his cock boring in to touch her throat, so that the girl choked and fought back; yet Charles plunged on and on, aware that never in his life had he felt such thrills, such excitement. And Janice was dazzled and delighted as Charles watched the three men who invaded her body in such diverse ways, screwing back against their fingers, their tongues, their cocks. He watched her as she began to sway and rock in erotic abandon, and realized that he, too, was caught up in the same mad passion.
The ache in his loins became intolerable, the throbbing length of his rigid cock harder than he imagined it could ever be, and then, he heard
Janice's wild groans: "Oh, God, I'm cummming.. . I'm cummmmmmmming!" And he heard the wild cries of the three men as together they shot their hot, sticky semen into the openings of her young body. As they did, Charles could no longer hold back, and he, too, cried out as all of his boiling, white sperm spewed into Lisa's open, sucking mouth.
It seemed that everyone went limp at the same time, lying back, while the heat and pungent smell of sex permeated the room like a low hanging cloud. Charles was the first to roust himself to look at the others, to examine the situation. Defining this situation was not easy, for everything had changed. He stared at the others, his eyes roving over their exhausted bodies. They were still a bunch of no-good smugglers, dope peddlers, he told himself. Yet they had taught him something they had taught him that he need not be ashamed of his passion, that there was no need for guilt, and that what he had just felt with Lisa was the most wonderful experience he'd ever had.
Charles sensed that he owed these people something, that by crossing class lines he'd learned what life was all about and the true meaning of happiness.
Then, he too, fell back to sleep.
* * *
Jorgerson chewed on his beefy lower lip, arms pulled back behind his back, thumbs twitching, eyes focused on the patch of ground where his black polished boots traced yet another dusty circle around his squad car. He'd watched apprehensively as the sky faded from robin's egg blue to pale pink and, now, a dull gray shade was covering the sky.
Something had to be done before nightfall, but not even the blasted pleas from the bullhorn evoked a signal from the railroad car in plain sight, across the tracks. Janice Quincy had not been released, and there was no guessing what horrors had taken place inside that metal box. Had they ripped off her fingernails.. . ? Plucked out her eyebrows? Ruined that gorgeous face forever? And Charles . . . what had happened to him? Executed before the terrified eyes of his fiancee? One gunshot had been heard, but John Jorgerson, twenty-two years on the Amsterdam police force, knew what one bullet, one piece of metal, could do. He shivered.
Deep in the grips of contemplation, he was circling his police car when the crackle of his radio made his thick eyebrows raise, and hastily he grasped through the open window to answer the call from headquarters.
Ti Wong had been captured, this time with enough evidence to put him behind bars until his fingernails turned yellow. "Do not shoot, do not harm the hostages or smugglers," were the orders; they would be more useful as live witnesses against the one time kingpin of Amsterdam's underground drug ring, than they would bloodied with bullet holes.
They'd closed in then, sneaking, crawling on hands and knees, faces caked with dust and fear-drenching sweat, hand over hand, they crept toward the car like prowling alley cats to find no resistance within . . . no resistance at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Janice had disappeared into the bedroom of her hotel room, collapsing on the bed there, falling asleep at once. That had been hours ago, thought Charles, looking at his watch. She should awaken any minute. And then what would happen?
The door opened, and Janice came in. Her hair was disheveled and she wore no make up. Yet she looked more beautiful than ever, thought Charles. She took a step into the sitting room of her hotel suite, scared of Charles, knowing what he would think of her. She was bracing herself for the verbal barrage that was certain to flood from his mouth. He had seen her in the most degraded, vile of situations, and he had witnessed, too, her reactions. Janice brushed a tear from her eyes, then lowered them, afraid to look at the good, kind man who was to have been her husband. Now she doubted that union would ever take place.
Charles was the embodiment of decency, far above base temptation. Even though he had succumbed to Lisa's invitation, it had only happened one time, and men could be excused for that. But women.. . no, women shouldn't be forgiven for submitting to the excesses Janice had known.
"Janice . . . ? " His voice was soft.
She edged toward the wall, eyes carefully averting Charles', waiting for the scornful words she deserved. She glanced at him wondering, why was he acting like this? and she buried her face in her hands and wept. "Yes?"
He ambled across the room and took her hands in his. "It's okay, Janice. Everything's changed now."
"Oh, Charles, I'm so sorry, what can I say? I.. . " she stifled a sob. "I.. . I really love you." She sniffed. "I.. . I can understand if you don't want anything to do with me now. Oh, I can understand that.. . "
Charles stroked her hair softly. "I've never been good with words, Janice, but I want you to know those people did me a favor. I've been a bore . . . a real party-pooper my whole life. Never could have fun, always thought of what was proper and right."
"But what about what I did with those men . . . what about that?" she challenged.
"If I'd had the balls, I would have done it myself . . . years ago," Charles groaned.
Janice's blue eyes opened wide. "Charles, you mean you wanted to . . . to do it to me?"
'That's right, Janice. I've wanted to fuck you for years, but there was mother and the family name to think about. But what do you say, my lady, would you like to make up for lost time?"
"Oh, Charles!"
Charles pushed her back towards the sofa. With two eager hands, he pulled off the robe she wore and touched for the first time the soft, pliant mounds of her firm breasts.
