They are blessed with everything, this small segment of lucky women who bask in the glow of affluence, education, wealth, social distinction. Life for them is a magic carpet woven of rich experience. Yet one tragic flaw, one pull of the thread, can easily deface the perfect pattern of their lives. Consider our heroine, Catherine-"Carrie"-Ann Kelly, a Vassar graduate with everything in her favor. . .everything that is, except the physical love of her husband.
Ironic, too, that a woman's fear of her own sensual nature is often relieved by the recreation of violence responsible for her abnormal anxieties. Such is the case with Carrie, daughter of a staunch Irish Catholic Senator who took out his political frustrations in the bedroom. From childhood to womanhood, the ears of Carrie's memory echo with her mother's frantic cries of pain on the other side of the bedroom wall. Sensual yet timid, the freckled-nosed woman guards her virginity like a precious jewel until marriage when he discovers it is nothing but a cheap rhinestone . . . worthless and disappointing.
As the wife of a professor of South African history, an advocate of white supremacy, Carrie is automatically the target for Berkeley radicals who raise their fists in a cry for racial equality. Fast moving and unfortunately but necessarily violent is the account of the delicate woman who one sunny day in October is kidnapped from campus, held captive in a condemned building and repeatedly violated in every way possible by her terrifying abductors.
In the face of a potentially shattering experience it is Carrie's victory over her delicate psyche and the limitations of her own sensual nature that carry her through this explosively experience a healthy, psychologically well-adjusted wife, capable of satisfying her husband in the ways that often count most.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
So this is where I'm going to live! thought Carrie Kelly, squinting through the rain spattered window of the sleek black chauffer driven limousine whose headlights looked like one more set of glowing eyes in a monster caterpillar creeping along its slow, steady path through the heavy torpor of San Francisco's rush hour traffic.
"And we thought we had traffic jams in Boston!" A firm, masculine arm slipped around the collar of her camel hair cashmere coat as classic as the beauty of the dimpled face lifting up to the man cuddled warmly beside her. My husband, thought Carrie with a shy, nervous smile. Husband . . . ? The unfamiliar word echoed strangely in her head, and in the bright yellow smear of car headlights, the curly haired woman stared with intent curiosity at the tall, distinguished man whose clean shaven neck smelled warmly of cologne.
In the year since their engagement, Edward Tarrington III bore the same noble posture that had caught Carrie's attention two years back as she sat in a Vassar classroom chewing on her Bic pen and listening to the clipped British accent of Dr. Tarrington delivering his Tuesday lecture on South African repression following the Sharpeville Riot of 1960. The natty forty year old professor, charmed by Carrie's misty green eyes haloed by a mop of chestnut curls, invited her to discuss over a cup of tea the Afrikaner defeat in the Anglo-Boer War. Their student-teacher relationship was just that for two years. Her father, a U.S. Senator had reared her in the power of rhetoric. Repression, oppression, suppression, depression . . .
Rather than lose a student, Dr. Tarrington opted to gain a wife, and he started looking at her body instead of her mind.
And Senator Kelly was relieved! The difference in their ages bothered him somewhat, and he would have preferred a Harvard law student for a son-in-law . . . but at least Dr. Tarrington wasn't one of those Marxist idiots! Of that he made certain by checking out Dr. Edward Tarrington III through Washington channels and discovering through dossiers that his future son-in-law was the heir to a Durban, South African shipping firm and owned half of the Indian Ocean seaport! The fact that he hadn't a single drop of Negroid .blood in his veins eased his mind along with documentations that Dr. Tarrington's racial policies were as bigoted as his own . . .
"How much longer do you think it'll be before we get to the city?" asked Carrie, gazing out over the horizon to the right where the misty gray-blue skies met the murky Bay waters, and an occasional flutter of white overhead marked the eternal battle of the seagulls struggling against high winds.
The middle aged professor smiled under the slim line of his manicured mustache that twitched with flattery at what he interpreted to be his new bride's eagerness to reach their apartment and get on with this business of playing husband and wife.
As the raindrops pinged on the car roof, a cold shiver like the wriggle of a snake crawled up Carrie's spine at the limousine driver's reply: "Oh, 'bout thirty minutes, I'd say . . . " To fill in the clumsy silence, he asked, "You two visiting San Francisco . . . ? "
"No . . . moving here. We've just been married." Edward gave his bride a polite little hug and rubbed his panted knee against her dimpled, stockinged one.
Even through the warmth of her coat, Carrie shuddered, right up to the puffy nipples of her creamy breasts that spiked out under her knit dress. The sexual side of their relationship had yet to rear its ugly head. Their marriage certificate had nullified all excuses at intimacy and she was a wife, not a student which made her duties more personal than handing in a term paper on time. As much as she adored Edwards mind, his body was still foreign territory, and she would have given anything to keep it that way!
At least he wasn't like those rich spoiled Harvard boys who plumped up their egos by pumping you full of booze and hauling you off to a cheap hotel to screw you silly. Nor was Edward stuck full of cheap ideology . . .
Only one other guy had tempted Carrie, though Papa never got wind of it. Like everybody with money, an education and a choice, Carrie had flirted with radical ideology in the name of Peter Goldberg. Theirs was a casual, short-lived affair. . . going to political rallies and attending lectures on Third World strife. Peter possessed an athletic body and a Marxian mind, for like many rich Jewish boys from the East whose parents had joined the Communist Party in the heat of Nazism, Peter carried a guilty complex that compelled him to hide his wealth by dressing in drab work shirts and levis. His kinky, unruly hair never looked combed and every thought and action he related to the need for radical social change.
Intriguing was this flirtation with radicalism, but hardly acceptable to the Senator's stodgy way of thinking, and Carrie dropped him like a hot potato on his first clumsy attempt to take her to bed. Well, almost that fast.. .
Lost in a world of thought, Carrie watched the windshield wipers slap beads of water in mesmerizing rhythms.
* * *
The sky was dark and hard with a few stars shining diamond-like overhead when Peter and Carrie walked back from the auditorium to Peter's one bedroom basement apartment. Their shoes slapped on the naked sidewalk and down three steps to where Peter slipped a key in the lock and yanked at a cord attached to a bare light bulb that bathed the dingy surrounds in an unholy glow.
Carrie's perky upturned nose wiggled, feeling a sneeze build from the musty dampness of the cement floored room where the stains on the painted walls testified to many damp spring nights.
"Sorry it's such a mess, but I've been working on my doctoral thesis," apologized the thirty year old, "and besides that, I'm naturally messy."
"Oh . . . ? " Carrie stood clutching her hand bag, feeling terribly uncomfortable while Peter cleared the bed of its littered papers and stacked books. The feeling of the room was one of stark deprivation and Carrie wondered how anybody could live in such a sty . . . ideology or not! Her wealthy lace curtain Irish background had never seen the likes of this and it struck her that Peter's mind must be so engulfed in his studies that creature comforts didn't exist.
Below her black beret hat, her olive eyes took in the unsightly sight of this barren room where in a corner stood a sink propped up on two pieces of wood, its eternal drip having left a rusty smudge. On a dusty window ledge sat a bar of soap, a frayed toothbrush and dishwashing liquid above which the only window in the apartment looked out onto legs scissoring back and forth on the grimy sidewalk, drunken feet kicking cans and rats rattling around in trash cans. Carrie shivered.
Other than the bed and a small table, the furnishings amounted to a poster of Lenin which hung grease-spattered above the hot plate, and above his bed Fidel Castro stared back at her. There was something strangely romantic in Peter's true denial of materialism.
"What did you think of the film, Carrie? I thought it interesting that Amin was put into office because they wanted a weak leader whom the whites could control . . . " Slap! He threw a heap of books in the corner, clearing off the bed. Marxism didn't completely negate physical contact and Peter hadn't seen the likes of this Irish lovely amidst the crew of uncomely Taoists, Marxists, and Venceremos supporters! Most of the women who shared his ideology were either ugly and/or lesbians and he wasn't about to let this Vassar coed slip away without knowing how it felt to fuck a man with guts!
Carrie had the bosom of a Jewish mother with the long, tapering legs of a French woman, and the sparkle of the witty Irish. Everything about her exuded a lust for life, and most important, a brilliant mind which, like his, was constantly searching for alternatives. Had he known she was the conservative Senator Kelly's daughter, perhaps he wouldn't have wanted to touch her with a ten foot pole, for the U.S. Senator was known for weeding out undesirables in the university system and running dossiers on them as thick as the New York telephone directory. That included, him-Peter!
Standing up straight, he turned to see Carrie perusing his bookcase, running her finger along the line of tatter paperbacks and hefty volumes. Silent as a cat, he snuck up behind her, his arm softly brushing against her sweatered bosom as he reached over her shoulder to pluck a notebook from the dusty shelf.
"Look at this," he said with pride. "Notes from my Columbia days on the riots back there in the late '60s. You're probably too young to remember that." Peter shook his head discouragedly as if something dear had been lost. "Too bad those days are past. . .
Christ, everybody wanted changes then. I remember fighting pigs and smashing windows and throwing up from tear gas . . . now college kids are wearing loafers and joining fraternities." He shook his head with true misery.
Having been reared with the idea that there are only two decent radicals: Joe McCarthy and a dead Communist, Carrie was truly awed. "Whom, you mean you remember FSM and Ann Arbor and Kent State?" her green eyes flashed against his brown ones, and suddenly all her political science courses jelled into one of moment understanding. Here was a man who had lived, politics, not just taught them.
"Honey.. . I was there. Got scars to prove it, but I won't show them to you. . . yet" Deftly, he spun her around, took the notebook out of her hands and set it on the shelf next to a Notes from Mao Tse Tung. "To know, you have to experience, and I'm about to give you an experience you won't forget.. . "
He pressed closer to her, so that he was pressing her against the book case. Carrie started a little and he felt her muscles tense against his body. Was it fear, or the rudiments of desire? She gave a little nervous laugh. "Now Peter, don't start that. You know that I talk more liberal than I am."
"Bullshit . . . " he muttered, nuzzling his shaven cheek against her head. God, her hair was fragrant and he reeled from the scent of it, musing at the contrast between her lush beauty and the dankness of his living quarters where she stood out like a rose amongst a heap of trash. Her perfumed skin, the feel of her lithe body against him . . .he had to have her!
He pressed closer still, feeling her move backwards imperceptibly, but far enough to keep him from pressing his loins against her belly. He tilted his face forward, resting his chin against her temple. She turned her face upwards to speak and suddenly they were kissing mouth to mouth.
Telling herself to loosen up, that she was kissing more than a man . . . she was kissing a man's conviction, his way of life. . . she let his tongue slip into her mouth to run over the row of her pearly white teeth. But then it happened as it always did.
Her mother's voice shattered the glass bell jar to wag a warning finger at her. "Men . . . they take from you and give nothing but heartache." These words came from a woman who'd hated her overbearing husband for taking to the bottle when Washington's frustrations got to him and then taking it out on her hide in the bedroom. There was another side to Carrie's fear, too, but she couldn't define it.. .
Carrie closed her eyes and let the pressure of his soft lips propel her into the cradle of his muscular arms, but only for a moment. Sputtering, she pushed herself away from him with the palms of her hands.
"No . . . please . . . "
Peter let out a long sigh of defeat. "Come on, Carrie. . . for chrissakes, loosen up. It's only a kiss."
Yes, it's only a kiss, her mind repeated and she forced herself to submit, feeling the delicious, tingling touch of Peter's tongue as it skipped lightly across the sensitive underside of her lips, and then the electric shock of it as it thrust into the steamy confines of her mouth.
In the light of the naked light bulb Peter turned Carrie around and pulled her tighter against him. He could feel her response in the soft surrender of her lips, the squirming of her young, lithe body, the turgid nipples under her lamb's wool sweater.
Carrie opened one olive eye to stare into the bold dark ones of Fidel Castro who stared down at her under his black beret, looking defiantly militant on the wall. The set of his jaw and the evil glint in his eye seemed to threaten her into submission as if the machine gun he held in his hand could shoot bullets, and she surrendered, pressing her body tightly against Peter's, feeling the tingling sensations of pleasure course warmly through her responsive body. Her better senses were saying stop but her body overruled the intellectual command. She swayed, moving her stiffened nipples against his work shirt. She was relaxing into the moment, allowing her body to savor the warm, delicious contact, letting his insistent levied knee spread her thighs. Carrie was shamefully aware of the creamy wetness in the sheer panties that embraced her private parts and she shuddered involuntarily with shocks of delight as Peter's tongue lapped at her sensitive neck.
"Carrie, oh, Carrie, I want you as badly as I want to see this rotten world change," Peter whispered into her open mouth.
"Oh, yes . . . "
His agile tongue thrust itself hotly deep into the warm and salivating depths of her Irish mouth, sending sensation after sensation through the nerve ends of Carrie's body. Experimentally, she sucked on it, soft murmurs of passion mumbling from her kiss-swollen lips.
Go ahead, her body was saying.. . . here is a man who wants you for more than your body. And, as his hand rose slowly up her sweatered rib cage to embrace one of her full breasts, she found herself lifting her shoulder to tauten the creamy flesh-tantalizing them both even more.
Carrie groaned and allowed her thighs to part farther. She could feel the trembling in her buttocks as her skirt hiked higher up her thighs at the insistence of his knee thrusting deeper between her legs. Carrie was giddy with passion, more so than she had ever imagined possible . . . and with a man so wonderfully different from herself . . . a man who swore he'd give his life for the cause. She began slipping into a heady twilight zone between reason and desire and her long, trim legs tightened against his muscular thighs, the crisply laundered feel of his Levi's rubbing against her stockinged flesh. His knee was cradled up against her slowly moistening vagina.
Peter was lost in desire . . . and though his strict minded code of ethics denied him materialistic pleasures, they clearly said nothing about sex! Fleetingly, he wondered if she was on the pill and if not, did he have any condoms left? While one hand lavishly caressed the fleshy mound of her breast, he let the other slide down her back to her slender waist, then downwards along the arc of her trim ass. He paused there, fondling the ripe flesh and she leaned forward further into him in delicious approval.
She was letting go tonight . . . no denying that. Why.. . he didn't ask and didn't care. He knew only that he had to get her down on the bed before things ended up the way they always did: Carrie suddenly jerking away from him and putting space between them. Usually she would mutter something unintelligible as she bolted for the dormitory door.
"Carrie, you're a fantastic female," he breathed into her ear.
Carrie started to speak, but Peter quickly halted her reply with a fervid kiss that covered her whole mouth. Meanwhile, he had maneuvered his hand from her softly trembling buttocks down her thigh and up under the raised hem of her skirt. Like a slow-moving serpent, his hand eased upward, one finger at a time, sliding along the silken expanse of her thigh . . . upwards, slowly, skillfully.
Goosebumps rose on the dusky flesh of her thighs. If he could get his hand in her panties, it would be minutes before he had her spread out on the bed.
A gentle finger touched the edge of Carrie's filmy panties, sliding under the girlish garter belt she wore. The finger snake slithered cautiously through the softly curling forest of pubic curls. Just one thirty-second of an inch more and it would have slipped into the silky crevice, sliding along the thin, moist trench to her vagina. Gently, gently, easy, fella . . .
Peter compelled all of his disciplined forces of restraint. Control now was the acid test. He wanted nothing more than to rip off Carrie's panties, unleash his swollen cock and fuck her on the spot while Castro watched from his wall perch!
Carrie gasped and shuddered and then suddenly, inexplicably, pulled back. There was a fierce look in her green eyes. Sparks seemed to fly from them like chips of fire from a blacksmith's anvil. Peter clutched her hardened breast tighter with one hand while his other finger grabbed hold of the softly curling pubic hair inside her panties. His voice was coarse with passion and emotion as he tremblingly begged, "Carrie, no, don't make me stop now. I've never wanted a woman as much as you. I want you more than my crumby, Ph.D. Oh, please.. . "
Peter tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away sharply and clutched at his biceps in a fierce, clawing, clenching way. She was becoming a wildcat. The leprechauns of guilt had seduced her before he had a chance to.
"Stop it, Peter," she screamed at him. Her beautiful face was distorted with emotion. Anger, fear, passion. Peter noticed the cords distended on Carrie's smooth, tawny throat as she fought to get away.
"You don't respect my feelings!" she blurted at him as wetly streaming tears began to fill her enormous eyes and cascade down her firm, flushed cheeks.
Peter relaxed his hold on her, taking his fingers reluctantly away from her smooth breast and from the dank cavern between her legs to envelop her in a restrained embrace. "But Carrie," he managed. "I was respecting your feelings, your response, your body language. You were ready to let loose and you know it."
At this Carrie broke away from him and stood with her back to him. Tears of outrage streamed down her beautiful Irish face. Ugly thoughts roared through her head like a rebellious train racing out of control through the night. Oh, why couldn't he let her have her secret little pleasure, take what she could allow herself to give him and be happy with that? Why did he have to assume that her response to his probing hands and fingers was an invitation to go further, to thrust his hardness up into her tender body.
They were all the same ruttish animals. No man content to just kiss and cuddle and caress-to hold her intimately, but not too intimately. Men didn't possess the sensitivity to see the beauty of restraint. No, they had to get between your legs with their hard, cruel penises and split you apart before they were satisfied. They were all just like . . .just like her father. The blinding insight suddenly split her brain. Those nights when she awakened in the dark to hear her mother's sobs following the crack of cruel hands buffeting a tender woman's face!
Night after night, she remembered now, she had heard her father's coarse gruntings, heard the squeaking mattress heave rhythmically beneath the pair, heard her mother's pitiful moans as she submitted to her drunken husband. Carrie's body shivered involuntarily as again the ghastly sounds throbbed through the ears of her mind the way they had when she had lain in her small bed as a child. Unknowingly, she had vowed to herself then as a tiny girl that she would never allow a man to take her virginity-never!
"Carrie . . . ? " Peter said tentatively, slipping his arms around her, pulling her gently against his loins. She could feel his hard, distended penis under his Levi's throbbing against her firmly fleshed buttocks. Carrie reacted with a jolt as she felt the long, stiff cylinder of flesh pulsate into the crevice of her buttocks.
"Peter . . . I've had enough!" Carrie spat the words and jerked his hands from her waist and pushed past him, striding toward the door.
"C-Carrie, I don't get it," Peter stammered. "One second you're hot to trot and the next you're an ice cube."
Carrie's eyes were burning coals. "Why don't you go pick up one of your liberal Communist girl friends . . . I'm sure they're used to hammers and sickles."
Peter spread his hands in a frustrated gesture. "Hammers and sickles . . . what the hell are you talking about?" He started towards her, the bulge in his Levi's highly apparent.
Lifting her hand from the door, Carrie pointed to his crotch. "That's what I'm talking about!" she wailed. "Go use your tools on somebody else."
A slam of the door ended Carrie Kelly's vicarious flirtation with radicalism and, except for blurred images of Peter Goldberg's face on a mimeographed handbill stapled to campus bulletin boards and light posts, Carrie never saw Peter again.
With the advent of springtime, her attention turned to the distinguished South African history professor who wore decent clothes, combed his hair and lived a respectable, if somewhat dull lifestyle.
* * *
The Bay Bridge connecting San Francisco with the East Bay marked the end of the rainstorm, and the black limousine sped along the eight-mile stretch amidst the thunder of honking horns and the lightning of car headlights. From the freeway they headed for Berkeley, driving down infamous Telegraph Avenue which, as usual, was steaming with bedraggled street people amassed together in heated revolt.
Edward's frown turned to a gasp as he grasped his bride's arm protectively. "Something's happening . . . look!"
"Somethin's always happening in Berkeley, sir," chuckled the driver amusedly. "Jes' another riot . . . "
Nothing compared to the riot that's going to be raging in our bedroom when Edward takes me to our house tonight and wants to consummate our marriage!
CHAPTER TWO
It certainly is true that getting involved with a younger woman gives you a new outlook, thought Edward Tarrington III feeling exuberant and sexy as he guided Carrie by the hand toward their new home in the Berkeley Hills. He squeezed her playfully as he lifted her slender, feather-light body in his strong arms, feeling younger than he had in twenty years as he carried her over the threshold.
It was a lovely home, situated on the eucalyptus shaded hillside with a panoramic view of San Francisco stretched out like a post card below. The living room was a Danish modern masterpiece, tastefully and expensively furnished with a fireplace at one end large enough to roast a deer.
