They had captured him without difficulty. There hadn't been any need for physical force. But once inside the back seat of the Bentley, the two girls had to tie the hands of their captive, Peter Le Grande, grandson of Madison Le Grande, the wealthiest man in America-depending on just whose figures one was to believe.
But at the moment young Peter Le Grande wasn't exactly taking an accounting of exactly whom was the richest man in the country, his grandfather, or wealthy Texas oilman J. C. Petty. Right now he was trying to figure out just what in the fuck was going on. The two strong young women had succeeded in tying his hands behind his back and were shoving him roughly towards the floorboard of the car, which had now started rolling through the streets of Manhattan-destination unknown, at least to Peter.
His mind raced pell-mell as the car jerked and jumped through the nighttime traffic, various flashes of neon breaking through the darkness around him as they moved. But the visual imagery didn't last for long. Hands reached down and fitted a thick black hood over his head, a hood that had obviously been constructed for the purpose of fitting over a person's head. It was made of double layers of black nylon. It suddenly flashed through his mind that these people were quite serious, unless-that was it! Why, he should have gotten it right away. It was all a joke. He had many rich friends that loved to pull pranks of this sort when they weren't jet-setting around Europe. Sure, it was all a bizarre joke, cooked up by some of his friends.
"Okay, okay," he blurted, the hood dampening his voice somewhat. "Who was it that fixed this up... Gordon? Oh, I know... Ellie! I should have known." He received a sharp kick in the ribs for his efforts from the pointed toe of someone'se boot.
"Ouch!" he winced, sucking in a sharp helping of air. "Hey, this is getting out of hand. I mean, a joke's a joke, and I'm onto that. But let's not get carried away."
He received nothing but silence as a reply, and he got more uncomfortable the longer he went without receiving the answer he wanted. His body rolled helplessly against the seat as the car braked suddenly for a traffic light, his fettered arms making it difficult for him to become stabilized for any length of time, his eyes useless to foresee any upcoming need to brace himself for the stops and starts of New York City traffic.
"I mean," he repeated, as the car began rolling again, "it is a joke, isn't it?" There was still no reply, and he felt a surge of uncertainty well up in his stomach. Suppose it wasn't a joke? But he just couldn't believe it, his mind failing to form the word at first. But slowly, the idea began to seem more a possibility, the thought growing until it overwhelmed his senses. But it just couldn't be, it couldn't happen to him. Sure, his grandfather had lots of money, and that was one of the things that happened when you had money. So many rich families had been through it... the Hamms, the Lindberghs, and more recently, the Hearsts. But he had that overwhelming reaction as the shock set in of trying to displace himself from the reality of the possibility-kidnap. Kidnap-now who would want to kidnap him?
Who indeed. Peter was an ideal candidate for that particular fate, he began to concede, as the car continued through the mid-town traffic, piloted by the unspeaking chauffer, the two equally silent amazons in the back seat, nudging him with their booted feet as he rolled about on the floorboard. After all, wasn't his grandfather, the renowned Madison Le Grande, widely-publicised as being one of the wealthiest, if not the wealthiest man in the country? Perhaps the world? And since the primary goal of kidnapping was to extract a ransom from the family of the victim in exchange for said victim, Peter sadly realized that he was, indeed, a likely choice for such a felony.
But even as he let the thoughts form helter- skelter in his mind, he still couldn't really allow himself to fully believe that he was in fact being kidnapped. It was an emotion not dissimilar from a condemned man waiting for a last minute reprieve from death. Several minutes had gone by since he had last tried to find out if this were a hoax or the real thing. Although he was beginning to feel the paranoidal suspicion that it was indeed the real thing, he swallowed hard and cleared his throat, determined to make one last effort to ascertain the true nature of his predicament.
"Come on, now," he whined through his mask with the tone of one who is not used to being on the weak end of a conversation. "Tell me once and for all. The whole thing's gone far enough. You can carry a joke too far."
He felt a momentary surge of power, his accustomary role, but as his demands met with further silence, he was reminded of his helpless position, the car rolling along what seemed to be an expressway now from the steady clip and the sound of the traffic. "This is a joke isn't it?" he practically yelled after a moment of silence. A sharp kick landed on his ribs, sending a stifling pain to his brain. "It's no joke, puke!" came the cold voice from above him at last. "Now just keep your fucking mouth shut, and I won't have to take drastic steps."
He blinked back the tears caused by the sharp toe of the boot, wincing at the way the women had pronounced drastic. A hot tingle of anticipation spread across his skin as he considered the menacing words.