When Carrie exclaimed that she wanted to sit out on the balcony and stare out over the misty waters, he hid his impatience behind an indulgent smile. As far as he was concerned, the tour of the house could wait until tomorrow morning; there was another tour he would rather take, and that was straight up Carrie's smooth young leg!
Hold your horses, Edward! he cautioned himself. You've waited two years to take Carrie as a wife, and now you can wait another few minutes. Remember, she's an innocent little thing. . . not like those cheap-assed whores in Durban.
"Would you like a blanket to wrap around yourself?" he smiled at the lovely moppy-curled bride. "It's going to be nippy out there." Carrie declined and headed through the black and white kitchen to the back screened-in porch.
Not wanting to let his shy virgin see the humiliating, pulsating bulge in his tailor-made suit pants, Edward remained strategically behind her as they stood out on the balcony staring out over the splatter of distorted city lights and listening to the monstrous roar of city energy that seemed so distant yet so threateningly close. Edward pointed out the orange ribbon of lights that marked Telegraph Avenue, then guided his finger to point out the Carillon Tower on the Berkeley campus.
Fog slapped against her face, but Carrie stoically braved the inclement weather while her eager husband stood by, taking in the voluptuous silhouette of her heavy young breasts as high and proud as her morals. Edward's impatient virility gave another painful jerk against his boxer shorts and, with a moan of passion, he moved toward his new wife.
His words tempered the uncontrollable passion he felt: "Come inside, darling," he murmured, taking her arm and pulling her close to him. "You'll catch a chill."
Carrie's head whipped around so sharply that her silken chestnut curls brushed tantalizingly against her husband's shaven cheek. Intoxicated by the floral fragrance of her hair, Edward threw discretion to the winds and pressed his hungry lips against her soft ones in the most intimate kiss he'd ever dared to give his chilly bride.
It took every ounce of willpower Carrie could muster to keep from pushing him away and releasing her mouth from his bruising kiss. But when he pressed closer to her and she felt the undeniable throbbing bulge hidden like some hungry animal between his legs, a chill shudder crawled up her spine, and the ears of her memory reverberated with her mother's helpless sobs.
"It-it is awfully cold," she shivered with a nervous little laugh, deliberately making her teeth chatter and crossing her arms over her breasts. "I think I'd like a hot bath, all right?"
"Anything you want," answered Edward with painful chagrin, feeling his penis throb in true misery behind the trap of his zipper.
Thank God for little favors, thought Carrie, relieved to find the master bedroom had a private bathroom which, judging from its pink and white marble decor, she assumed was hers. At the risk of seeming rude, she locked the door behind her and ran the bath tub full of hot steaming water and climbed in. If only I never had to leave this tub, she thought fleetingly as the womb-like warmth of the water bathed her fevered sensual fears and lapped at her chin.
Outside in the dimly lit master bedroom, Tarrington paced the floor in his Gucci shoes, sipping at a double scotch up neat which he'd found in the well stocked bar. He wondered with a flush of embarrassment if his forty year old hard-on had frightened his bride and he hoped, with panic, that she wouldn't pull one of those typical head-ache excuses on their first night together.
"Take it easy," he muttered into his Chivas Regal. "Act natural.. . be tender . . . she'll eat it up." He wished it were some kind of wind-up toy that responded on command rather than jutting out to stab his beloved in the stomach every time he tried to get close to her! He knew that it was tenting his pants right now and with a grunt, he slammed his scotch glass down on the bedside table and slipped into his black silk pajamas.
His fingers were struggling with the last pearl button on his pajama shirt when his bride, looking like Aphrodite herself, emerged from the bathroom in a virginal white lace nightgown that looked like it belonged to a twelve year old . . . except for the delicious mounds of her full, milky breasts that bounced with every step, swaying from side to side like a well-oiled gate. When he squinted, he could make out the berry tips of her puffy nipples and he drew in his breath, his mustache twitching nervously. For a second, he wondered who was the virgin . . . Carrie or him!
Inexperienced Carrie sucked in her breath in relief at the sight of her pajama clad husband whom she'd feared might be waiting in the nude for her, stretched out on the huge bed like a Playgirl centerfold . . . his big thing pointing up to the ceiling flagpole-like. Nevertheless, she timidly avoided his ardent gaze that seemed to probe into her mind, demanding an explanation.
"My darling, can I get you a drink?" Edward's blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. "I had a bottle of fine champagne chilled waiting in the refrigerator. May I?"
Keeping her long-lashed hazel eyes glued to a painting hanging above the bed, she nodded, forgetting her distrust of mind-numbing alcohol and the deleterious affects it had on her father's psyche. Had Carrie followed her self-preserving instincts, she would have followed her husband into the kitchen, but the thought didn't occur to her fevered mind until he returned with a glass of bubbling liquid in his hand. Edward gestured toward the bed and Carrie sat down next to him. He made no attempt to grab at her half naked body and, as the calming alcohol mixed with her fevered blood, she felt a wave of relaxation waft over her. She even managed to laugh at Edward's diatribe against Berkely radicals and left-wing professors.
Three times he'd sauntered off in his slippered feet for the kitchen to refill her glass, and on the fourth go-round he came back with the bottle in an ice bucket. Maybe, she reflected as the champagne gurgled out of the bottle and into her glass, Edward just wants companionship instead of a bedmate.. . somebody to mate his socks and tag along to boorish professors parties and discuss the Regents' policies. That fallacious rationalization boomeranged when she caught his burning sidelong glance crawling up her silken calf to where her nightgown gaped open to reveal the creamy flesh of her inner thigh.
Edward reacted like a mouse caught biting at the cheese in the trap. He lunged toward her and planted his mouth firmly against her rosebud pink lips. Disregarding her shocked gasp and the quivering resistance of her tautly compressed lips, he tried to snake his hungry tongue in between her lips.
Dread, scorching as a burning torch, raced through Carrie's body, firing her with adrenaline-inspired courage. "Ed-Edward! What are you trying to do," she choked in an angry tone as, with unexpected force, she raised her knees in a natal position and springing them, pushed him away.
Edward's salt and pepper mustache twitched with treachery and his eyes narrowed to two blue slits. What the hell. . . didn't he have a right to kiss his own wife? What he thought and what he said took divergent paths as he said: "Darling, you have such succulent lips I couldn't help wanting to kiss them."
Something tight in her husband's voice frightened Carrie. Not only did he look like a stranger, but he sounded like a stranger and his normally gentle eyes flashed with firecracker sparks of bestial lechery. Somehow the intellectual man at the podium had transformed into a Marquis de Sade of the bedroom! God, why did I get married? her spinning brain wailed, as with a lewd groan, the six foot male grabbed her roughly and pressed her slender body beneath his black silk frame, pinning her to the mattress.
"No . . . no . . . noooo . . . please NOOOOOOO!" she whimpered, her mind still echoing with her mother's voice through the bedroom wall. "I. . . I'm not ready for this! Oh, please . . . don't scare me . . . don't hit me!"
Edward panted with confusion. Hit her? Did she have a loose screw in that Vassar brain . . . if so, it wasn't from too much screwing . . . that was obvious. He spoke to her like a teacher instructing a pupil. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Carrie. Besides, we're married. Remember this morning in your parents house in Boston . . . Do you remember vowing to love me?"
His forehead wrinkled with impassioned anguish before he took another lunge to silence her protests. His mustache tickled her nose as he clamped his wetly heated mouth against her naked one. Catching her in a moan, he succeeded in snaking his long, rough-velvet tongue deep between her cringing cheeks and the timid virgin shivered in disgust as he teased at her teeth and the sensitive walls of her mouth.
Making love to a reluctant virgin was not Dr. Tarrington's forte. His first marriage, which had lasted all of four months, had been to a well-bred slut in Durban; his father had it annulled and wiped out all record of his son's plummeting morality. In the ensuing twenty years, he'd devoted his talents and energies toward scholasticism and ivory-towered academia which left him no time for hanky-panky . . . except for an occasional discreet call girl. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the delicious task of arousing a terrified twenty-two year old virgin.
Nothing like the direct approach, he mused, steeling his stomach muscles himself for another knee in the gut as he took the heaving mounds of her round, cantaloupe sized breasts in his hands and squeezed the warm pliant flesh until it oozed out between his fingers like bread dough. She'll like it in a second, he rationalized, his own grunts blocking out her whimpers. They all love it. . .
Even though the heater was blasting out clouds of warm air, Carrie's five foot six body froze in icy dread as her impatient husband kneaded her sensitive breasts and ground his hips against her quivering upper thighs, wedged open by his grinding pelvis from which the bloated rod of his thrashing penis dampened her nightgown protected flesh with the first pearl of semen oozing from its single eye. Carrie felt the champagne bubble in her stomach and for a second she feared she might be sick.
To heck with marital duties and gentle affection! Wrenching her lithe loins out from under his squirming body, she clawed at the bedspread trying to gain leverage to scramble off the bed. The champagne had dulled more than her mind . . . it had dulled her reflexes and with a shrill wail of despair, her knees crumpled under her and she collapsed like a rag doll on the thick-pile carpet. On her hands and knees, she darted with frightened mouse speed toward the bathroom, but muscular arms grasped her around her slim waist and dragged her squealing, writhing body back up onto the bed, inching her knee-length lace nightie up above her full flaring hips in the foray. Carrie's feline green eyes faded with fright as she gaped horrified down at the shamefully immodest sight of her exposed thighs and white nylon panties. She screamed with fear and outrage as Edward, the suave professor, yanked the nightie all the way up over the jewel of her navel.. . up over the strawberry tipped mounds of her breasts.
"Ohhhh . . . ohhhh! You beast!" she shuddered, her stomach goose bumping with humiliation as his twitching mustache tickled her belly while his tongue darted into the dimple of her navel.
Her whimpers fell on deaf ears, for the frustrated bridegroom grappled at her silken skinned bosom, his snaking penis squirming in the open fly of his pajamas. Marriage vows, hopes and dreams for the future, decorous propriety were all water under the bridge as the floodgates of his passion burst and swept him along in the age-old tide of male lust.
"Beautiful. . . perfect. . . lovely . . . " he groaned in lecherous ecstasy as though he were staring at a naked centerfold. "You've got a perfectly proportioned body," he said matter-of-factly.
So he's really a dirty old man at heart! Carrie's mind spun dizzyingly. He dreams about his students being naked! Why. . . oh. God, why did I marry him?
There was no time for psychoanalysis as the well-built professor wedged his thighs between her fear paralyzed legs and his manicured hands dragged her demure white nightgown over her tousled dark hair giving it an unceremonious yank that tore it from her quivering body. Ignoring the tiny shivers of unwanted excitement that shot from her titillated nipples to every nerve ending in her subjugated body, the fearful virgin let out a plaintive wail.
"NOOOOOOOOOO . . . NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
The young woman's screams reverberated through the pitched ceiling bedroom in an eerie, unholy way, but Edward Tarrington paid no heed. He was busy stripping off his black silk pajama bottoms with his left hand while the right one remained glued to his wife's heaving breasts, and the blood was pounding in his ears as it rushed through his brain to circuit through his heart and charge on down to his loins to bloat his engorged penis another lustful inch.
For two years I mamby-pambied around talking about Anglo-Boer Wars and Soweto uprisings . . . and I was a perfect gentleman. I don't want a student. I want a wife! He exalted as he fastened his mouth on the tiny pink button of his bride's spiking breast. I gave her A's and plumped up her ego . . . and now it's time to pump her full of something else!
Edward Tarrington III was far from the violent type, but had he seen himself he wouldn't have recognized that mild mannered man who paid his parking tickets, contributed to charities and helped ailing people open heavy doors. Yet, now, as his hands and hungrily salivating lips squeezed and licked and sucked at Carrie's every ripe young curve as though she were a ripe pear to be nibbled from its core, he would have been truly shocked. Not only was he scaring her, he was hurting her.
Deluding himself into believing that Carrie's panic-stricken whimpers were purrs of delight, and that her frantic thrashing and squirming under his weighty body were expressions of her insatiable desire for his penis, Edward eased himself into position where his blood-throbbing thickness was poised spear-like above his curvaceous naked bride's sparsely curled femininity. A prideful spasm shot through him as he leered down at his manish blood infested cock. He'd never seen his penis this big before! Certainly little Carrie would be pleased . . .
Pleasure was the furthest thing from the Irish bride's mind as she, too, stared with glazed eyes at the thick veined hunk of male flesh wagging before her eyes in an obscene hello. Fleetingly, she wondered if her father's penis was that big and if so . . . no wonder her mother cried in pain. Her terror tripled.
Oh God, I don 't want that ugly thing inside of me! It won't fit! Nothing fits up there!
The middle-aged professor guessed wrong again when he mistook his wide-eyed bride's open-mouthed gape as an expression of admiration for his engorged manhood. Despite his advancing years and dignified position, he felt fantastically wild and virile as a young African savage ravishing his first maiden, and his thick rigid cock grew even longer and harder as he feasted his sex starved eyes on the tantalizing, curl fringed slit up between his wife's whipped cream thighs. When she moaned and writhed beneath him, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the delicately pouting coral-pink cuntal lips.
"Please, Edward. Pleeez!"
But the professor pressed on . . . until she grabbed him by the hair and yanked hard, bringing his well-bred senses back to life. He paused while her fingers slipped from his silky gray hair and his wildly throbbing cock poised so it just grazed the silken strands of her pubic hair. Edward blinked and swallowed his anger.
Again he sounded like the professor: "Don't be scared, darling. It'll only hurt a little at first and when you see how good it feels you'll love it! . . . you'll learn to love it!" he put it in a cruel aside, clenching his teeth.
Carrie stared up at the perspiration-beaded male face hovering close enough to her own. He was blinking rather stupidly, she thought, and his harsh breathing reminded her of horses she used to ride as a girl. Disregarding his athletic physique, she shuddered at the vulgar coating of sweat which glistened over his bulging muscles. Squinting with pain and hatred, she let her eyes rest on the disgusting, squirming sight of his baseball bat cock poking up between his thighs.
"NOOOO!" she let out an involuntary shriek that threatened to shatter the crystal champagne glass on the bed table. "Don't you dare touch me with that thing!" she spat up at him.
The last thing the professor wanted was to rape his wife. What if she humiliated him by demanding an annulment? Wouldn't her senator father make him pay for that! Or insisted on one of those barren marriages where the couple had separate bedrooms? Both possibilities were horrifying, and Edward moved a token inch away from his naked bride.
"Carrie, darling, you're being irrational." The words fell rather stiffly from his parched lips. From the way his wife stared at his proud erection as though it were s snake in a zoo cage, it was making him feel most unconfident in his husbandly role.
"It's normal for married people to express their mutual affection through-harumph-sexual intercourse. Of course I don't want to hurt you.. . but we have to do it sometime."
The growing lump in Carrie's throat seemed to melt at these words. Now this was the Edward she knew and trusted.. . not the grunting animal who'd ripped off her nightie minutes before. If that ugly penis hadn't been wagging at her, she might have believed him.
"I-I'm sorry," she whispered. "I-I don't know how to be a wife . . . that's all.. . " She sniffed. "Maybe in a couple of days . . . "
A couple of days! Edward's mind shouted in frustration. Hell, I'll have to lock myself in the bathroom and shoot it against the wall by then!
"I can't wait, darling," he gasped as the sperm churned into smooth butter in his fuzzy testicles. Almost unconsciously, he began massaging his purple knobbed penis, pushing the rubbery foreskin back to reveal the Cyclops-like eye from which the fluids oozed in pearly drops. "I need you now, darling."
Recoiled from the renewed tone of brutality in her husband's voice, Carrie involuntarily clamped her thighs together to shut out the menacing male weapon that hovered a scant inch above her fearfully cringing vagina. At the same instant Edward's long pent-up lust grew too urgent to contain a second longer and he jerked his hips back down toward the enticing rose pink cuntal slit half hidden beneath her foresting pubic curls.
"Ohhhhh!" yelped the shocked wife as her naked upper legs trapped the blood engorged cock shaft making it throb between her clenching muscles. To her amazement, the penis felt warm and smooth, instead of cold and slimy, as she'd expected.
Carrie's high-pitched exclamation was drowned out by a frenzied groan from Edward. The massaging quivering of her inner thighs squeezing at his turgid cock set the sperm churning wildly in his lust bloated balls, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. It gushed out hose-like, squirting over Carrie's creamy belly to run down the crevice of her buttocks.
"OH, SHIT!" he bellowed in impotent fury as his pent-up semen gushed in thick white jets. "NNNN-OOO!"
He was ejaculating before he'd even deflowered his virgin bride, cumming all over her naked loins like some dumb thirteen year old kid! Furious shame intermingled with the ecstatic sensation of physical relief, and he cursed in incoherent frenzy as his spasming penis splashed its fiery load over Carrie's fear-stiffened body. Finally, totally spent both emotionally and physically, he collapsed like a limp sack of potatoes upon the virgin's cringing figure, nearly knocking the wind out of her as he fell.
For a few panicky moments Carrie lay unmoving beneath his panting body, her brain reeling dizzily and her flesh crawling as the sticky fingers of sperm dried on her pure unsullied flesh. Too shocked to move, too bewildered to weep, she lay there staring up at the ceiling while the sperm trickled in lewd running streams down onto her burning cunt lips where it cooled and dried.
At last, when Edward's harsh breathing had evolved into deep snores, she slid out from under him and headed directly for the bathroom. In the full length mirror she caught a naked glance at her reflection and hastily filled the tub. Sperm had dried in disgusting white rivulets; her dark pubic curls were matted with the sticky cum and there was a bruise on her left breast which would be an ugly black-and-blue souvenir by tomorrow morning.
Feeling as if a million lustful bugs were crawling over her demeaned body, she lowered her aching frame into the warm tub and scrubbed furiously at her sperm-splattered flesh until her stomach and legs were red from abrasion.
But she still had her virginity!
Carrie almost smiled until she realized that Edward would still be naked and maybe he'd want to violate her in the middle of the night, catching her off guard while she slept.. .
At last, when the tub water turned icy, the shivering brunette climbed out of the tub, dug another nightgown out of her suitcase and tiptoed into the master bedroom. She snapped off the overhead light, and turned on the bedside lamp, deciding to leave it on all night, should Edward decide to repeat his disgusting performance. Edward snored on top of the covers, sprawled out with his limp balloon maledom half hidden between his hard muscled thighs.
Carrie was about to yank down the covers and slip into bed when she paused, a quizzically curious expression wrinkling her satin forehead and she stared unblinking for several seconds at his harmless deflated penis as one would a sleeping snake in a glass cage, waiting for the first perceptible movement before jumping back in fright.
Hunkering down and bending her knees, she examined it from every possible visible angle, biting her lips nervously as she took in the wrinkled, rubbery flesh with the pinhole slit in the middle. Daintily, her fingers loosened their hold on the blanket, letting it flutter from her hand, and slowly she pointed her index finger at the withered flesh and a scant quarter inch away from contact. Then, rebuking herself for that rash impulse to touch Edward's penis, she quickly crawled under the covers and tried to think of anything but nasty sex to fall asleep.
Counting all the sheep in Australia wasn't enough to distract her from thinking about tonight's torrid ugliness . . . and not enough to ignore the presence of the wheezing male body occupying her bed.
Before drifting off into a restless, nightmare-sprinkled sleep another horrible thought pierced her numbed mind:
What about tomorrow? What about when we go to bed mid he takes off his pajamas and that ugly thing is all big and hard again? What then?
CHAPTER THREE
Una Hart sat in the Berkeley campus Political Science Building thumbing through a pile of lectures, notebooks, and useless memorabilia that littered Dr. Tarrington's corner office. Usually she wore a pair of faded khaki army pants and a work shirt, but now that Dr. Tarrington was back on campus she was back in costume in her tight-fitting calf-length skirt and frilly blouse. The skirt's waistband was too tight and the long-sleeved blouse made her feel as if she was wearing a straight jacket . . . to say nothing about the stylish platform shoes paining her ankles. But she'd sworn her loyalty to Jackson's cause, and if it meant dressing like a woman, she'd suffer through it until the deed was accomplished. But that didn't mean she had to wear a damned bra!
"Nice to be back in Berkeley," said Dr. Tarrington from his desk where he slipped his glasses down his aquiline nose and stared over the tortoise-shell rims at his sexy research assistant. "Something about the West Coast intrigues me. Say . . . " he started, pulling off his glasses and staring at Una who sat nibbling daintily on a ballpoint pen as if she might be playing with a man's cock. "Was there a riot down on Telegraph Avenue last night?"
Her sultry dark eyes had a faraway look in them when she lifted her head up from the files. "No, I don't think so. There hasn't been anything political happening in Berkeley since they shot up and burned out that bunch of kidnappers in L.A." Her long dark eyelashes fluttered over her cheekbones and, with the light shining from the back of him onto the sheer cotton of her lace-trimmed blouse, Edward could make out the puffy outline of her tawny nipples.
The professor dropped the subject, pushed his jutting erection down with the heel of his hand beneath the desk, slipped his glasses back on and struggled to concentrate on his South African History 101 course outline. After his humiliating wedding night fiasco, it had been a relief to leave the house and come here to the ivory towered mental security of his office which had been left vacated in his absence. And to see Una! Lord, why hadn't he married her?
He knew why. Something mysterious about her . . . a haughty aloofness, a surreptitious quality that made him feel obliged to apologize when accidentally he bumped into her or brushed elbows. Unlike most of the Berkeley intellectuals, she dressed like a woman . . . no overalls and work shirts for her! One hundred percent woman was she, with her curly baby blonde hair and round brown eyes. And she was brilliant. For the three years of his on-and-off visiting professorship, she'd served him well. Beauty and loyalty and brains-what more could he want in a research assistant?
Pushing his doubts and worries about Carrie to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, the suave professor scratched down notes on a yellow legal pad, sneaking fervent glances over the rim of his bifocals at the ripe young mounds of Una's tight buttocks waggling in front of him as she alphabetized a stack of papers. When she pulled open the filing cabinet drawer, the light caught the profile of her nipples tenting out through the blouse she wore.
Carrie would never dress so audaciously . . . he mused. But then, he probably wouldn't have married if she had. Still, there was nothing wrong with taking a peek at what other women had to offer.
Subconsciously, the distraught professor had resigned himself to a cold marriage, separate bedrooms and psychiatric bills to figure out why Carrie was so petrified of that thing, as she called it, between his legs.
When the Carrillon Towers chimed noon, Una set aside her work, bade goodbye to the professor and sashayed out the door letting Edward get a healthy peek of her silken thigh that peered out from the slit that ran up the side of her 1930's gabardine skirt. The garment clung to her well-rounded body with the tenacity of wet jersey, so tight he could see the crevice between the half-moons of her succulent ass-cheeks. He made a mental note of asking her to discuss with him a proposed lecture series after work some evening.. .over a cool glass of wine...?
CHAPTER FOUR
"You're late! I told you the meeting was set for five-thirty," railed Jackson, shooting his sometimes lover a baleful look as he sank into a tattered overstuffed chair with marijuana holes burned in the threadbare arms.
"What are you bitching about?" charged Una angrily, tearing at the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse as she stomped through the littered living room of Jackson's Berkeley hovel and collapsed wearily down on an Indian bedspread covered mattress matted with dog hair. "You don't have to get up for work every morning at eight o'clock and have some impotent old bastard stare at your ass all day!" She kicked off her platform shoes and yanked the lace-trimmed blouse down over her satiny arms and her full, milky bosom. Breasts bouncing like water filled balloons, she jumped up from the mattress, unhooked her skirt at the waistband and stepped out of it, her lush body deliciously naked except for a pair of bikini panties that clung to the crevice of her ass as she stormed toward the bedroom.
Jackson didn't bother to look up. He sat slumped in the chair, beer can in one hand while the other black paw pushed back into place the multi-colored crocheted hat that lopped over his black forest of kinky pubic-like hair that sprung from his head.
When she returned, the attractive blonde research assistant wore a pair of faded out men's overalls rolled up to her slim mid-calves, her half-dollar sized nipples peeking out from the sides of the bib, one size too small for modesty. With a tired sigh she collapsed back down on the mattress and rubbed her aching feet, her nipples winking out at the black leader like the eyes of a prostitute hanging on a lamp post.
"When is this scene gonna come together so I can quit working for that dumb bastard?" she snapped. "For three years I've been digging through his lectures, his letters and anything I can get my hands on, and I can't find anything to prove he's working with the CIA to keep South Africa under white rule.
But no . . . " she gestured disgustedly, throwing up her hands. "You guys just fart around all day and get loaded and talk. TALK! You never do anything meaningful." Her dark moonish eyes fell on an ashtray brimming with matches and marijuana butts.
"Farting around? Who's farting around?" bellowed Jackson, sitting up straight in his chair, his panther-like body ready to spring, his long black fingers digging into the chair arm. Muttering to himself, he jumped up and began rummaging through a suitcase he'd pulled out from under the sagging sofa while the blonde stared at him in expectation. From this angle, she could see one side of his thin, chiseled face-the side with the faint scar running along its proud African cheekbone. Una's breath quickened as she examined the South African Liberation Movement leader's ruthless expression, for that scar-which he told he'd acquired in a knife fight during a Black versus Chicano uprising in San Quentin prison-always triggered a tremor of sexual arousal in her.
Truth be known, the radical leader had sported that scar since the age of twelve when he'd got into a knife fight with a white boy standing in a school lunch line in East Oakland. But Jackson had always wanted to be somebody important, somebody brave, and he brandished that scar like a purple heart.
"Hey!" Jackson yelled at the two brothers out in the kitchen satisfying their marijuana munchies with a peanut butter sandwich. They stumbled through the door, their glassy eyes suddenly alert at the sight of the shining weapons. Until now, they'd not taken Jackson seriously about wanting to start a movement to free black South Africa from white rule and apartheid-a imagine name some politician had made up for separateness. But being college drop outs this was better than working and more exciting than competing to stay in school.
Both James and Carl were white, and sometimes they felt they were fighting on the wrong side of the fence, but what the hell? The Black Panthers had turned into a bunch of pussy cats, Huey made a fortune off his ghetto rap, and the 1960's white radicals had all copped out to religion and straight politics. Now the brothers were excited at the sight of those guns-the first real weapons the SALM had acquired.
"We gotta make a move to get ourselves recognized, man, and that's what these are for!" Jackson enthused, stroking the pistol barrels reverently. His black beady eyes shot sparks of triumphant anticipation. "We're gonna let people know who we are. Down with repression and up with arms embargos!" He brandished a pistol above his head and struck a pose that brought a disgusted snicker from Una who thought it corny, reminiscent of radical posters she'd seen in Berkeley bookstores.
They were all squatting down on the floor pawing over the weapons when there sounded a loud knock on the door. Jackson's lean black body stiffened and he hastily snapped the suitcase shut and shoved it back under the cat-scratched sofa.
"Who the hell's that? We're all here."
Una's blank face stared back at him, and then James shook his blonde hair from his eyes. "Must be that dude we met over at the Mediterranean Cafe today, huh, Carl?"
"Oh, yeah," agreed Carl, talking with his mouth full. "That guy."
"What guy? Who the hell you idiots been talking to?" Jackson's voice was cold with fury and the biceps under his red fish net T-shirt bulged with anger. "How you think we're gonna do in the professor if you two guys are too stupid to keep your mouths shut!"
James looked abashed and stared down at the floor in silence. From the sheepish expression in his marijuana clouded eyes, the leader correctly deduced that the two younger men had been jactating about their political affiliations.
"Who the hell is he?" he demanded, working his square jaw in anger, and the knocking once again rattled the front door.
"Far out dude, Jackson." James sounded defensive. "Give us a little credit, huh? He's from Harvard. . . been in Columbia in the middle '60s.. . from there he went to Ann Arbor and got some shit together there.. . Madison, Wisconsin . . . he's been all over man. I tell you he knows the action."
"You're so goddamned dumb!" burst Jackson, but his expression softened. His ghetto education and prison sentence had taught him how to use knives and guns, but when it came to the fine points of strategy and communiques and anything that demanded education, he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag.
"Okay, let the guy in . . . but no blabbing until I give the signal and offer him a beer."
The front door rocked on its hinges, and James rose from the floor, his lanky figure unfolding. The other three sat in hushed silence as the youth padded down the hall to admit the stranger, their ears cocked attentively, their guns hidden from sight. Only when the tall, bushy haired, well-muscled man strode into the room with a grin on his intent looking face did they relax somewhat.
"Hi! Tried to make it on time, but I got kinda hung-up," the newcomer exclaimed in his Eastern accent. "How you guys been?" He nodded to James and Carl as if they were blood brothers. Then, turning toward Una and Jackson, he announced, "I'm Peter . . . Peter Goldberg."
Jackson sat sipping his beer, his dark brooding eyes appraising every muscle, every inflection in the newcomer's voice. From his street education, he could tell this man could handle himself physically and he seemed very intelligent and sprinkled his conversation with enough names and places to convince the leader that here was a man who knew the circuit. His dress was right, too: faded work shirt, dirty levis, scuffed addidas and a hand-crafted belt. Confidence and personality exuded from his being, as did quotes from Marx, Mao, and Castro.
Una, sitting in a half-lotus position on the dirty mattress, was equally taken by the stranger. This guy's got to be dynamite in bed. Squirming against the mattress as her ever-eager vagina began to swell and throb, she thought And I'm gonna find out!
"Hey, man . . . you like a beer?" Jackson asked in an aggressive tone.
* * *
The five of them bantered ideas back and forth about the South African history professor suspected of linking arms with the CIA to keep dark, black Africa repressed. The room sparked with excitement and a new enthusiasm spirited them; James even sketched a black flag with a profoundly meaningless circle in the middle to use as the SALM's logo. Somebody got out a pencil and scratched down ideas for a communique to be sent to a local radio station.
Only Una remained unconvinced that kidnapping and/or killing Dr. Tarrington was the most efficient means of exposing suspected CIA affiliates on campus. "If we outright kill him it's going to turn people off . . . but if we open up to the media the issue of suspected CIA involvement, we'll get more favorable attention and support. Remember, we're not a bunch of murderers . . . we're here to change things for the better."
Jackson struggled to comprehend, scratching his head beneath his lopsided hat. Just when they'd worked out a feasible sequence of events, Una had to get intellectual.
"So.. . we take his wife hostage!" Una continued, her eyes sparkling with the idea of committing such an audacious crime. "We can ransom her off and use the money in case we have to go underground . . . we'll need guns and cars and money to stay in motels and to rent apartments every few weeks and all that shit. Tarrington's loaded, and his wife is a senator's daughter so she's got bread and clout.. . "
Jackson bristled with attention. Go underground, staying in motels, buying cars.. . f He'd never considered that angle of radicalism before, but it sounded more enticing than hanging around Berkeley and Oakland forever.
Peter took a thoughtful sip of his beer, feeling a traitorous ripple of guilt squirm in his belly. Three years ago he'd have committed suicide in the library mall on campus rather than become a turncoat and work for the FBI. Damn, it was either this or rotting in jail after his bust on conspiracy charges to blow up Harvard's administration building. At least he was still working with like-minded people and he could talk about Marxism, the Venceremos League and wear levis and work shirts. It's just a job. . .
"I see . . . give the bastard time to squirm his dirty hand into his bank account and pay for his sins against the people! What a brilliant coup!"
Una's buttocks squirmed into the mattress and she wiggled excitedly, making her naked breasts bounce with anarchistic joy. Here was a man with brains and a cock to match-both big!
Glowering malevolently, Jackson didn't quite understand all the words and ideas floating around, but he did understand Una's interest in the handsome East Coast radical. Instead of admitting to his feelings of jealousy, he became suspicious of the black haired radical.
From that moment on, Una had become uncomfortably aware that the black leader wanted her to linger behind the others and stay overnight, ruining her chances for a private tete a tete with the Jewish college boy. Much to her relief, Jackson cornered her on a trip back from the bathroom and told her he wanted a little checking up done on the newcomer to make sure he wasn't connected with the FBI. The voluptuous blonde research assistant agreed instantly, trying to hide her glee at having Peter Goldberg to herself.
"I think he's legit," said Una confidently in a throaty whisper. "He seems to know what he's talking about . . . how to handle sabotage and communiques and all that shit."
"Maybe so," agreed Jackson. "But you know that Berkeley's got more agents and spies than dog shit. Who the hell knows what kinda guy would walk up to Carl and James and say he wants to get into heavy politics."
Una's blonde curls swept over her shoulder as she nodded her head. "You let me take care of it. . . "
CHAPTER FIVE
As she'd hoped, Peter Goldberg was in no rush to get back to his apartment and he quickly stepped in stride with her long legged pace. "Berkeley isn't the healthiest place for a woman to be walking around alone at night," he said in his Eastern mumble. "Which way you headed?"
"Back to my place." I knew it! she rejoiced, quivering fingers of excitement jolting out to every nerve-ending in her sensuous young body. He wants me.. . as bad as I want him. "It's on the other side of Telegraph . . . but don't worry about me, I've got a brown belt to my credit."
"Seems you have a lot to your credit," put in Peter, staring down at the brown nubs of her naked breasts bobbing under the lightweight faded work shirt she'd slipped into to protect her against the chill night fog fingering off the Bay waters to hide Berkeley in a bed of mist.
"Why, Peter, how flattering of you," she said, fluttering her dark eye lashes in a way that most men found sexually appealing.
It was around ten o'clock on an October Monday night and Telegraph Avenue was relatively silent, save for an occasional drunk heaving into trash cans and a few scraggly looking street people carousing, panhandling, and unrolling blankets from much traveled back packs.
"Right this way," pointed Una. "I've got some good wine and some really fine health food bread . . . and my place is cleaner, too . . . and private!"
Peter's lips twisted into a smile. So far, so good, he told himself. SALM's accepted you and Una's ah' but propositioning you. Keep cool and it'll be cool.
Then, shoving those thoughts from his conscious mind, he resumed his former blank amiability. It was not difficult for him to throw himself into the role he was playing.. . but letting his emotions leak through his traitorous mask was difficult, very difficult to keep undercover when his job required digging into the psyche of a gorgeous woman like Una!
Una's apartment was a one room studio with attached kitchenette and a small bathroom consisting of a shower stall and John.
"I've lived here for four years," the curvaceous blonde explained as she rummaged through the refrigerator for a wedge of cheese and two green apples which she sliced and arranged on a breadboard. "It's cheap and the land lord doesn't hassle me about people staying over night."
Peter nodded in agreement. Under Una's top layer of radicalism simmered a very sensual woman-judging from the intimate touches scattered about the apartment. Dainty Chinese tea cups, antique lace doilies and a satin bedspread. Sprinkled over the room in schizophrenic disarray were posters of Mao, Lenin and Communist literature still in their brown postage-marked envelopes.
"Yes, it is nice here . . . feels really safe."
"I'm glad." Una edged closer to where he sat perched rather clumsily on the end of the huge bed-really, there was no other place to sit in the tiny room. Una's musky perfume mingled with the sultry scent of incense to create a mood of intense eroticism, and her low, soft-spoken voice soothed his ears as the wine warmed his blood.
Even if the female revolutionary had been fat, acne-scarred, and buck-toothed, his job would have been to seduce her in order to gain additional information about SALM and its intentions. What an act of God that she turned out to be a young, beautiful, amorous woman . . . with brains!
Peter Goldberg had known lots of girls in his thirty-three years, and most of them had been liberated in the sense that they cohabitated with men and took 'the pill'. Most that is, except for that uptight Vassar girl who couldn't be loosened up with a ten-inch screwdriver. One of the things he'd learned over the years of his political activity and his short-lived underground career which ended in conspiracy charges, was that there was a certain type of female who turned up in radical groups of every persuasion . . . girls who got their kicks from violence and/or power. They were strong willed, often brilliant girls, often possessing a feline sexuality which made them magnetically attractive, but untrustworthy and deceptive. Una, he judged, was one such woman.
Fleetingly, he wondered what she looked like dressed in a skirt or dress, instead of those damnable overalls. As he sipped his wine, the secret agent thoughtfully appraised the sensually enticing woman beside him. Blonde hair and brown eyes didn't seem the right combination of features for a radical, he mused, thinking now that he'd never trusted a blonde . . . ever. Blondes always seemed deceptive and too giggly.
Peter shifted his legs as he accepted a second glass of wine, feeling his long thick cock stiffening in automatic response to the girl's sexual stimulation. Overalls were not what one would call a sexy outfit, but the way they hugged Una's ass, clutching at her taut moons, he wondered if she was as good in bed as the mouthwatering packaging promised. He read in her dark, oval eyes the blatant message that she was thinking exactly his thoughts.
"Feel like some apple and cheese?" Una asked softly, holding up the breadboard with a modishly manicured hand.
For a second, Peter stared at her sleek, dagger-like finger-nails, blood thudding faster than ever in his veins. "Yeah, I'm hungry all, right but not for that!" he replied, then suddenly pulled her against him and crushed his mouth against hers.
The heady scent of her musky oil-perfume and her soft, naturally rouged lips excited the undercover agent more than ever, and he quickly slipped his tongue into the warm, smooth-walled cavern of her yielding mouth. For a moment she relaxed against him, but when he groped down to grasp the melon-round mounds of her breasts, she jerked away from him.
"What kind of girl do you take me for?" she demanded, rather ridiculously, considering her obvious seduction of the attractive newcomer to SALM. "I'm not one of those weak kneed females who play kissy face and back off. Take me like a man . . . rape me?' i
Aha! So that's her trick! realized Peter. She a ants to be raped! He'd met girls her type before they were rather common among liberated female members of terrorist gangs and other fringe elements of society. Well, if she got her kicks by being humiliated and dominated, fine with him. What the hell.. . ? a little kinkiness now and then never hurt anybody.
"If that's what you want, baby, then let me oblige!" Peter felt his features twisting into a feigned snarl as he warmed up his libido for an assault on this woman's twisted psyche.
As he lunged toward her, she began spitting and scratching at him with her long nails. Una was a strong, healthy young woman, but she was no match for the athletic agent; in minutes he'd pinned her down on the big bed by grabbing fistfuls of her silky golden hair and slapping her first on one cheek and then on the other. Then, still holding down her struggling head, he pinned her flailing arm behind her back.
"You animal!" she hissed, tears flooding into her almond-shaped eyes as Peter twisted her wrists painfully. "Stop it! You're breaking my arm, you bastard! You dirty rotten fucking sonofabitch!" she screamed.
A faint smile flickered over Peter's lips as the girl's hand clawed at him, trying to inflict pain. He felt certain that she was loving being ravished by someone whom she identified with James Bond . . . or a secret international agent. This was a new role for him! Then, as he stared at the heaving mounds of her melonous breasts, he fell into the spirit like a five year old on Christmas morning, and the fleeting grin tightened into a cruel grimace.
"You give in?" he sneered. "Or do I have to slap some more sense into that head?" Just for good measure, he applied another stinging blow to her crimson cheeks and her eyes flashed with a raw mixture of lust and anger, sparking with a neurotic masochism such as he'd never seen.
"You fucking bastard. You loose-assed idiot! Okay! I'll do what you want."
"All right, bitch!" Peter released his hold on her slender wrists. "Whatever I say, right? First, get out of those goddamned overalls and prove you're a woman!"
The girl's big dark eyes stared at him through a film of tears and masochistic passion, but she didn't move.
"I said get naked!" Peter snapped. "And I mean it, you cheap slut!"
Grabbing her shoulder length hair again, he yanked her off the bed onto her feet. Then, quick as lightning, he pulled his hand crafted leather belt out of its hoops and flicked it in front of Una's face.
"You hear what I said?" he threatened, falling into the role with flamed bravado.
The glimmer of fear in the female radical's expressive brown eyes sparked Peter's latent streak of sadism into full flame. Finally he was making up for snippy nosed little rich Vassar brats like that
Carrie what-was-her-name who let you play around . . . to a point and then cut you off like a whap of a meat cleaver. While Una slowly unhooked the suspenders of her overalls, pulling the loosened bib down over her naked breasts, he swished the belt menacingly in front of her face. With his free hand, he tore open his fly and pulled out his erect hardness so that he could massage its painfully throbbing head as he feasted his eyes on the lush splendor of Una's voluptuous figure.
Consciously, Peter couldn't admit it, but this experience was worth the crumby conspiracy charge that landed him on the wrong side of Marx, Engels, and Una!
Since the girl wore no panties, her sparsely curling blond-pubic hairs came into view the instant her lithe legs stepped out of the crisp denim of her overalls. Peter caught his breath as she bent submissively to pick up her discarded garment like as if she were a little girl being chided by her mother to clean up her room . . . never had he seen such perfect legs! Her tight, round ass-cheeks eased down into slender, but softly curving thighs, and her calves tapered into the slimmest of ankles. He could tell she didn't shave her legs, and just the finest of baby-fine peach fuzz covered her naked legs, bringing an appreciative throb to his purple veined manhood that swelled in his pumping hand.
He almost wished she was wearing more clothes so he could appreciate in slow, painful movements the beauty of her lush, milky white body as piece by piece she stripped for him.
"You bitch!" he yelled, rubbing his aching penis' thick foreskin back so that his bulbous, angry red I pointed at the girl's dark fleeced pubic mound. Again, he swung his belt in the air whip-like.
"You creep! Is this the only way you can get a hard-on-by raping women?" hissed Una, reaching up to massage one of her own hardened nipples standing out like budding roses from the milky white mounds of her satin breasts. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she let her knees bend under the delicious sensation of her masturbating fingers that now pulled harder on her nipples. Looking down, Peter could make out the third rosebud of her sensuality, the swollen nub of her clitoris hidden in the forest of blonde pubic curls.
A cruel, mirthless laugh spat from between his tightly compressed lips at the blonde's deliberate provocation. I'll give her what she wants, the little bitch! he vowed, swishing his belt through the air and letting it land with a sickening smack upon the girl's naked backside, leaving a red welt. Grinning, he made a cross-hatch with the belt on her blushing cheeks, biting her a second time and delighting in the shriek of her pain.
"Don't call me a rapist!" he snarled, raising the whip again while his fantasies flickered in his head with sadistic mirth.
"You Adolph Hitler, you Machiavellian monster!"
Again the belt sang through the air, this time striking Una's soft fleshed upper thighs. She let out an anguished yelp and collapsed to the floor on her knees, her fingers pulling painfully at her breasts.
"Owwww! You filthy pig!" she wailed. "Stop it! Don't rape me, don't rape me!"
Another sadistic laugh rasped from Peter's lust-constricted throat as he gave the belt one last whip across her thighs. Quickly, stepping out of his levis, he stepped up behind where Una crouched against the edge of her bed, in the position of a little girl saying her prayers.
"Get your ass down on the floor, bitch. I wanna take you dog style!"
Without waiting for her to obey or protest, the lust-maddened sadist kicked his jeans from his ankles and lunged toward the naked research assistant. Still clad in his work shirt and Adidas, he pushed her face down on the old-fashioned, rather threadbare floral print carpet. Then, as his iron-hard fingers dug into the silken pliancy of Una's up-thrusting white buttocks, he forgot everything except the urgent throbbing of his cum-heavy penis and the waves of sadistic pleasure that flooded through his muscular body.
Una was panting and gasping helplessly beneath him as he dug his nails into the tender flesh of her succulent ass-cheeks, digging her own fingers into a particularly garish Art-Deco rose on the carpet so hard that her knuckles had turned white. From the way the tendons stuck out on her swanlike neck beneath her tangle of blonde hair, he surmised that she was trying to keep from screaming aloud.
Indeed, Una was controlling herself with what she considered the utmost in dignity. The shrieks that rose in her throat were cries of violent lust rather than fear or pain. An analyst had told her it wasn't quite normal, but she loved to be taken by a masterful, viciously powerful male like this Peter Goldberg. Her favorite fantasies flashed through her mind, condensed yet vivid as a drowning swimmer's instant recollection of his entire life. These daydreams of being ravished at gunpoint or knifepoint, as in her favorite violent adventure movies, had entertained her on many a lonely night when she had only her own fingers and a worn out dildo to satisfy herself.
This hard muscled man was a much more self-assured, genuinely sadistic lover than was Jackson who couldn't hold off cumming more than five minutes . . . though he did love to take her anally, something she would later suggest to this hard-pricked Peter Goldberg!
A moan of ecstasy rippled from her throat as Peter's strong hands dug into her sensitive upper thighs, and she could smell the intoxicating aroma of his man sweat mingled with the musky odor of his heated genitals. Though she wanted only to feel his hotly pulsing cock filling her burning vagina until it rammed up her belly, she continued to resist him, taking perverted pleasure in the pain as his gripping fingers tore at her flesh. Hot flashes of masochistic madness cascaded over every inch of her nakedly squirming body as his fingernails cut through the flesh of her upper legs.
Nl be covered with scars and bruises! she thought, writhing in expectation as the traitorous radical's iron-hard male thickness pressured at the swollen, damp lips of her pussy. Jackson s going to be mad at me, but I don't give a damn! God, all I want is for this big, beautiful man to stick his hot prick inside me and fuck me to death! Fleetingly, her fantasies focused on her dead, mangled body splattered with sperm in every orifice . . . dripping from her vagina, her anus and her mouth to mingle in a sticky pink pool of blood and lust. She gave a little shriek of maddened lust.
The record player's needle had stuck. Over and over again Helen Reddy wailed out her feminist plaint:
'Cause I'm a woman, W-O-M-A-N I'll say it again . . . Neither Una nor Peter even heard the repeated phrase. The aroused blonde was actually gasping for breath as she felt the mushroom knob of the male she'd met just that evening shoving against the tingling lips of her maddeningly swollen cunt. He felt so hard . . . so damned, wonderfully hard!
She'd never forgive him if he didn't tear her down there . . . just a little.
Peter's breath was coming in frenzied gasps as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of her provocative musk oil mingled with the pungent smell of her cuntal juices. Christ! he thought dizzily, wondering if he was in an X-rated movie in which he'd suddenly become the star. She's already so wet and ready I'm going to slide in like butter.
As the thought flickered through his passion-confused mind, Peter jerked his powerful hips forward and rammed his rock hard thickness several inches inside the girl's flowered open, ripely seeping pussy. He'd attacked her so unexpectedly and his heated flesh was so much bigger than Jackson's, that Una gave an involuntary yelp of pain despite the moistness of her cuntal channel.
"Aaaaahhhhh!" she wailed as his huge ballooning penis tore into the farthest depths of her painfully stretched pussy with vicious, passion-powered jabs, slamming into her tender cervix.
For a moment Una, experienced though she was in passionate exploits, thought she was about to faint. Never had anyone hammered into her with such punishing strokes!
After a short while, however, as Peter's jouncing, blood-heavy testicles began beating a lewd tattoo against her oily nubbed clitoris, the cloud of unendurable pain cleared from her almond-shaped brown eyes and was replaced by burning glints of implacable lust. Her mouth gaped open and drops of saliva dripped from her lips as she panted like a dog in heat, and her nakedly uplifted buttocks wriggled up to meet each vicious thrust of Peter's turgid cock.
Peter yanked her by the hair and craned her head around so that he could see his willing victim's lust-crazed clasping cuntal depths that trapped his penis like a mouse trap. Her pretty features were smeared into a mask of pure lust. Her eyes had rolled back in her head, showing only the whites and a tear of joy rolled down her flushed cheeks, telling him that she was nearing the point of orgasm as was he. This would be one mind-fucking orgasm, he told himself, but better to prolong it and listen to her beg. Calculatingly, he thrust deep inside of her, ramming hard into her cervix, then withdrew his prick so that his massively swollen tip was teasing at the lips of her cunt mouth.
"No! No!" Una's shrill pleas reverberated off the walls of her one-bedroom apartment. "Don't stop! Fuck me, you bastard! Pleeeezzzz!" Whipping her head around in agony, her blonde hair flew back to slap Peter in the face in silken blows.
"Beg you slut!" gasped Peter, holding himself back with masochistic will power. "Tell me how bad you want it-talk dirty!"
"You dirty shit . . . you loose-assed bastard . . . fuck me.. . you impotent eunuch!" She insulted his manhood through hissing lips.
"Come on . . . you can do better than that!" sneered Peter, truly anxious to hear what further obscenities this foul-mouthed woman could conjure up in her sick, twisted, gnarled mind.
Una flinched at the insult, then jerked her trembling hips back in an effort to imbed the withdrawn penis into her burning cunt. Her entire body glistened with fevered sweat and her body quivered like the beginnings of an earthquake. "FUCK ME!" she spit out. "Fuck me. Make your cum drip all over me.. . make me dirty.. . hurt me. . . . HURRRRT MEEEE!"
The sadistic man waited a fraction, then rammed his knobbish cockhead against her cervix so hard it doubled over at the end. Bestial grunts of pleasure spewed from her gaping mouth, and she bucked madly back at him, her head banging against the bed as she slammed hard into his groin. When Peter reached round her writhing sweat slippery body to massage her heaving breasts and pinch and torture her nipples, she couldn't contain another scream of passion.
"Ohhhhhh! Harder, harder, HARDER! I'm cummming!"
Grasping the ecstatically writhing girl's swollen breasts as though they were handles of a powerful motorcycle, Peter plunged into her cunt until his fuzzy testicles were about to explode with heated cum! She wailed out her orgasm and spasmed and convulsed beneath him, his own climax erupting.
Their uninhibited groans mingled with the sounds of flesh slapping against naked flesh to form a lewd chant of animal lust as his pent-up semen sped down his throbbing cockshaft and splashed in hot gushes into the girl's clutching cuntal depths.
"Ohhhhh . . . I'm cummming!" he wheezed.
For a few long minutes they both lay shuddering on the floor in the throes of exquisitely powerful orgasmic release, their bodies welded together with drying sweat and sperm. Finally, Peter's hard muscled male loins went limp and his body dropped heavily onto the floor beside Una's, his spent virility rapidly deflating to a limp and useless appendage.
CHAPTER SIX
The next time Peter Goldberg opened his clouded eyes, it was to stare at Una's spread-eagled sperm-splattered loins presented up to him like a ritualistic feast for the devils. The red cross-hatchings from his stinging belt had swollen into zigzagged welts and a shudder of mixed pride and disgust sank in Peter's gut. He had never hit a woman before.
So this is it, huh." he thought, staggering to his feet and fumbling for his Levi's. No warm-up, no foreplay, no feeling.. . no lovemaking. . . just raw animal sex. Wearily, he reached for a pack of cigarettes which lay on the table beside the empty wine glasses and untouched cheese tray. He lit the Camel cigarette, inhaled deeply, and poured himself another glass of wine.
The metallic whine of a zipper fastening brought Una back to consciousness and she rolled over so that she was facing the fully dressed near-stranger who minutes before had whipped and insulted her. Her long spidery eyelashes fluttered open and she blinked her eyes several times as if trying to clear her mind of its smoggy, polluting moral turpitude. A thin, chill wind of desolation wafted through her mind, but she refused to acknowledge it.
"Brrr . . . it's getting kind of chilly . . . " she murmured shakily, pulling a blanket off the bed and wrapping her naked, cum-stained body in it instead of putting on her clothing.
Suddenly, Peter Goldberg felt the nefarious claustrophobia of guilt and disgust choke him, and he wanted only to leave this place. But his assigned job with the FBI and its investigations into this new radical party calling themselves the South African Liberation Movement kept him there.
'Cause I'm a woman . . . W-O-M-A-N the record droned on and the undercover agent quickly flicked it off. He threw back his head and poured the wine down his throat, then poured another glass for himself and one for Una. With a feigned smile of appreciation, he handed her the glass.
"You're some lay, baby," he praised. "You and I are gonna have some good times together."
Una brightened, her almost imperceptible frown vanishing as she accepted the glass of wine, pulled herself up into a sitting position and realized her desire to have this man who understood her sexual needs stay the night with her. Maybe he could take a shower and they could try it again . . . anally, this time.
Indeed, the well-developed agent was thinking a hot shower might save him a trip to the VD clinic. He didn't like to be a prissy, but he'd caught some rather nasty diseases from innocent-looking women as clean and pretty as Una. Come on, get on with it, he chided himself. Catch her while she's vulnerable . . . ask questions, you idiot!
"Liked that, huh? When do you want to get together again?" he murmured, hating himself for leading her on.
The research assistant fluttered her long lashes, feeling too relaxed to be coy. "It's never as exciting the second time round," she murmured, lighting a cigarette. "You know that. . . "
She's not stupid . . . just fucked up, thought Peter. Such a shame . . . and she's so pretty, too. What a waste of brains. All that education and no hope for a decent future. Christ, I hate to take advantage of her like this . . . "
"It could be," he said. "Next time I can tie you to the bedpost and screw you somewhere else."
The girl's body trembled in masochistic, involuntary excitement at his words, but she didn't encourage him.
"I bet nobody in SALM ever did that to you . . . gave you what you really want, did they?" he probed.
Una jabbed out her half-smoked cigarette and gazed up at the handsome traitor, her moody dark eyes pools of neurotic frustration. "No, they didn't . . . they're too hung up in their own male ego trips. Especially Jackson. You ever get close to a ghetto black who's spent time in San Quentin? Can't be trusted," she said blandly, staring at the wall.
His curiosity piqued, Peter tried to sound indifferent, casual, but his attention was riveted on this girl's assessment of her fellow terrorists. "Jackson can't satisfy you, huh?"
Una's defenses were down; she was sexually satisfied and woozy from the wine. Mentally she compared Jackson's lean black body with this stranger who'd just given her the best orgasm of her twenty-five years. Surely Jackson's jealousy of Peter was based on Peter's vast, experience working within the educational system trying to make meaningful reforms . . . instead of out in ghetto alleyways and behind prison walls.
"Jackson's a good man," she replied. "He turns me on because he's brave. But . . . well.. . " Una paused, a far away look in her eye as she tried to formulate her thoughts into a succinct statement. "I.. . I'm not sure he's sincere about anything except his own ego and proving to the world he's somebody. He's too selfish to be a good lover . . . "
"How can you call him selfish if he's risking his life for Blacks all over the world?" Peter struggled to sound sincere himself, and he swallowed down a traitorous snicker. He'd sat in on meetings in his younger years with anarchists who'd made the cover of TIME, and it was almost laughable to him that some uneducated ghetto boy from East Oakland thought he could free South Africa.
"Gosh, it's hard to explain. Jackson doesn't really care about anybody or anything . . . he doesn't care if he lives or dies . . . it's like he's just filling in time." Una paused again, a faint look of horror drifting over her high cheekboned face, as though a terrifying realization had suddenly occurred to her. "None of us really care much about anything.. . do we?" She gulped. "We wouldn't be toying with guns and people's lives if we did."
"Maybe so," Peter nodded. "But this world is so damned fucked up . . . what else can we do?"
In truth, Peter did care sincerely about many things, particularly saving Dr. Tarrington's life from these loose-lipped radicals who would slip into violence if only to sluice through the boredom of their meaningless existences. Did this beautiful, brilliant woman really feel that apathetic about herself that she had to resort to ugly sex and humiliation to feel fulfilled?
Peter continued to carefully probe the vulnerable blonde about Jackson and SALM and satisfied with the information, he helped himself to another glass of wine.
"I better be going," he yawned. Noticing the shadow of disappointment crossing the girl's face, he lied. "I wish I could stay, but we wouldn't want Jackson to find me here tomorrow morning."
"Hell.. . I was hoping we could fuck some more." Una's vitiated language sounded oddly incongruous with her little girl voice and often wistful mannerisms.
Peter felt a twinge of pity for the mixed-up girl, but one night experiencing her brand of eroticism was enough for a life time. Besides, he was tired. Tomorrow demanded a lot of intensive, analytical thinking.
"Me, too . . . you sexy bitch," he grinned lecherously, "I promise we'll get together again . . . soon."
Swallowing down a lump of disgust, he forced himself into giving her a passionate good-by kiss and flicked off the light behind him. A satisfied smirk brightened his handsome face; he knew he'd made an ally with the only female member of SALM. Ambling down Telegraph Avenue, keeping a wary eye on the night people shuffling along its grimy sidewalk Peter darted into an all-night restaurant and called FBI headquarters to give them the good news.
Sometimes he suffered a pang of nostalgia for days gone by when he would sit and plot against law enforcements; but tonight's experience with these desperate, selfish, unthinking terrorists had assuaged all guilt.
Hell . . . maybe I'm just getting old, he mused, listening to the tinkle of his dime give way to the buzz of the dial tone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The fog cleared early Wednesday morning, lifting the white sheets from the skies to open onto a grand view of San Francisco from the Tarrington's Berkeley Hills balcony. Beyond the long curving wire strip of the Bay Bridge the unmistakable pencil point of the Pyramid building spiked, and to the right and up a tree-studded slope sat Coit Tower overlooking the Bay from its fortress-like position.
Carrie telephoned her husband at his campus office and left a message with his baby-voiced research assistant that she would be honored if he would join her for lunch. Knowing Edward's penchant for punctuality, she allowed ample time for driving to and parking on the Berkeley campus . . .and maybe a pre-lunch stroll about the grounds.
The aromatic Eucalyptus trees lining the Berkeley Hills bowed in homage to the gorgeous October morning and all of life animated its thanks for the weekend's badly needed downpour. Plump flowers held their heads high in reverence while birds scratched the dirt floor for earthworms. All was healthy and happy . . . except for Carrie.
Dismal, depressing thoughts echoed in her empty mind as the elegant young wife, dressed in a two piece navy blue suit and beige eggshell silk blouse, turned the ignition in her car. He doesn't love me . . . he probably thinks I'm sick, frigid. He's so disgusted with me he won't even touch me.
Since that night, Edward's advances had amounted to a politely aloft peck on the cheek and he slept to the right of the invisible board in their wedding bed, never venturing a hand to caress her waiting body . . . if he came to bed at all. Last night she had lain in bed waiting for him and awakened in the middle of the night to find him sleeping on the sofa. The precious jewel of her virginity, she discovered with grim irony, was actually a cheap rhinestone. She'd been cheated of its true value, guarding it in the jewel box of her secret femininity, adoring it, worshipping it, only to realize it was worth nothing.
While Carrie brooded over these depressing thoughts, swerving her new Volvo down the snaky Berkeley Hills to the campus below, Edward Tarrington was instructing his research assistant to make reservations for he and his wife for luncheon at the Claremont Hotel.
With a wide smile of acquiescence, Una obeyed, then excused herself to the ladies' room, slipped a dime in the hall pay phone and made the call SALM was waiting for. The coup, two years in planning would take place today! Carrie would be coming to meet her husband at precisely twelve-thirty and SALM would snatch her away in their 'borrowed' university car driven by Peter Goldberg. These tightly coordinated plans were verified and repeated in one harried telephone call. All systems switched to 'go.'
* * *
"Sorry, lady, but you have to have a sticker on your windshield to drive onto campus," rejected the university police guarding the north entrance to campus, disregarding the disgruntled professor's wife and telling her to park in a public lot for a quarter. Circling around, Carrie pulled into a parking lot and headed for Telegraph Avenue and the campus.
I guess Edward wants me to make the first move, the dark haired Irish lovely muttered to herself as her high heels slapped on the corner street running perpendicular to Telegraph Avenue. But I can't, the virgin bride admitted. I want him to be gentle, but I want him to be forceful and strong. I'll never get over my hang-ups if he doesn't make me. I don't want to end up frigid and forty lying on a psychiatrist's couch contemplating suicide.
It looked as though she'd walked onto a Medieval market square! Her high heels tapped faster on the Avenue's grimy cement as she glowered in disgust at the foul smell and crumbled up handbills littering the gutters. With a little cry of horror, she took a timely giant step avoiding a yellow stream of pungent smelling liquid spiting its way to the gutter to mix and mold with other trash; a dog had lifted his hind leg on a storefront. Two shaggy, grimy nailed, sun burned panhandlers blocked her path and demanded change for food. I feel sorry for m if self because my husband doesn't want to make love to me, but these poor souls don't have a crust of bread to fill their stomachs. Tempted to open her purse and flip them a quarter, she spied the hungry lineup of panhandlers eyeing her vulnerability and, despite a barrage of "fuck you lady, rich bitch cunt," she zigzagged down the street, elbowing past street craftsmen laboring over their wares. Her ears buzzed from the angry cries of self-proclaimed evangelists howling on street corners and nobody seemed to care about the dog droppings smeared over the sidewalk like an obscene layer of fudge.
Shuffled along by the crowd she darted across the street to the campus where the noon time carnival of belly dancers, street vendors and street musicians buzzed about in a frenzy of churning sound and movement.
An empathetic looking sparkly faced girl in loafers and knee sox directed Carrie to the political science building and Carrie's heart beat a pace slower. This place is unbelievable! How can Edward be serious about teaching here?
Elbowed along by the chokingly close mass of humanity, she found herself wedged in a crowd watching a puppet show. From a distance it appeared to be a typical Punch and Judy show, but upon closer glance, Carrie's mouth gaped open, her rosy lips ovaling, and her velvety tongue clucked in a shamed tut. There were two naked male puppets with exaggeratedly stuffed penises and baby tangerines hanging as testicles, all fringed with dark yarn pubic hair. One puppet's eager fingers were squeezing at the Florida citrus fruit between the other's legs while he squealed in glee: "Oh, squeeze me! Squeeze my oranges! Try orange juice for breakfast . . . or for a snack . . . or anytime of day." The fondled puppet stroked at his own cotton erection and his button eyes rolled excitedly.
Her manicured hand flew to her mouth, and Carrie stepped back onto somebody's toe and, separating herself from the jeering, laughing crowd, read "Gay Rights . . . Freedom for homosexuals . . . " printed on a banner flying over the puppet theatre.
* * *
While Carrie charged brusquely through Sather Gate heading north toward the political science building smothered in a glen of trees, a 'borrowed' university car smoothed uncontestedly through the guard's gate at the north end of campus and drove toward Dr. Tarrington's office. Inside the beige walled office, Una Hart sat with a smug expression on her beautiful face, watching the clock and delighting in the knowledge that Dr. Tarrington's boring, snooty-nosed little wife would soon be SALM property! I'd give my graduate degree to see that bigoted little cunt squirm when black Jackson grabs her!
Already James and Carl were stationed outside the campus building sitting on the cement ledge rimming the flower beds reading the Berkeley Barb with disinterested minds, warily watching eyes and ears keened for the whistle blow that would signal Jackson's strong-hold on Carrie Tarrington. Now the only sound was an occasional dog's bark at a Frisbee flying past his nose and the peaceful trickle of Strawberry Creek cutting its watery path through the campus grounds.
Jackson hid in the bushes like a preying panther, his dark, perfidious eyes watching for the professor's sexy little wife. His heavy black penis jerked like it always did when he thought about guns, riots and violence, and the thought of nabbing green eyed, melon-breasted Carrie Tarrington made it lurch an inch higher than normal. Professor's wives were usually dull-minded, flabby-breasted, gray haired women with no sense of humor and even less sex appeal. . . but he had to hand it to Dr. Tarrington. The old boy must be using that tool between his legs to keep a foxy fookin' broad like Carrie happy! snickered Jackson to himself, holding the tree branch to the side with one ebony hand.
Yesterday wily Una had snatched Dr. Tarrington's wedding picture from his desk and had a quick copy made on the building's Xerox machine while the professor gave his three o'clock lecture down the hall. With that crumpled up picture in his hand, Jackson waited anxiously, his heart pounded like an African drum in his muscular chest.
Inside the building, Edward Tarrington pushed up the starched white cuff of his shirt and glanced at his watch, irked by his wife's tardiness. If it takes her as long to make a silly drive as it does to warm up in bed, I'll starve to death! "She did say twelve-thirty, didn't she?" he sternly queried his research assistant who, for an unexplained reason elected to take a late lunch hour today.
"She certainly did, Dr. Tarrington." You may never see that rich little bitch again, thought Una with cruel delight, a warm rush of heightened emotion peaking through her excited body at the knowledge that today was the most important day of her life. She had contributed something meaningful, something that would make history. "I'm sure she'll be along soon. You know how absolutely murderous traffic is around campus. You really ought to get her a campus parking permit, you know."
While Una nervously busied herself watering the plants and filling the stapler . . . keeping a suspicious eye on the professor, outside in the bushes Carrie felt a hot sweaty black hand clamp over her mouth and the cold steel butt of a pistol wedge into her slender rib cage . . .
At precisely one o'clock Una stepped out of the stuffy building into the mind-cooling brisk autumn air and, finding two unread Berkeley Barbs where Carl and James had perched, slid threw back her blonde head and laughed triumphantly at the heavens.
Mission accomplished!
Hoity-toity Mrs. Tarrington was theirs! Una's life meant something now. Taking in a few lungfuls of air and letting them out slowly, she calmed her fierce militaristic passion and, affecting the concerned expression of a faithful research assistant, she headed back down the dirty beige hallways dotted with staple-heavy bulletin boards, turned right and walked into Dr. Tarrington's office:
"Dr. Tarrington, I don't see her anywhere. Maybe she went shopping down on Telegraph Avenue. You know how women are. . . ! "
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Dear God, this is a nightmare!" the terrified young wife screamed in silent panic as the yellow university car lurched around the cul-de-sac edged with flower beds within sight of the political science building, then slunk through a mass of students headed for class. Where her abductors were headed seemed a silly question: blood was throbbing in her temples so fiercely that she couldn't see anything but dizzy blobs of swirling color through the rolled-up car window, and she was in far too severe a state of shock for coherent, Holmes-inspired thought.
The gray-haired university policeman stationed at the north entrance sat munching on a falafel as the university car paused at the congested exit, but any thought Carrie Tarrington might have held about crying out for help was quickly squelched by the sensation of the ice-cold steel gun butt prodding against the nylon-covered flesh of her inner thigh. Her mouth fell open as she stifled a scream of terror, and when the university policeman glanced in through the glass, he winked at the young couple in the back seat.
Times sure are changing, he smiled to himself as he took another bite of his falafel. Christ, he's got his hand up her skirt! They're probably headed to some cheap motel for a lunch hour quickie.
The black skinned gunman beside Carrie spoke for the first time as the car careened through the green light of University Avenue and squealed around a corner onto a less-traveled street. "Shut up, bitch," he barked, "or I'm gonna pump your pussy full of lead!"
Carrie's fear-widened eyes rose toward her captor's face for the first time since he'd come behind her in the bushes outside of her husband's office building and jabbed a gun in her ribs. She shivered at the cold cruelty in his glinting black eyes. Having never sat next to a black man before, she cringed as his hot breath bathed her neck and she could feel each one of his heavy heart beats as he held her clamped to his chest.
This isn't real! her tortured mind wailed again. I'm going crazy and having some dreadful hallucination!
Carrie wasn't the only person in the car wondering if he was hallucinating. At the driver's wheel Peter Goldberg gawked slack-jawed in the rear view mirror at the ashen faced, unforgettably innocent Vassar coed he'd plotted to ravish three years back. Now he was an accomplice to her abduction! For a moment he had to remind himself that he was on the right side of the law this time, for a panicky feeling of de ja vue mingled with his sympathy for Carrie made him want to grab his own gun and blow Jackson's head off! He hated Jackson and Una and every frustrated militant-minded idiot who grabbed people indiscriminately and tagged a name to their silly cause to rationalize sadistically toying with others lives. Jackson . . . what tortures would he subject Carrie to? Rape? Murder? Send locks of her beautiful chestnut curls to her poor, grieving husband and then snicker at his anguish?
Carrie Kelly . . . he remembered, with a tingle in his loins, her soft femininity . . . her staunch Irish Catholic morals. Yes, she had admired him for his disciplined mind and had even flirted with his lofty ideals, but radicalism wasn't in her blood. Now, simply because she'd married Dr. Tarrington she would probably end up with a slit throat stuffed in the trunk of a stolen car or dropped into the Bay with cement blocks chained to her slender white ankles . . . food for the sharks.
Oh, it is inhuman!
He stared back at her reflection, thankful that she hadn't recognized him. Had he aged that much? he wondered with an insipid concern which his rational mind quickly rebuked. If Carrie ended up fish fodder in the Bay, he had only himself to blame. Wasn't it he who overrode his superior's judgment by insisting that the FBI let the terrorists perform their kidnap before moving in for the arrest?
Carrie's throat felt as if a noose were tightening around the silken white skin there. Five minutes ago she'd been smelling the geraniums while strolling along toward her husband's office when-no! It couldn't really be happening-she was imprisoned in a university car driven by a white man while a maniacal black shoved his gun right up against the crotch band of her panties!
Carrie's relish colored eyes were blurred with unshed tears as she stared fixedly at the floor of the car, desperately trying to comprehend the reality of her predicament.
The automobile jerked around many corners, zigzagging down residential blocks like a rat in a researcher's maze, swerving out of cyclists' paths and around parked cars. The frightened Bostonian wife glanced out the window to see the disheveled looking homes somewhere west of campus where the freeways interlaced overhead like so many gray shoestrings. Sprinkled amongst the cracked windowed homes and deserted broken-down cars, were factories, warehouses and gutted out buildings wearing 'condemned' signs.
Then, as the black man's steaming breath flushed her soft neck, she felt him lean closer until his gun teased at the sensitive, panty-protected flesh of her vagina and she felt so nauseated that she closed her eyes and prayed to every holy saint Saturday Catechism had taught her to trust.
"Well, Mrs. Tarrington, the driver said without turning his head and carefully avoiding the rear view mirror. "Here we are. Your new home." Christ, I wish I could blow that sonofabitch 's head off right now, but like a stupid idiot I put my gun under the hack seat! So help me, if he touches her. . . .
The newlywed trembled violently as flickers of late night private detective movies flitted through her head. They're going to rape me right here outside of this dingy warehouse!
A cold, metallic object pressured against her soft inner arm, and the brunette's head whirled around to see the driver's face for the first time. Peter Goldberg! A scream of recognition tore from her glossy red lips when she noticed the hypodermic syringe he was wielding with ominous intent. What kind of maniac has he turned into, her mind screamed when an icy twinge of horror gave way to a yelp of pain as he sank the gleaming silver needle into her yielding flesh. Hopeless sobs of despair rumbled from her chest as her body gave way to the numbing effects of the drug meant to dull her senses.
Christ, I hated to do that! Peter started up the car again, jolting over the curb so violently that the kidnapped girl's already paralyzed teeth rattled and her slender body tensed in fear. Within minutes, however, she sank lifelessly to the floor of the car, a rainbow carousel of color spinning dizzily through her narcotic-numbed brain.
* * *
The smog-littered sky blocked out most of the stars studding the night skies; only the slivered moon pierced down from the heavens to streak in through the smudged windows of the San Pablo Avenue apartment, its unearthly radiance intermingling oddly with the neon lights and car headlights of the low-rent, congested area.
Jackson, his tightly cut levis hanging around his black bony knees as he fondled his stud-sized penis, was staring in bestial anticipation at the limp, thoroughly drugged figure of the elegant Mrs. Tarrington.
"You're one foxy chick, baby," he muttered, a greedy, Cheshire grin passing across his sharp-featured face. "I think your ol' man's gonna pay plenty to get you back in one piece."
With his left hand, he reached out and yanked the unconscious brunette's skirt up around her tiny waist, simultaneously skinning back his dark foreskin to massage the bulging head of his blood-throbbing cock. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead as his black eyes feasted on the perfectly molded white curves of her nylon-covered legs, letting his gaze linger for long minutes on the rich swell of her hips and her girlish white-lace garter belt. Jackson could hardly believe he, a ghetto-born black man was in the presence of this holy white woman . . . and she was his property now!
"Jes' you wait, cunt," he leered, reaching toward the row of buttons which fastened the bodice of her silk blouse. "When you open them white eyes of yours, you're gonna be starin' at one hunk of black flesh!"
Just before his black bony fingers touched the voluptuous mounds of the young prisoner's gently heaving breasts, Jackson exerted an immense effort of will and pulled his trembling hand away. Then he zipped up his fly, stuffing the swollen black genitals behind the zipper and sucked in his breath. His penis ached in its denim trap, but he tried to ignore the pressure. Much as he longed to rape this vulnerable white bride, his greed and ego-mania overwhelmed his lust.
With a final sneer at the lush female figure sprawled out on the unwashed foam rubber mattress, the kinky-haired terrorist picked up the alligator handbag which had fallen on the floor beside her. A little spasm of anger flooded through his animalish veins as he realized that Mrs. Tarrington's clothes and accessories were worth more than his father's monthly salary.. . which fed nine hungry children. This woman had probably never gotten her hands dirty, had no idea what it was like to eat turnip greens and beans instead of steak and champagne . . . or to see your father beating your mother in a drunken fit of frustration from not being able to find work. Shit, she didn't know a goddamned thing about life. But she'd learn . . .
Then, as he dumped her purse open, its contents vomiting out, he forgot his bitterness and centered on his greed. Christ, the woman was carrying five hundred dollars in travelers cheques.. . not to mention the VISA, BANAKAMERICARD, and MASTER CHARGE cards!
Jackson was joyfully counting out the green bills and stuffing them in his pockets when he heard footsteps on the rickety steps leading to the second floor apartment with a 'Condemned by Berkeley Fire Department' sign on the front. That would be James and Carl, he reasoned; Una would still be in Dr. Tarrington's office trying to console the poor bastard, and Peter was writing a communique to be sent to the local radio station. That kept the newcomer out of the way.
Carl and James were out of breath by the time they reached the top of the squeaking stairs.
"Did ya get the car back to the university car pool?" demanded the terrorist leader.
The two nodded simultaneously. "We've even got the release slip," put in Carl, fumbling for it in his pocket, the slender beam of his penlight cutting lightning streaks through the dark, dank interior of the chilly condemned apartment.
"For Chrissakes, don't go carrying evidence like that around in your pockets, you dumb ass!" glowered Jackson, the whites of his black eyes scintillating marbly like an alley cat in the night.
Neither youth seemed to hear him, for they'd craned their necks to look through the doorway at the limply lying female form. Carrie's mouth hung open and the red highlights of her chestnut curls flamed in the dim light of the kerosene lantern sit-ting on the dusty floor next to her, bathing the room in an eerie, flickering glow that reminded the shivering Carl of his grandmother's wake.
James whistled in appreciation. "Shit, man. What a piece of ass! That wedding picture didn't do her justice!"
"Nobody's playing cupid . . . " Carrie was Jackson's prize, as were the contents of her pocket-book, and he wasn't about to let these white honkies touch her until he'd savored a piece of her white meat himself. "Get your asses out of here before the place starts swarming with cops. We don't wanna blow it now. How's Peter doin' with the commui-" Jackson couldn't remember the word. "That damned ransom note . . . "
"He's over at your place workin' on it now." Carl flicked on his penlight and streaked it down the steps to make certain no rats crossed his path. "Ain't you coming with us?" demanded the blonde haired militant in an almost belligerent tone. "You don't wanna stay here with her . . . if the cops come . . . "
"Somebody's gotta stay to keep guard, stupid. She'll be conscious before morning." Then, in an attempt to mollify his compatriots, Jackson added: "Take some of this money and score yourselves some good dope." His black paw plunged into his bulging Levi pocket to draw out two twenty dollar bills.
The wide-nosed leader breathed a sigh of relief as, with a number of backward glances over Carrie Tarrington's shapely body, Carl and James tip-toed down the rickety steps and walked off into the blackened night.
I been waitin' for this, gloated Jackson. This white southern cracker's gonna be crunchin' under my jaws when she comes to!
With deftly fingered delight, Jackson removed the prisoner's gold watch, her diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band, and the diamond-studded chain from around her neck. Carrie stirred slightly at the feel of his cold fingers prodding her ivory-white neck, but her eyes remained shut. The expensive jewels were stuffed in his pockets along with the credit cards and money and Jackson calculated gleefully how much they would bring at Fat Eddie's Pawn Shop down in East Oakland.
Jackson couldn't help but feel smug. His wide features broke into a self-congratulatory grin. Jackson McBee was no common pimp pandering girls down on McArthur Boulevard and driving a dented up black Cadillac. No, sir! Pimping, pushing drugs . . . that was kid's stuff. He was in the big league now . . . working with people with brains, making a name for himself. Yeah, it's my trip.. . he gloated. It's all my trip! Ain't nobody gonna call Jackson stupid no more. . .
Once again he jerked down the zipper of his jeans to stroke his horse-sized pulsating pole of hard black maledom. If the morphine worked normally, she would be awakening in about twenty minutes, leaving him just enough time to strip her down and tie her up. Christ, he hoped he didn't squirt it off before then! The thought of ramming his cock into the helplessly bound rich white bitch was giving him the wildest hard-on he'd had since a forty year old hooker took his virginity at the age of twelve.
Working fast as his bony fingers could, the abductor quickly eased off his unconscious victim's clothing to reveal the creamy whiteness of her pure, virginal body. A few curling tendrils of soft brown hair stuck out through the elastic leg bands of her tiny white bikinis, and his long tongue flicked over his thick parched lips as he stared at the mountain of her vaginal mound. His two big black hands tugged the fragile bikini panties down over her well rounded hips and down over her shapely calves . . . clear down to her slender ankles, letting his animalish eyes feast on the pouting mound of her untouched cuntal lips.
Jackson's cock gave a vigorous lurch of appreciation as he stared down at Mrs. Tarrington's inert figure, clad now in a girlishly proper white lace garter belt, sheer stockings, and white lace brassiere, all fresh and white as her virginity. This was not the first time Jackson had violated a woman-though never a woman as innocent looking and fresh as this one. Within seconds, he'd pulled off the silk stockings and bound her slim wrists and ankles with firm square knots. Now, when she woke up, she wouldn't be able to move anything but her head.
The hard muscled ex-San Quentin-convict-turned-terrorist saved the white creamy mounds of Carrie's strawberry tipped breasts for desert. With lingering, mouthwatering slowness, he unhooked the flimsy lace brassiere, his bony fingers working clumsily at the tiny white hooks, finally ripping them off in his frustration. His black hands crushed the succulent ivory-white mountains of soft, flesh, squeezing them until her pliant feminine flesh oozed between his grasping fingertips; the excitement of using this unconscious woman according to his own lustful whims caused his penis to stiffen into iron-hard readiness.
Christ, she's got big tits! he exclaimed in silent delight. On a sudden lewd impulse, the sex-maddened man sank his livery mouth down against the pink buds of her proudly straining twin flesh mounds, twirling his long tongue over the tiny tautening nipples until he was rewarded by a low, almost imperceptible moan uttered between her slightly parted lips.
She's coming to! he exalted. And she's gonna rake up to see one hell of a hard-on! Ain't no white honky got a cock like ol Jackson!
True! His blood engorged ebony cock was dangling directly over the white girl's flat white belly and, with a quick flick of his slim hips, Jackson let the lust swollen spear slide up to her melon round breasts, then back down over her satiny smooth body and slightly spread thighs. A thin trickle of pearly pre-cum smeared ominously over the girl's nakedly magnificent loins, like the opening chapter of a pornographic novel. Carrie shivered in her drug-induced stupor, her comatose mind dreaming of a wet, slimy snake crawling all over her naked body.
Now! Jackson thought excitedly. Now! He reached up and ceremoniously tore his crocheted hat from his kinky black hair and carefully set it next to the kerosene lantern sending red flickers of light over the spooky silence of the filthy room where the roar of freeway traffic overhead reverberated like the low, steady roar of a lion.
He bent down, his knotted black hair mingling with the clean, perfumed chestnut curls of Carrie Tarrington's sparsely-haired pussy, then sighed in lewd ecstasy as his velvety tongue darted out to part the silky curls as if he were God parting the Red Sea. In a minute, he'd made contact with ocean's floor, running his tongue over the coral pink flesh of her fresh tasting vaginal lips and was kicking his muscle bound legs free of his levis as shamelessly he buried his head between her silken thighs.
I'll show her what a black man got that no white dude never though t of havin'. That impotent ol' man of hers never done to her, I'll bet.. .
CHAPTER NINE
Carrie lay semi-conscious swooning from her deliciously soothing morphine-induced dream. In her mind, she was laying in an open field, green as a queen's emerald, with flowers splattered over the countryside like so many sprinkled jewels while the golden sunlight sprinkled over her body, soft as angel dust. The heavily perfumed air was rich with the scent of fertility.
Somehow, she had lost her clothes, but it didn't matter, because monarch butterflies were circling above her, covering her nudity in flickers of orange and black . . . and besides, Daddy was there, without his clothes on, so of course everything was fine. Even when a big black snake uncoiled its shiny body from a twisted tree trunk and slithered over her naked body, she wasn't really afraid. Nothing could hurt her with Daddy close by.
The warm, tingling sensations grew more intense as Carrie's drug-dulled brain cleared. Vaguely, very vaguely, the over-protected virgin realized that the pleasurable feelings were centered in her breasts and down between her legs. Still, she felt no fear.. . only a sense of relief and peace as she lazily stretched her legs further apart and swiped her velvety tongue over her parched reddened lips.
Gradually, the butterflies of her dream died one by one and the heat of the afternoon had lifted to be replaced by a cold waft of Arctic wind. Instead of laying in a pristine pasture of harmless creatures, she was hurled into a den of coiling, hissing snakes. . . .
Carrie's long lashed lids flickered open. There was no pasture, no butterflies, no Daddy . . . instead, her brain was spated with horrifying memories of the man, black as charcoal, holding an ice-cold gun against her spine, who'd forced her into a car and then rudely shoved his nasty weapon up under her skirt.
My skirt. . . . Where's my skirt? Carried puzzled dizzily. Dear God, where am I? Fear, loud as the freeway traffic overhead, echoed in her fevered mind.
Gradually the fog cleared from her mind, like dew slowly dissolving in the morning sunlight, and she found herself staring in wide-eyed horror at her virginal, naked body sprawled out on a dingy mattress. The young bride tried to clasp her tiny lotion-soft hands to her swelling bosom in her gesture of fear, but found that her arms would not move . . . her wrists were tightly bound with her own nylon stockings. Panic-stricken, she gazed wildly around the light splattered room where red lantern flames illuminated the smudged windows and the grimy, dusty floor and the dank smell of musty neglect stung her nostrils. OH GOD!
The vile, flat featured terrorist who'd abducted her from within sight of her husband's parked car and had done God knows what dreadful things to poor Edward, was crouching over her tied-down body with his disgusting thick lipped mouth planted on the tulips of her never-before-touched vagina!
"AAAEEEEIIIII!"
The terrorized wife's scream sluiced through the eerie silence of the condemned building, and Jackson slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. "Don't you make another sound, lady, or I'm gonna have to get nasty . . . and I don't wanna scar up that pretty white flesh of yours." Carrie's lithe body flexed involuntarily and her legs struggled to kick out in defense, but they wouldn't budge; they, too, were bound, keeping her face down on the dusty smelling mattress.
"Don't try none of that shit!" snarled the young black terrorist, leaping down upon her helplessly stocking-bound body. "Jes' cause yer Daddy's a Washington big shot, don't pull no punches with me!"
The man's wiry-muscled body, firm and sleek as a panther, nearly knocked the wind from the frightened girl's lungs as he fell upon her, but the instant she caught her breath, she screamed again and struggled, her naked body squirming like a white earthworm being sliced in half by a shovel. Pure terror swept like liquid lightning through her veins, erasing every trace of erotic pleasure, as evil-eyed, scar-faced Jackson planted his repulsive hand down between her quaking thighs.
"Shuddup, bitch!" hissed Jackson, savoring the sounds of his own sadistic snarl.
Even though he spoke in a low voice, there was an icy, ominous note which frightened Carrie so badly that her shrieks died in her throat and her futilely straining figure fell limp. Instinct for survival told her that this man would delight in torturing her, and she remembered that he carried a gun. Obviously, her captor was a raving maniac: her only hope lay in trying to placate him.
"Wh-what do you want with me?" she choked out in a piteous squeak. "Please . . . if you'll take your hand away I'll give you anything you want. My husband's rich and I . . . "
A cold, cruel burst of laughter interrupted Carrie's timorous cries. "If your husband wasn't rich and white you wouldn't be here. That nigger-hating sonofabitch is gonna pay every cent he's got to get you back . . . if he wants you when I'm finished with you. Maybe you never heard of Jackson McBee, lady or of the South African Liberation Movement. . . ? "
Terrorists! Kidnappers! "Oh, no, pleeeezzzz!" Carrie whimpered as the black man's rough fingertip crawled along the sensitive lips of her never-before-violated vagina. "Get your dirty . . . hands off of me you . . . you animal!" I never let Edward touch me there. . . but to have a black man do it.. . oh, God!
"Black hands . . . ? Is that what you was gonna say?" he taunted, digging his outstretched bony middle finger deeper into the cringing folds of his victim's genital flesh until he discovered the tiny button of her clitoris. "Don't seem to make much difference to a whore like you, lady . . . my, my, but my finger is all wet from your cunt."
It was a few mindless seconds before Carrie comprehended the man's vile words, but when the obscene meaning sank in, her parchment-white skin blushed bright red.
The dirty, ugly black maniac! But she dared not open her mouth. Tears were flowing down her burning cheeks now, and although she refused to admit the awful truth to herself, a peculiarly ticklish tingling had arisen in her finger-ravished vagina.
Until now she had deliberately averted her eyes from the black bat-sized spear jutting out from his loins, but finally she found her eyes drawn to it like a mosquito to a campfire. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time as its shiny ebony skin stretched tautly over the bulging veins of his blood-fed penis.
Carrie struggled to lift her eyes from it, but it throbbed before her eyes, its black mushroomed head oozing drops of pre-ejaculate cum that squirted from its tip like a snake's flicking tongue. Somehow, the kidnapped bride's terror was actually less acute than it had been on their wedding night. Worse still, this disgusting creature was actually stimulating her traitorous body!
The bride had no difficulty in identifying the uncontrollable sensations of sexual arousal stoking in her heated loins. Sometimes, half-waking from a strange dream, she'd allowed her girlish thighs to rub together first softly, then faster and faster until she was perspiring and breathing heavily beneath her night gown. That same unwanted excitation was building in her now, as this vile black man thrust his dirty middle finger into the pure pink walls of her virgin pussy. How could a disgusting animal whom she feared and loathed make her feel this way?
"Like it, huh?" taunted Jackson. His other hand reached up to tweak her sensitive nipples, pinching the nerve-filled buttons until they grew erect and puckered. "Getting hot for my big black cock?"
Carrie sucked in her breath as Jackson gave his hugely swollen purple-veined black polished thing a proud, lustful glance. Nausea rose in her churning stomach and panic temporarily overwhelmed her sinful feelings of arousal.
"You filthy animal!" she spat at him, forgetting her fear of physical harm. "Oh, God, stop it! Get your hands off of me!"
Her arrogance reminded Jackson all too vividly of the way white folks had treated his black ancestors for two hundred years and a hot flood of hatred surged through his veins. Those years of contempt, segregation, Ku Klux Klan meetings, Imperial Wizards and cross burnings had to be atoned for! SALM, he now realized, was a petty white man's game about as consequential as a Sunday afternoon football game. Peter, Una, Carl and James could write speeches and communiques until their fingers bled, but that wouldn't hurt the bigoted whites and it wouldn't change their minds. Any effects this kidnapping might have on political policies would be short-lived sensationalism while he rotted in San Quentin fighting off Chicanos and prison guards. Racism was his cross to bear until the day he died.
Take revenge now! his gnarled mind screamed and his maddened hands roved over the helplessly bound woman, a vindictive smirk distorting his flat features into a headhunter's mask of hate. The professor's wife was just another rich cunt whose husband taught repression to save his white ass from the blacks who outnumbered his race three to one in South Africa. Now she'd have to plead and beg for mercy . . .
Jackson slid his middle finger all the way to the top of Carrie's desire-drenched vagina and at the same time began a tormenting tweaking of her clitoral bud with his thumb tip. His leer of triumph widened as he felt her naked body spasming beneath his manipulations, heard her breath catch in her throat, watched her eyes glue themselves to his prodding fingers in haunted, hypnotized disbelief. Christ! She was acting as if no man had ever done this to her before! Jackson knew he was good with women, but wasn't this white bitch's response a bit overdone?
Carrie was trying her best to numb her body and dull her responses, but no mental concentration of conjured up fear-real as it might be-would quell her flaming nerve ends. Until now she'd always considered herself a stubborn Irish woman with morals to match a nun. Yet now, as this unforgivably vile creature's fingers dug into her guarded femininity and his beer-smelling breath bathed her navel in a dank bath, she could not stop herself from sinking into a whirlpool of wanton lust. Every nerve in her untouched loins was quivering electrically, from her scalp to the tips of twitching, curled under toes, and her hips were writhing into the mattress, bucking up to meet his filthy fingers just as if she were a cheap whore. "Oh, noooo!" she wailed.
The professor's wife recoiled as her own sluttish cries of delight echoes in her buzzing ears, for she realized the baby kitten mewls coming from her parted lips only urged him on. It's repulsive, but I can't control myself. I'm acting like a whore!
Even as her conscience rang with self-disgust, Carrie was bucking her feverish little cunt up to meet the man's forever blackened fingers fucking into her virgin pussy. I must be dead and gone to 'n U. she thought wildly, for her whole body felt as if the mattress she lay on was a bed of burning coals, scorching her traitorous body.
Not hell, stupid-heaven! a voice chuckled from her subconscious. This is the pleasure your mother felt but never admitted to when your father cornered her in the bedroom and demanded indecent things of her. Your mother loved it, but she was too weak to admit it!
As the female juices of Carrie's gushing pussy dripped down Jackson's black finger, he pulled his finger from her quivering cuntal depths, popping like a cork from a champagne bottle. Before removing his huge hand from her pubic mound, he tickled the puckered brown ring of her anus in anticipation of future delights. One day soon he'd suck that honey-scented pussy till she screamed for more; he'd fuck his giant cock between those prissy lips; he'd give it to her in the ass like he did to Una. Now, tonight, he was content to fuck her tight, well-oiled pussy and show her exactly how a black man could liberate her uptight white body!
"Mmmmm . . . aahhhh," a groan of frustration rose in Carrie's throat as Jackson withdrew his finger from her pussy, but then a low gurgle of horror burst from her rouged lips as she saw the black terrorist wrench his thin body to a kneeling position and guide the angry-red length of his throbbing penis up along her churning white belly, snaking its black slimy path. For a horrified second, she feared he might shove it into her mouth.
Instead, he guided his cock toward her heaving breasts and in terrified fascination, she watched the fleshy shaft mashed up against the tautly responsive nipples of her naked breast, the black mushroomed head shimmering in the light of the kerosene lantern. Her wide green eyes bulged from their sockets as she saw first one, then the other, of her ivory white breasts smeared with the vile man's sticky white sexual juices.
He's not human! Edward is right!. . . Blacks are animals! Yet even as her conscience decried this vulgar assault, she felt her faithless body breaking out in a passionate dew of perspiration and tremors of unwanted sensation were slithering from her desecrated raped breasts down to her fitfully quivering pussy.
Vm just as bad as he is-I'm foul, dirty and sex crazed! Nobody should be feeling the way I do . . .
"Nice tits, lady," Jackson muttered through passion-parched lips. "But I think I oughta fuck you now . . . nice lady like you deserves a favor."
Carrie's naked young body froze into icy rigidity at her kidnapper's sneering words. Tortured wails broke from her heaving chest as the lusting yearning in her tingling pussy battled with the strict Irish Catholic edicts. When the snarling male pressed the blunt tip of his iron hard cock against her virginal cuntal lips, panic and pleasure stormed like lightning and thunder through the inexperienced bride's goose bumped body.
"No, please, STOP!" Carrie struggled against the fiery fingers flickering out from her steaming pussy to stoke her loins. It was simply unthinkable that she should lose her treasured virginity to a black rapist instead of her loving husband. "I.. . I've never done . . . it.. . I've never.. . been with a . . . man before!" she gasped. "Please, stop. OH, please, please . . . "
"You what?" Jackson couldn't believe his ears. Shit, he didn't know there was a female over twelve who was still a virgin in Berkeley. She was married, for Chrissakes! By God, maybe she wasn't lying. Still . . . virginity was something you were born with and lost with your first front tooth.
"Pl-please," she sobbed brokenly, unable to control her emotions as the angry-red eye of his thick veined penis seeped with anticipation and prodded against her cringing cuntal slit. "You've taken my money, my pride.. . but please leave my virginity!" The young rapist's reply to this pitiful plea was swift and unexpected. All his sadistic instincts surfaced like a dead fish at the sight of this proud white woman's tears and helpless whimpers, and his cum-filled testicles churned with impatient lust. He positioned his lust-swollen cockhead at the gaping wet lips of her cunt, licking at her vagina in a wet French kiss. Flicking his hips forward with a low growl, he rammed his cock several inches up the tight warmth of her virginal vagina.
"AAAAAHHHHHHhhhhh!" All the unwelcome pleasure fled from Carrie's brutally impaled body at once as violent pain swept through her with hurricane-like gusts. "AAahhhhhh! Noooo!"
So this is what her mother felt every night as her cruel father took out his frustrations on her femininity. It was more awful than dying at knife point. This black monster was eating away at her insides, tearing her apart down there as if that thing had teeth! Would she ever be able to walk again?
The young bride's screams brought a sadistically cruel glint to Jackson's flashing black eyes, shining like two chunks of burning coals in the reddened lantern light. Up between her wide-stretched vaginal lips he forced his rock hard penis, stretching her tiny pussy to three times its normal size. Blood surged through his veins and thudded behind his temples, half-blinding him as he plunged downward with all the pent-up violence and hatred in his sleek black body.
I'm gonna fuck this white bitch until she can't walk straight! he gloated.
"Aaaaaiiiii! Ppppleeezz!" Carrie wailed as the fleshy weapon ripped into her cuntal sheath. "You're hurrrrrrtttinnng meeee!"
The terrified girl squeezed her vaginal muscles tighter around the invading penis then collapsed in limp despair as her efforts only added to her torture. As her tight channel grew less resistant, the blood heavy cockshaft tore all the way up inside until he banged into the membrane of her maidenhead.
VII be damned . . . she wasn't shittin' me 'bout bein' a virgin! Jackson almost climaxed right there when his swollen cock head said hello to the fragile hymen. His upper lip curled back like a conquering caveman and he threw his whole weight forward to shred the delicate tissue like so much Kleenex. His blood tingling balls slapped against the crevice of Mrs. Tarrington's splayed out ass-cheeks.
Carrie thought she'd suffered the most severe pain any human could endure, but her agony grew with every inch of the kidnapper's plunging cock that dug deeper into the cavern of her vagina. Now she could scarcely breathe, much less scream, and her physical pain was so intense that she hadn't the energy to spare for mourning her irretrievable purity. As the red-hot poker of male flesh buried itself to the hilt in her pain-wracked channel and grazed her tender cervix, she fell into a semi-coma.
Oh, God, his hairy things are touching my anus! was her last cogent thought for several moments. He's going to rip right through my belly!
A fiendish grin curled over Jackson's thick lips as he realized he'd made her faint. Egoistic pride swelled his oversized member cock, making it so thick that her soft cuntal walls clung to its throbbing shaft with his slow withdrawal.
Cool air rushed into Carrie's fire-filled pussy as her attacker's penis slipped from her tortured pussy with a lewd, sucking sound. Her mind came out of the fog, shaking away grogginess as she thought: Oh, thank God! He didn't kill me after all!
But her relief was short-circuited as Jackson gripped her naked breasts like a bicycle and plunged back into her raw and bleeding vagina. This time the penetration was quicker, but no less painful and Carrie shrieked as the white hot flesh sank to the hilt and crashed against her womb.
"Too much for ya, huh?" leered the kinky-haired rapist as he held his penis in an unmoving throbbing state inside her clasping tight cunt. "You'll be begging before you know it. Una begs . . . and you'll beg too!"
"NO! NEVER!" spat the young bride. "I'd die before I'd beg."
"You just might, cunt!"
There was a note of chilling sadism in his tone that said in implicit terms that she was his captive; she had no hope of escaping his torture. She was a black slave girl being sold on the block-auctioned off like an animal. He could force her to do anything his cruel heart fancied and maybe he could even force her to find pleasure in this cruel rape. After all, his plunging fingers had already proven her body's betrayal. Why not her mind?
No! she vowed. I'll hate him for the rest of my life for treating me like this!
CHAPTER TEN
"You black bastard!" hissed Carrie, swearing for the first time in her life. "You perverted bastard!"
To emphasize her protests, Carrie wiggled her hips down into the grubby mattress and flexed vaginal muscles she didn't know she possessed . . . all intended to force his ugly black thing out of her pure, plundered pussy before it ripped her to shreds. But, to her dismay, her movements only drew him further up into her, sucking his blackness inside her pink vagina like a vacuum cleaner sucking up dust. Every throbbing vein of his massive, unmoving penis pressed against the walls of her vagina when she clenched them, and his blunt cock head beat a torturous African black magic drum beat against her burning cervix with each inward stroke into her belly.
I don V feel anything . . . she told herself at first; but with time, her guilt melted into pleasure and she knew she was lying to herself. Some strange, natural reaction which Carrie could neither comprehend nor rationalize was attacking her fevered loins, as if stricken by an obscure African jungle disease, and she couldn't stop her buttocks from wriggling in involuntary yearning as Jackson's quieted penis throbbed and flexed deep inside her womb.
Jackson recognized the signs of submission when he saw them-he'd had enough practice with Una's perverted eroticism. His thick lips curled up and he flexed his cock again . . . this time rewarded by a low, helpless whimper.
"Noooo!" Carrie's shrill cry screamed at her faithless body rather than her cruel attacker as she found herself tumbling into a black fog of sensation where pleasure intermingled with pain and quickly took control of her loins. "Oooooooouuuuggg-hhhh!"
Jackson's black eyes flickered over the young married woman's lush body. He had won this round! Her white silk body was coated in a fine mist of perspiration like dew on a rose in the gray hours of dawn, and her full breasts were swollen and tipped by diamond-chip hard nipples. There was no mistaking the sensuous electricity which caused her faint whimpers and grinding movements, nor the outward flowering of her softly quivering vagina. Submission or slavery . . . she was his now! He held her soul and her body, and it had been ridiculously easy because he held the key: all women were whores-like his mother who supplemented the family income with another occasional street corner trick.
Pride coursed through Jackson like liquid lightning, spurring him on to new heights of sadism. His dirty, jagged fingernails gripped her breasts, digging into the pliant flesh until huge red welts rose up on the sensitive skin and a rivulet of sweat trickled down from the valley between her twin fleshy mounds onto her girlishly flat belly.
"Like that, don't ya, bitch!" the black terrorist taunted. "So the white lady likes black cock, huh?"
Carrie blushed a brilliant shade of scarlet. Oh, God, if only it still hurt! she lamented in silent anguish. I'd rather be dead than feeling like this! God, Edward will never touch me again knowing I've made love to a black man . . . and liked it!
The shame-stricken girl gritted her teeth and shook her tousled curls in a desperate effort to keep from muttering any sound that would signal her arousal; but when Jackson began pumping his cock in and out of her tender pussy with brutal intensity, Carrie couldn't hold back her gasp of masochistic joy. Her cuntal muscles, as though controlled by a switch, opened and closed around the pummeling penis, sending tremors of tingling desire throughout her shackled figure until her scalp shivered and her bare white toes curled under in helpless ecstasy.
Jackson, incited by clasping muscles hugging his burgeoning cock, slammed his lust engorged penis into her with the force of a jet plane preparing for take-off. Both their sexual juices were flowing so copiously that they gushed in one white, sticky stream as he sawed in and out of her, making lewd sucking noises.
Only one thing remained to be done: make her beg for it. This proud, upper-class bitch must beg, must sob in need for more of his hammering cock.
'Tell me how good it feels, bitch!" he groaned, panting out of breath from the labor of his lust. "Tell me how much you like it!"
It's no use! I can't stop myself! Carrie's dazed mind shuddered. He knows I'm really a whore at heart. I'm just a-she shivered, trying to think of the elusive word, all the time wriggling her hips upward to meet her rapist's ruthless thrusts. A NYMPHOMANIAC! That's what I am! lama sick sex maniac!
"Say it!" Jackson growled through clenched teeth. His balls were aching with pent-up lust, but he couldn't allow himself his climax until he'd heard this bigoted professor's wife beg for more of his cock. "Go on! Tell me ya wanna be fucked! Say it!"
The lust-maddened terrorist could read from his kidnapped victim's involuntary whimpers and moans that she was near her orgasm. With sly cruelty, he slowly withdrew his passion-swollen cock from her clenching cunt to let it lie dormant a mere tantalizing inch inside her voluptuous vagina.
As much as Carrie hated herself for it, she couldn't keep her naked buttocks from grinding up against the wiry patch of his groin. Despite her aroused lust, she retained enough control over herself to keep the incriminating whimpers of frustration from bubbling from her lips.
"SAY IT!" Jackson yelled. His sperm churned to butter in his testicles and he knew from the no-longer-virginal bride's grunting and scrunched-up facial expression that she, too, was nearing her climax. "BEG BITCH!" he rasped out, forcing his bulbous cock head a couple of inches into her juicy cunt, then tantalizingly withdrawing it again.
"Noooo.. . noooo!" whimpered Carrie. Her words sounded pitifully pathetic in her own ears, like a bad actor trying to convince his audience a real bullet had struck his chest. She clenched her green eyes shut and prayed for strength from the Virgin Mary to resist this last, impossible sinful degradation. This scurrilous criminal-this scum of earth black man-would never have the satisfaction of hearing her beg for his . . . his thing!
Jackson's beady eyes grew cold and flinty. "Do I have to beat it out of you?"
When the girl's eyes remained passively shut and her lips refused to budge, the kidnapper's pent-up passion exploded in a animalish burst of jungle rage. One flattened hand slashed out to strike her shame-reddened left cheek, while the other grasped so fiercely at her right breast that she winced and yelped in real pain. Oddly enough, she was far less aware of the physical pain than of the masochistic excitement surging through her lust-peaked body.
"Do I have to carve that pretty face of yours.. . or is that enough?"
Thrills of terror inched along Carrie's frozen spine, and as she stared at her abductor's black, sweating face, something snapped in her psyche.
What's the difference? her dazed mind whirled. He already knows I'm a whore. Why play games? He's crazy enough to cut up my face if I don't do as he asks.
"All right. . . " she mumbled under her sweet breath, her face rubicund with shame despite the weird tremors of lust fanning out of her fire-filled vagina to every nerve-ending in her young body.
Jackson raised his hand and slapped her again across the cheek, just for the pleasure of seeing her cringe beneath his strength. "Say it, you whore!"
"I w-want you to do it to m-me . . . want you to fuck me . . . " The words whispered from Carrie's parched lips in a low, tremulous whisper at first, but when she heard her own voice mouthing the vulgar obscenity, she wanted to hear more.
"Ohhh, yes!" she spat, loudly, shrilly. "Fuck me . . . fuck meee you black bastard!"
"You said it, baby!" Jackson grinned and lunged.
Carrie's sensitive cervix stung as the red hot poker of Jackson's black anvilled penis banged against it. . . but she scarcely noticed the pain. Her mouth had voiced what her body wanted so desperately, washing away all inhibitions. Everything incited her dormant passion: the pain in her ecstatically throbbing pussy, the unwashed odor of the man's sweat, the bonds on her ankles and wrists.
"Screw me.. . fuck me. . . you bastard!" her own voice pleaded, sounding strange-like a poor quality cassette. Lord, she didn't realize she knew such obscenities. "I neeeed ittt! God help me . . . I have to have it! DAMN YOU, FUCK ME!"
The sadistic ex-con squirmed with passion as he watched the pure white angel transformed into a black devil of lust. White hot semen boiled inside his hairy testicles as they slapped vigorously against the puckered hole of her anus and his cock banged to the hilt with every maddened stroke. Both of his black sweaty palms were clutching her breasts now, his unfiled nails digging fiercely into her unblemished ivory skin. His leadership would remain uncontested after the rest of SALM took a look at the humbled voluptuous professor's wife!
Waves of slashing passion surged through Carrie with every jarring thrust of the Jackson's swollen cock. Gnashing her teeth, she arched her hips up to force him back into her burning cunt with every out-stroke, then ground down into the mattress on the down-thrust while the sac of his balls beat a maddening tattoo against her anus. When he crushed his mouth to hers and snaked his tongue between her lips, she didn't notice the stale taste of beer and barbeque, so far gone was she.
Suddenly, the black body above her jerked and stiffened and his penis tickling against her cervix, expanded like a blown up balloon until Carrie was certain it would tear right through her belly. He tore his lips away from hers, groaning like a jungle animal, and through the hazy fog of her degenerate lust, she dimly recognized that something wonderful was about to happen.
"UUUuuurrnnggghhh!" snarled Jackson. "I'm cumming in your hot cunt!"
Hot jets of thick white semen splashed high up into Carrie's quivering cunt as the man's lewd cries echoed above her own breathless whimpers, above the full-volume rumble of freeway traffic and sirens of highway police chasing down speeders. Blackness studded with flashing neon-bright stars swam before her eyes, and then she screamed too, the high pitched wail of a demon-possessed madwoman. As the convulsing walls of her conquered cunt clasped around the surging, spurting cock, a tidal wave of ferocity flooded every pore of her perspiration soaked body, from her fettered ankles to the roots of her tangled and knotted chestnut curls. "AAAAIEEE!"
The kidnapped bride's climactic scream was so piercing that down on the street below a hooker raised her head, wondering who was using the condemned apartment building for her John and wondering, too, if it wouldn't be cheaper than the motel down the block. Both Jackson and Carrie were moaning and spasming in erotic ecstasy, oblivious to all but the electrical intensity of their mutual orgasm. Especially the young bride, who'd never so much as dreamed that such carnal bliss existed.
"Don't stop! Don't ever stop!" she wailed frantically, crushing her pulsating pelvis up against the man's still lunging penis as her first orgasm of her sheltered life reverberated through each and every cell of her long-denied loins. I've gone crazy-BUT I DON'T CARE!
Then all coherent thought faded from her deflowered mind as she sank into a vacuum of physical release that tingled over her body, sparking her nerve ends. She spasmed in indescribable pleasure as thick, milky-white rivulets of sperm oozed from her cum-filled pussy onto her trembling thighs and the soft brown tendrils of her pubic curls.
"Oh God! Sooo goooddd . . . soooggoodd!"
Jackson relished his captive's cry and felt her body fall into limp unconsciousness beneath him. He'd fucked her so hard he'd damn near killed her!
Summoning up his last reserves of strength, the sadistic rebel pulled his sated, deflating penis from the quivering hole of Mrs. Tarrington's pussy dripping with cuntal juices soft as melted butter. The lewd, wet sluicing sound it made as it pulled out delighted him, as did the sight of the creamy white spider webs of combined male and female secretions which threaded from his deflated penis. White bitch! Grinning egoistically, he hoisted his naked black body up over the unconscious body of the roped-down professor's wife and smeared his cum-stained penis over her unconscious face.
I just might keep her for myself he gloated, as he slid his sperm-spattered cock over the girl's flushed cheeks, her closed eyes, her Irish nose. With her credit cards and money I can take her to Morocco and keep her my slave. To hell with Una, Carl and James. . . let them, fight the revolution. I ain't never had nothin' this beautiful, and I ain't about to give it up to free some dumb-assed niggers in South Africa. . .
Jackson's limp male flesh shaft slipped from his fingers and away from Carrie's semen-glistening face as he collapsed in exhaustion next to the unconscious young wife's nakedly fettered body. As a mouse scratched in the corner, he fell into a satiated swoon, his pistol an arm's length away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Across Berkeley, in a more posh section of town, Dr. Tarrington drained his third scotch and poured himself another as the unconsoling figure of a uniformed Berkeley police officer flanked by two detectives jotted down information. In the living room the televisions' evening news mumbled on:
"News from Berkeley tonight . . . Senator Kelly's daughter, recently married to Dr. Edward Tarrington was abducted from the riot-worn Berkeley campus today. KOED radio station received a communique stating the kidnap was effected by a new radical group calling themselves SALM-South African Liberation Movement. F'olice have no clues as to her whereabouts . . . "
The news throbbed against Edward's temples and he glared at the television set as if that box of glass and tubes was responsible for his misery. "Turn that damned thing off!" he barked.
In the low-rent flat lands north of Oakland, Carl and James sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug of Jackson's apartment watching intently the television broadcast and christening SALM'S kidnapping with a marijuana cigarette and a bottle of Jack Daniels.
". . . the communique demands a ransom of one million dollars for the safe return of Catherine Ann Kelly Tarrington . . . "
Christ, it s a fairytale! Carl slapped his dirty knee joyfully, but his lopsided stoned grin faded quickly-Next to him James took a sidelong glance at Carl and a flint of shared suspicion sparked between them. James said it first: "I don't trust that asshole Jackson to make the pick-up. How do we know he ain't gonna squeeze out of the country and leave us with the kidnapping rap? He'll be layin' on a beach soaking in the rays while we're staring at the walls of San Quentin-from the inside!"
In his north-side studio apartment Peter Goldberg sat chewing his fingernails to the quick, waiting for telephoned directives from FBI headquarters. I've got to get Carrie out of Jackson's grasp before he rapes her. Peter gnashed his teeth in anguish thinking of Carrie's pure Irish legs spread out-probably tied down-on some grungy mattress while Jackson stripped her shivering body naked and pounded his black cock into her pure, pink pussy.. . biting on her sweet little nipples and swirling his tongue over her creamy white breasts. Peter's penis gave a jealous lurch and he hated Jackson for getting all that pleasure when he, Peter, had treated Carrie like a lady back then . . . Why the hell didn't headquarters call so they could make the bust? That's the establishment for you . . . inefficient bastards, thought Peter, holding his head in his hands, pulling at his hair, hindsight fighting guilt and anguish wrestling with envy.
One block off on Telegraph Avenue Una Hart sat like a smug Odalisque sipping a glass of wine on her bed, watching the evening news with unadulterated relish. Her feet ached from scouring the campus with Dr. Tarrington searching in vain for his wife and she never did get a lunch break, but her spirits soared high as the flight of a lonely seagull. Deftly, her slim fingers lifted up the telephone receiver and dialed Jackson's number.
A foggy voice mumbled a hello. It was Carl, stoned, drunk and incoherent as a deaf-mute on a three day drunk.
"Where's Jackson?" she blasted. "Why aren't you two idiots with him? You were supposed to make arrangements for the pick up . . . I don't care if he told you to go home!"
Sixth sense, ESP, whatever it was, something chilling and bitingly vivid flashed in Una's mind and she sat smoldering, taking long drags off her cigarette, her mind cogitating, piecing together the fragments of the moment.
Jackson, a white-hating sadist alone with the prissy, pure minded hostage . . . no doubt screwing her to the teeth. Una's pride was hurt; after three years of risking her neck digging in files, opening confidential mail, spying and literally supporting SALM, Jackson was getting all the pleasure! And maybe the money, too. He was dirt. He had no loyalties, no feelings.. . probably didn't care about the cause, either . . . just himself, the selfish bastard. Time would tell. If he didn't contact her in the appointed time, she would have to find out for herself what the problem was.
A sliver of orange neon light pierced its way through the smudged window to awaken Carrie from a deep but fitful sleep. Her first groggy thought was of her empty, rumbling stomach that hadn't seen food since breakfast, but an instant later the rank odor of dried sperm, perspiration, and the stale air jolted her back into the present.
My God! she thought, her head sinking down into the dirty mattress in abject defeat as she recalled the unforgivable response to her captor's brutal assault. How could I have done that? I must have been drugged . . . black men use a lot of drugs.
Carrie grasped onto this rationalization, needing something to protect her mind from the shocking reality of her shamefully sinful performance an hour ago. She reassured herself that she was innocent, that she had been violated, but somehow her excuses seemed flimsy. Tears pricked her eyes and she moved her head to see the black shadow of Jackson reach an ebony arm out to turn the knob of his transistor radio.
". . . the wife of noted professor, Dr. Edward Tarrington . . . " the newscaster droned. Carrie couldn't catch all the words, but she comprehended enough to cause a shudder to rattle her teeth.
". . . possible link-up with new radical Berkeley group . . . South African repression . . . ransom of one million dollars for the safe return . . . "
Carrie struggled to choke back her sobs, not wanting to remind her brutal captor of her presence in the room. Oh God! she wailed silently, burying her burning cheeks in the filthy mattress. Poor Edward! Poor Daddy! They must be worried sick! They don't know where I am!
Yet even as she bemoaned her fate, a far corner of her no-longer-virginal wife's mind was vehemently disputing her conscious mind.
How could you bear to face your husband again, anyway? this cruel, but truthful voice demanded.
You 're not fit to touch the ground he walks on-you cheap slut!
Beside Carrie, Jackson lay with one arm draped over his forehead, staring up at the plaster-chipped ceiling, the wheels of his mind meshing.
Like the scales of a heroine dealer, his mind weighed the possibilities down to the tiniest fleck. It would be dangerous, of course, but if he played his cards right, he could make the pick-up himself and skip the country before the FBI caught a whiff of his trail.
A million bucks could last me a lifetime in Morocco. J could get me a black servant and live like a king, he thought. Hell. . . I could bring this white bitch along and let her keep house for me. First I gotta get her outta here so nobody can find her.. . nobody's gonna get a nickel from Tarrington unless they got his wife, too.
Feeling the mattress sag slightly under his shifting weight, Carrie hurriedly clenched her eyes shut and feigned sleep. Please don't let him touch me again! I can't stand it!
"All right, you bitch! Stop playing like you're sleeping." The familiar snarl rang in Carrie's ears, the dank smell of his beer and barbeque breath stinging her nostrils. "You and me are gonna have a little party here before we move. Open those green eyes and take a look at what you're having to drink."
Shivering in dread, the naked bride did as she was told, then gasped in wide-eyed horror. In his black hand Jackson brandished his long ebony penis, fully erect and glistening at its bulbous tip from pearl-like beads of liquid excitement.
"Noooooo . . . please, noooo . . . " Carrie protested in a weak whimper.
He wants me to take that awful thing in my mouth.' she thought, her eyes widening in revulsion and nausea. I can't do that! How could I face Edward if he knew I'd taken a black thing into my mouth!
Yet even as her frantic protestations echoed through her shock-disoriented brain, the victimized professor's wife knew she would not resist. All her energy had been drained already, and fighting off the cruel rapist was futile. Besides, disgusting as the admission was, she felt her pulse quickening and her vagina tingling at the sight of the huge cockshaft which inched closer and closer to her flushed face.
Oh, God, no! she moaned to her traitorous body. If you get out of control again, you're sicker than you thought.
"Looks good, huh?" sneered the lust-crazed terrorist. "Stick out your tongue and have a lick!"
Without even giving the cringing girl a chance to obey, he grabbed two handfuls of her snarled chestnut curls and jerked her tightly compressed lips up against his blood-swollen cockhead. Carrie squirmed in disgust, almost gagging from the taste of his male juices. But she kept her mouth clenched shut.
"Open up, slut!" commanded Jackson.
The humiliated bride started to shake her head in firm refusal, but in the next instant vise-like fingers were pinching her nostrils together. For a short while she kept her mouth shut as the heated pressure of his iron-hard black flesh bore down on her soft lips, but it was a wasted effort. Inevitably, she had to gasp for oxygen, and the massive penis sprang into her mouth, bloating her cheeks.
The acrid, unwashed taste and odor of the man's genitals overpowered the inexperienced girl, making her stomach bubble with nausea. She tried to hold her tongue free of the throbbing penis, but the heated male flesh was pushing all the way down her throat and filling every centimeter of her mouth with black male flesh. The thick vein on the underside was pulsing against her tongue, wriggling like a worm in her mouth and she could feel the blood pulse to the bloated tip, making it grow inch by cruel inch until the blunt tip prodded against her larynx.
"Aaaaahhhh!" the degraded wife moaned. "Nnnnaaaahhhh!"
Her own moans sounded like grunts from an animal in her ears, for her whole face was mashed against his hairy balls and her lips were straining to encompass the giant hunk of flesh. It wasn't just her inhuman cries that told her that she was nothing but a cheap little whore; the tiny electric fires flickering along her traitorous body were the real proof of her degeneracy.
"Suck it baby! Eat it like a nice licorice stick!" leered the sadistic rapist. "If you do a good job, I'll fuck your hot little cunt again . . . remember how much you liked that?"
OH GOD, HE'S RIGHT! Carrie's tortured mind screamed. My vagina is tingling again and I can't stop these sinful feelings!
The ravished bride gave in. Without further urging, she began hungrily lapping at the pulsating penis, tasting and nibbling and swirling her tongue around the sensitive glans as though she'd been born doing this. Strange masochistic fires of lust exploded inside her as she acknowledged her own sick perversity, and she gave in to her libido, bowing to its lustful demands.
I wonder if my father made my mother do this to him! Maybe she loved it, too! her disoriented brain whirled as she clasped her cheeks around the burgeoning flesh cudgel with sinful delight. She hail to love it! It's wonderful!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Now that Jackson had tied up Carrie's unconscious, sperm-splattered body in his newly discovered hideout in a condemned house two blocks away, directly under the thundering underpass, he congratulated himself on a job well done. His white teeth sparkled gloatingly as he listened to the fire trucks scream their sirens and screech to a halt in front of the flaming apartment building that moments before had been Carrie Tarrington's prison. Standing in the glass cage phone booth, fingering a slender dime, he could see red fingers licking at the endless void of the night skies, bathing the city in a hideous orange glow and choking it with smoke as the building exploded into flames like a dried Christmas tree.
All of Berkeley was aware of the five alarm fire-especially Dr. Tarrington who sat half drunk and fully expecting the telephone to scream shrilly as he stared with numbed fear at the smoky clouds rising from the flatlands below. Was his dear, sweet little Carrie in there, screaming for help while the flames licked at her quivering flesh? His lip curled back in a snarl of hatred for her abductors while his house, infested with policemen, FBI agents and newsmen, turned into an ant hill of activity. Their poking around his house and flicking cigarette ashes on his Persian carpets was beginning to annoy him. To them Carrie's kidnap was just another headline story from Berkeley; none of them cared if his wife was dead at the hands of a black man.
All mouths clamped shut and several pairs of anxious eyes greedy for a story, a clue, fell on Dr. Tarrington as he carefully picked up the ringing telephone receiver and answered it in a voice shaky with fear and emotion.
". . . Leave the bills in a garbage bag in the dumpster in back of Sammie's Cafeteria on San Pablo. You get your hot-assed little wife back two hours after the pick-up. You fool around with cops and shit and you ain't never gonna see her sweet little face again."
Instantly, Dr. Tarrington recognized the uneducated, obscene language of a ghetto black filled with perverse hatred for all white men and he shuddered and shivered as if a blast of Arctic wind had gusted through the opened door.
* * *
Carrie wasn't the only one in misery that night as the moon rose from its watery grave and splattered light over the murky Bay waters.
Una Hart stomped up the steps to her apartment, her heart throbbing with agonizing rejection and her fists clenching with hatred for a man whom she had trusted. "The disloyal, cheating, double-crossing mother fucker!" she sputtered, her lungs burning from the brisk walk back from the hideout which Jackson had set afire without contacting any of them about his change in plans. Now she knew why he hadn't called her as planned.
She hated herself for believing in Jackson and being sucked in by his jive talk of freeing black people from white oppression. He d never planned on going underground or dedicating his life to the cause, she thought. Hell no! It didn't take the investigative brain of Holmes to figure out that Jackson was about to take the money and run, leaving the rest of them to face the fireworks.
Una poured herself a glass of wine, drank it in one gulp and refilled it. I've got to get out of here before the FBI closes in on us. If they catch Jackson hell sure an hell turn states' evidence on me and I'll be the one to rot in prison. She'd been rejected, cheated and her life stretched ahead of her like a barren desert highway leading into a dark void of nothingness. Her misaimed mind refused to believe the obvious-the cause was dead.
I can go to South Africa and start up a new branch of SALM there. But no . . . I'm White . . . nobody would trust me. . . especially the blacks. Or . . . I could go to Rio and find myself a rich man who'd support me.
Una sat for long moments, nervously peeling the label from the wine bottle with her slender thumb nail. And if I go to Rio, what then? I won't fit into that crowd . . . nobody down there takes anything seriously. Nobody cares about things as seriously as I do. What's life but a cruel, dirty joke.. . " She snickered bitterly to herself, the skin of her fair-complexioned face feeling tight with infinite emptiness, her eyes open but seeing nothing in the black vacuum of life.
Slowly, deliberately, she rose from her bed and strode to her dresser where she opened the top drawer and pulled out a bottle, uncapped it and shook out several morphine tablets from the stash that Carl had melted down to drug Carrie Tarrington. Draining the wine bottle to the dregs, she threw a handful of yellow capsules into her mouth and washed them down with the wine.
Death is the only true romance, she thought, lying supine on the bed. Now I'm going to sleep for a long, long time . . . Finally I'll have somewhere to go.
As Una fell into a deep comatose slumber, Peter Goldberg pulled his pistol from the desk drawer, slammed it shut, and filled the barrel with bullets, his fingers working deftly, his mind calculating. In two years of working as an undercover agent for the FBI he had yet to shoot a man and squeamishly he hoped he wouldn't have to point this barrel between the eyes of the poor, messed-up Una Hart . . . or Carl and James, Jackson's white puppets.
I want Carrie alive! It's my fault I let Jackson have her in the first place, but by God, I'll find her!
FBI headquarters had telephoned minutes before, informing him that in the commotion of the fire trucks, congested traffic and idle onlookers, they had lost Jackson's trail. Whether or not Carrie Tarrington's fine white flesh had disintegrated into a charcoaled mass of ashes and bones, they weren't certain. The fire would have to be extinguished before they could surmise.
His only hope of getting to Jackson were James and Carl who were gullible and short-sighted enough to be talked into anything . . . including turning state's evidence on Jackson and clearing their names. Neither had been in the kidnapping car or harmed Carrie in any way. Like Una, they were Jackson's buffoons, extension of his own screwed up ego. But, with typical institutional blunderings, the FBI had lost track of Carl and James who, unbeknownst to Una and Peter, had defied Jackson, left no word of their whereabouts and snuck out of Jackson's apartment. To further complicate matters, he couldn't reach Una who was either not at home or wasn't answering her telephone. Nobody knew the two SALM members were sitting in a San Pablo street bar heatedly discussing over a pitcher of beer and amateur country and western music what to do next.
Finally, with their bellies full of beer and their minds buzzing with fury at the ex-con black leader whom Una hinted would cheat them out of their fair share of the ransom money, they zipped up their jackets and headed out into the crime-ridden area of town where hookers sported their wares and drunks guzzled Thunderbird wine.
Maybe the FBI didn't know it, but they were positive Jackson wouldn't send his hostage up in flames when she was worth a million dollars alive. Certain, too, that Jackson was traveling on foot, they set out in search of Carrie Tarrington, knowing that whoever had her had the million dollars.
The weight of the pistols dragged in their down jackets and the combination of marijuana and alcohol had imbued the pair with King Kong courage as they tromped down dingy alleyways, dark and silent except for the occasional bark of a warehouse Doberman pinscher keeping guard and the scratch of rats scouring trash cans and littered debris in search of food.
Difficult it was for Jackson to realize so much had happened in ninety minutes: moving Carrie to this flea-infested deserted house hidden under the shadows of unlit street lamps, burning down the evidence of his former hideout, and making arrangements for picking up the ransom money tomorrow. Now, safe, nervous and slightly out of breath, he lay on the tattered bed next to Carrie's shivering, sleep-stirring body and listened to the crackling fire raging out of control, its flying sparks lighting up the skies like Fourth of July fireworks.
Carrie was half awake, he realized, squinting at her bruised face splashed with orange light and encrusted with dried sperm, and her tied-up body looked mangled as a broken doll in her ripped blouse and wrinkled skirt. Her hideous condition and vulnerable frailty flinted a spark of sadism in his black heart.
There's only one thing I ain't done with this white bitch, he thought triumphantly.. . . and I ain't gonna go to Morocco until I finish her off.
Carrie's half-conscious body didn't feel the rough hands momentarily untie her wrists and ankles and flip her over like a breakfast pancake. She groaned slightly from the dizzying after-effects of the morphine and the mind shattering fatigue of fear and rape she'd suffered at the hands of this madman. Only when she felt the calloused hands tie her wrists again with the ropes of her twisted nylon stockings, did she open one green eye to see her tormentor slip out of his pants and drop to his knees in back of her on the squeaking, dust-filthy mattress.
With painful tantalizing slowness, Jackson let out an obscene moan and ran his long bony finger along the soft crevice of Carrie's buttocks, his ragged finger nail searching for and finding the puckered buttonhole of her anus. She lurched, winced, and gave in to the pain as he probed at the tiny hole, wriggling his probing finger into the tight elastic opening, his black body shimmering with unholy intent as the fire played over his shadowy figure.
His words stung her consciousness, but only for a moment. "I'm gonna fuck that white ass of yours, Mrs. Tarrington," he spat menacingly. "I'm gonna shove my cock up that tight ass hole of yours and squirt my black cum into your asshole. . . and when your bigoted husband gets you back, I want you to tell him how much you love ol' Jackson's cock."
Propped up on his knees, Jackson stroked with his free hand his hardened penis until it stood out in a forty-five degree angle, hard and black as a chunk of coal. It wouldn't take much taunting to get her going now, he knew, and for the pleasure of seeing her squirm out of control, he lowered his head, his kinky hair tickling deliciously the split of her buttocks as he shot out his long rough tongue and lathed it over the puckered bud of her most intimate parts.
A shiver of vulnerable delight goose bumped Carrie's body and with a growl, Jackson ripped off her blouse in one yank, wadded it up, and threw it in the corner. Her skirt came next, joining her blouse in a wrinkled heap like so much old newspaper.
Oh Lord, whimpered Carrie silently. What kind of block magic does this man use? I can't take much more of this. But she could . . .
Jackson slithered one long hand underneath her buttocks to cup her pubic mound and stretched one finger to massage the bud of her clitoris, still slippery and swollen from the last time he'd raped her only two hours before. Or was it two days.. . ? Oh, she couldn't be sure of anything . . . except for the electrical sparks of lust charging over her body from the tips of her hardened nipples to the ends of her chestnut pubic curls matted with Jackson's dried cum.
With a savage grunt, Jackson dropped his hand from the mushroom tip of his black mushroomed cock head, raised a finger to his mouth and spat on it, then rubbed his saliva over the puckered hole of Carrie's anus, the only lubrication she was to receive.
"Get up on your knees, bitch!" he growled, slapping her creamy ass-cheeks cruelly till Carrie, with a groan of real pain, wriggled her buttocks compliantly and rose painfully to her knees.
"Higher!" he blasted, grabbing her around the waist and forcing her into a dog-like position until she thought her spine would snap.
Oh, dear God, he's really going to do it! He's going to put his big black thing in me back there! Carrie had never heard of anal sex, but her tormentor was preparing her for the initiation.
To fight meant more pain, more humiliation, and she winced only slightly when he pulled her legs wide apart and levered himself between her creamy thighs, aiming his blood-bloated penis straight at the eye of her rectum and pressured relentlessly against the skinned resistance.
"Oooooucchh! You're hurting meeee!" Carrie gave out one yell of anguish as the bloated head of his penis popped through the elastic rim of her anus and wriggled cruelly into the buttery depths of her bowels. The first stab of pain was too numbing to register in her swirling brain and she merely bit her lips and whimpered submissively . . . a broken woman with a broken spirit and shattered morals. A wave of self-hatred began to splash over her brain, but it didn't have a chance to crash against her fragile psyche, for a second wave of pain swelled in her bowels as the cruel rapist shoved his penis with a flick of his hips, banging her head into the iron posts of the headboard.
He's going to rip me apart.. . he.. . he's going to rum me forever! her mind wailed. But I deserve it! I don't deserve to ever have sex with Edward or to have his children. I'm a disgusting woman. I'm as crude and lustful as Jackson. I'm worse . . . he was born with nothing and I was born with everything. He doesn't know any better . . . but I should.
Her thoughts were shattered with the next thundering plunge of Jackson's blood-fed cock gouging into her tender rectal walls, sending a charge of pain up her spine that nearly made her gag. Gnashing her pearly teeth, she clenched her anal muscles, trying to squeeze him out and was immediately rewarded by a lecherous grunt from the pumping madman behind her.
"You got natural talent, lady. You're gonna make ol' Jackson cum if you don't quit squeezing my cock like that!"
"Never! I'd never try to please you!" she yelled. "NEVER!" And to cut off his pleasure, she relaxed her anal muscles until her anus expanded a full two inches. Jackson continued fucking into the depths of her bowels like waves crashing against rocky cliffs. To her dismay, the pain lifted like fog on a dewy morning and the yellow glow of carnal bliss pierced through her agony. She screamed out, more from the mental anguish of her masochistic lust than from the physical pain of her anal rape.
Out in the alleyway Carl stopped short in his tracks, drew out his pistol (though he'd never shot a gun in his life) and halted James with a gestured hand. Putting his finger to his lips, he crooked his head, shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes, and motioned toward the ramshackle house facing the alley. Stealthy as alley cats they stole toward a first story window and peered in.
The two of them stared slack jawed as the fire-lit skies shimmered over Jackson's naked ebony back and he pounded into the hostage's tortured anus, cries of mixed pain and pleasure rippling from her parched lips like squeals from an animated doll.
"Jesus Christ!" James stood on his tip toes and peered over the cracked window ledge. "He's fucking her in the ass!" he hissed.
"Hell, yeah! God, what a honey!" returned Carl, feeling his penis lurch enviously. "Fuck the money. I want a piece of that ass! Christ, look at the way she's takin' it!"
Guns drawn, their nylon jackets rustling in soft whispers, they drew their guns and tip toed in Addida-soft steps up the rickety steps of the house and took Jackson by surprise.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Damned establishment can't do a goddamned thing right," grunted Peter. His blue Volkswagen screeched to a halt outside of the blazing inferno whose age-old tinder crackled like popcorn over a hot stove. Stupid agents should have nabbed all of the SALM members by now. But no. . . they have to fart around.
Disregarding the fire hydrant with its attached placenta-like hose pumping water, he parked his car in front of it and shoved his gun in his back holster.
His guilt was beginning to lift now that he was finally on the trail to rescuing Carrie Tarrington. Peter had been feeling guilty about having any part in her kidnap. She was so fresh, so innocent. . . and he didn't like to have it on his conscience that he'd let such an attractive and harmless female fall into the hands of sadistic radicals like Jackson and Una.
The FBI still suspected that Carrie was burning up in the fire that was flushing his cheeks now, but he knew better because he knew the machinations of a radical mind. Hell. . . that's what I'm getting paid for, he thought, elbowing his way through the gawking onlookers watching the roof collapse in a gust of flames.
Two cruising undercover agents had seen two white men stalking the streets in the neighborhood and, surmising it to be Carl and James sniffing out Jackson's trail, Peter hastened to follow the lead.
His desert boots shuffled silently down an alleyway not far from where he'd parked his car when he stopped short and listened outside of a condemned house. Was that an alley cat in heat screaming in the night, or was that a tortured cry of a human in pain?
"Aaahhhh! Nnnoooo!"
They're raping her, by the sound of it. His conscience singed with guilt and despair, he tip toed into the filthy, bad smelling house which was completely dark, save for the sparkles of fire light. Gun drawn, ears and eyes keened for attack, he squinted into a flashlight lit room to see four grappling figures.
"Hold her down, you idiot!" he heard James grunt. "C'mon, hold her head! How am I gonna get my prick inside her cunt unless you keep her from wriggling around?"
There was a skirmish, after which Carl ended up sitting on his knees before Carrie's wailing face, between she and the headboard with his finger digging into her naked breasts. The scene resembled something from a cult initiation.
Carrie lay on the mattress with her wrists tied to the iron bedposts and her buttocks waving in the air while Jackson pounded fitfully into her anus and James wriggled under her torso to sink his penis into her vagina from beneath, causing the sinews of her arms to stand out like telephone cords under the strain of her position.
Peter knew he ought to be disgusted by this vile display of animal passion, but he could not deny the wisps of envious excitement that wafted through his virile loins at the sight of the beautiful naked female. He pulled the trigger on his gun, aiming it at Jackson, but some strange voyeuristic excitation prevented him from breaking up the salacious carnal scene.
"No . . . nooo! NOOOOO!" Carrie chanted in a weak, muffled voice.
Haven't I suffered enough ? she asked herself dully. Now these animals, too, as well as that foul-smelling Jackson.
Yet even as she cried out in naked despair, tendrils of unwanted desire were teasing at the nerve-endings all along her sensuous figure. The smell and taste of Carl's genitals excited her, and the prodding sensation of dope-clumsied James fumbling between her legs for her cuntal opening brought on even stronger sensations of sinful lust. Before she could stop herself, she'd let out a moan of crazed carnal hunger and screamed at Jackson to keep fucking.
Peter's eyes bulged from his head as he watched the obscene foursome. Was THIS the innocent virginal bride he'd gone out of his way to save?
"Aaaah!" Mrs. Tarrington whimpered as James' bulbous cock head slipped into her avidly clasping cuntal channel. "Yeah, you bastards! Let me suck you! And fuck me hard, harder!"
In less than one day the gang leader had assaulted the hostage three times, until by now she'd become a mindless mass of raw female flesh, and the moment she felt the electrical surgings of oncoming arousal, she turned into a bitch in heat. The morphine had dulled her senses and the pain . . . or some of it. This, together with his constant sexual attacks had reduced her to a slave who bore little resemblance to the sparkly-eyed coed Peter had once known.
"Unnngg," grunted James as he rammed his long-frustrated penis into the girl's wetly clasping vagina. "Christ, she's tight. Ain't that so, Jackson?"
Jackson's only reply was a bestial groan of ecstasy and James grunted in agreement, forcing his short stubby cock between the unresisting hostage's soft, warm lips and thrusting into her mouth as hard as he could. Since he was generally too stoned to go through the ceremony of seducing a girl, he hadn't been with a woman in quite some time. Already his balls were boiling with pent-up semen as they slapped against the helpless prisoner's chin.
She's not worth bothering to save, Peter thought dully. He dropped the gun into its holster and started out the door, not bothering to close it. The FBI would be closing in on them after the telephone call he was about to make . . . and that would end the case.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Edward Tarrington paced nervously in the hospital hallway waiting for the doctor to finish with his examination of Carrie's ravaged body. It seemed an eternity before the kindly looking physician finally closed the door behind him and walked out into the hallway.
"Well? How is she?" demanded Tarrington.
The doctor stared at him silently for a moment, then guiding the professor by the elbow down the hallway to more private quarters, he said, "It's hard to tell just yet. She's been injected with a high dosage of morphine, but not enough to do her any permanent damage. It's the other problem, though."
Dr. Tarrington stiffened. "Which is.. . ? "
"She's been raped vaginally, orally and anally."
Edward buried his face in his hands and moaned, feeling sorry for himself as well as Carrie. They had yet to consummate their marriage before his innocent, virginal wife had been raped by a black man.
"Mr. Tarrington, I'm not a psychiatrist, but I've seen a lot of rape cases come through these experiences easily . . . women are naturally more resilient to both emotional and physical pain than are men. It's the people the closest to them who . . . well, can either help them through it or make it worse."
The distinguished professor looked up in disbelief at the doctor. "They've raped her every way possible and you're as much as telling me that if Carrie becomes . . . becomes frigid, it's my fault."
"I didn't say that, sir," defended the doctor patiently.
"What the hell would you do if that was your wife in there?" blasted the professor.
"If she were my wife," started the doctor, his arms crossed over his chest, "I'd go in there and say, 'I love you, Carrie. Let's not let this awful experience ruin our life together. Let me help and I'll be as patient as I can.' "
The professor watched the doctor head off down the hall to answer the intercom page. Dr. Tarrington stood there for a moment, wondering how best to handle the situation. He really did love his wife, he realized; earlier, perhaps he had merely wanted to possess her, to show her off to the academic world as a trophy to his own egotistic virility.
He cringed, thinking of what their life would undoubtedly be during the duration of their marriage. He wasn't lying to himself when he thought of her as being a frigid wife, and now after having been raped by a sadistic black man . . . well, he would have to get his sex somewhere else. Life would have been beautiful if only . . . if only . . .
There was no use in avoiding the inevitable. Not knowing what he would say, he walked down the hallway and peeped inside his wife's hospital room door.
Carrie was propped up in bed, her stark white hospital gown providing a sharp contrast to the ugly blue bruises on her forehead and cheeks where Jackson had beaten her. They stared silently at each other for a moment. The wise professor stared at her, delving into her eyes and face as if looking for some hint of how he should best approach her . . . she at him as if some wild, timid animal needing only a sudden movement on the part of the beholder to dash into flight.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, strained and unrecognizable even to himself. "The doctor.. . says you're okay, darling."
She nodded, just once, the long graceful lines of her throat flexing as she swallowed painfully.
Tarrington sat down on the high bed and reached out to take her hand. Odd, he thought as he gazed at her slightly swollen lips. Those bastards raped her mouth . . . came in her mouth! Someone else took her virginity, took her every way they could, and what do I feel? Abruptly, as he spotted the bruises on her neck, he felt an overpowering wave of pity and love for her again. Painfully, he watched as the tears welled up in her green eyes and she opened her mouth to speak.
"Edward . . . oh hell!" she exclaimed with a sniff. "I never liked the name Edward, it sounds so stiff and unexciting. Please let me call you Eddie . . . "
The offbeat remark threw him off balance for a moment, but he was forced to grin in spite of himself. "Call me Eddie if you like."
She gripped his hand so tightly that he could feel her fingernails biting into his flesh as she put her face on the crisp shoulder of her gown and wiped some of the tears from the corner of her eyes. Then she drew in a deep breath for courage and started to speak.
"Eddie, I want to tell you something, and I'm not sure you're going to like this. I know how you feel about . . . black people and militants and all that, but.. . " In a voice that grew stronger as she spoke, the young chestnut haired bride told him about her father beating her mother in the bedroom and the fears it had instilled in her against sex.
"When I was kidnapped, I was drugged. When I woke up, this vile man was down on his hands and knees, his face up between my legs. I was tied up. . . I couldn't do anything about it."
"Stop . . . Carrie. Forget about it," he said, looking away as if hearing about a black man's rape of his wife might hurt him more than her.
"Please listen . . . and then if you want an annulment, I'll give you one."
"Carrie . . . you don't have to . . . " The professor elided over the words, but Carrie broke in.
"Be quiet, please . . . " she whispered, smiling to take the sting out of her words.
"I felt this man's tongue licking me down there. Then he put his long hard penis up inside my vagina. I came, Eddie! I climaxed three or four times. Then he made me . . . made me . . . suck his thing . . . and he came in my mouth. I came with him. Then he took me anally and the two others . . . one made me suck him while the other took me in the vagina. . . and I begged them for more. And you must believe me; despite what the doctor says the morphine didn't take away all the pain . . . but it did give me pleasure."
Carrie saw the ashen expression on her husband's face. "I'm sorry." She sighed. "I've been wondering how to tell you." Her voice became high and strained. "Do you know how I managed to stay alive during that? I mean from going completely berserk?"
Dr. Tarrington lowered his head and bit his lip.
"Because , darling, when that tongue was licking me down there, making me come, I pretended it was you. When I.. . sucked his thing, it was you." She closed her eyes and stared down at the bedspread. "Now you know what a wacky wife you have."
At first Tarrington couldn't believe his ears, but instinctively he knew she had nothing to gain by lying to him. These were things they probably would have done together if nature had been permitted to take its course. But how could he explain it to her? Obviously, she felt ashamed and beyond redemption. Gradually, he became aware of the dull throb behind his gabardine zipper as his long thick penis stirred into eager life. You're forgiven, Carrie, he thought.
Gently the professor reached out and took her chin in his hand, forcing her tear stained face toward him. The answer was clear. "What you're saying, my dear, is that you've discovered you like sex."
Too miserable to look at him, she nodded and said, "A lot."
"Well, most girls do you know." He grinned and clutched the swelling bulge in his trousers. "I've never had any complaints, Carrie, and I doubt you'll complain either."
Carrie heard him, saw his hand squeezing his genitals and realized that she had known all along that Edward Tarrington was one of the most virile men she'd even seen in her life. . . which was exactly why she'd married him.
Instinctively, she felt her breasts tingling, her vagina moistening in anticipation and she realized she wanted him very badly right then.
"Eddie.. . ? Do you think they'd care if we locked the door for a little while?"