He felt fear for the first time in his life. He had that peculiar form of bravado that can only come from having been born into wealth. As young Peter had grown up, he had come to realize that there was a difference in those who had recently acquired wealth and those who'd always had it. His own grandfather, the man who'd made it possible for his own blueblooded entry into the 'right' circles, was a case in point, being a self-made billionaire who, despite all his riches, clung tightly to every penny, or at least to every million. This had not prevented Peter's parents from benefitting from a very privileged way of life, but all the same, Peter could tell the difference in his own attitudes towards money and those of his grand- father's.
For the first time in his young life, Peter silently cursed his luck, the pain from the woman's stiff kick throbbing with his every breath. If his family hadn't been so well off, he reasoned, then he wouldn't be in the pickle he was now. Surely, it was money they were after. What else? Unless this was after all a practical joke arranged by one of his jet- setting wealthy friends. But the possibility of that stroke of fortune faded with every mile covered by the thumping steel-belted radials.
To be sure, his life had taken a couple of dramatic twists over the past year and a half or so. It all started when his father had been killed in an airplane crash in South America. His father, a key assistant in the business empire run by Peter's grandfather, had been on a trip, investigating some of the company's mining operations in Latin America when the tragedy occurred.
His father had always favored Peter, the only child of a marriage with Paula Stubbington, the daughter of a prominent New England banker, a marriage seemingly made in Heaven, at least to envious readers of pulp gossip digests who dreamed themselves into the world of the wealthy and social that Peter's parents took for granted. Paula always insisted that her husband was spoiling young Peter, lavishing gifts upon him that only a wealthy man could afford, indulging the boy in his every whim and looking the other way with a wink whenever his childish enthusiasm carried him beyond the bounds of what Paula thought was proper decorum for children.
Of course, Harold, Peter's father, always won out, and the boy grew to adore his father, his mother taking a secondary position in his younger years. She wasn't overly cruel to Peter, but she did have some definite New England ideas about the upbringing of boys, ideas she was only able to experiment with during Harold's rather infrequent trips abroad to check up on one phase or another of the family's burgeoning business empire. Not that Paula herself had to worry about the everyday tasks of ministering to a young child's needs-no, that was for a series of nursemaids the Le Grande's engaged for such purposes. Oh, she was there to kiss a cut finger once it was cleaned and bandaged, but the real drudgery was left to the nanny.
Peter thought about his favorite nanny, jolly old Betty, as the car continued on its mysterious route through the New York night. A nanny was a governess in England... and that was another regretful moment in his life-leaving England. After spending the first few years, a bit over three to be exact, in Rhode Island, Peter had moved with his parents to London. It seems that his grandfather's business ventures in Europe had been blossoming rather prodigiously and the elder Le Grande wanted his son to personally take command of the headquarters of the European operation located in the British capital.
It was there that Peter was put under the care of his beloved nanny, the old woman joining the Le Grande's live-in staff after the first nanny had been discharged by Peter's mother for some long forgotten misdeed having to do with some sort of activity involving the family chauffer, who, like his partner in crime, was summarily dismissed. From the time Peter was three, up past his eighth birthday, Betty was to be his nanny. One of Betty's duties was to take care of the youngster's bath, an activity which the young master grew to look forward to. "Let's see your little piddler," the old lady would tease after the bath, clutching the downy towel in her fat hands and rubbing his penis dry.
This was as close as Peter was ever to come to having a sexual experience, being yet far too young to feel adult arousal. Yet, he was to tuck away these pleasant memories of the time, only to recall them fondly in retrospect once he was able to act out his emotions sexually.
Unfortunately, this kindly nanny, who had seen the boy through the most difficult periods of maturation, had to retire from the service shortly after Peter's eighth birthday to attend to her ailing sister in Kent. His mother engaged a young nanny, but Peter didn't get on with her nearly so well as he had with his former nanny, and after a period of months this woman was let go, there being no further nannies in Peter's life as his mother felt that there would be no more need of them at his present age.
For thirteen years, the Le Grande's were to live in the luxurious estate in Vauxhall, Peter having the run of the three-story house and its hedged-in gardens. Peter was privately tutored for his first few years of schooling, then bundled off to a boarding school as is the wont of wealthy families in England. Here he was to make many associations with other boys his age, getting into no little mischief in the process. He was somewhat the cut- up, seeking to prove himself to be one of the boys in an attempt to live down the particular notoriety that came with his being the wealthiest boy in the school. The school was strict, but Peter was lucky to receive only extra duties and confinement for his punishment as caning had been abolished.
It was there that Peter was to have his first sexual experience. Sex between boys in boarding schools was quite common, and still is in England, and Peter, having developed a rather open and devil-may-care attitude about life, didn't feel in the least odd that he should end up involved learning about homosexual lovemaking from Brent, one of his closest friends. Looking back on these experiences, which took place during his thirteenth year, Peter realized that this form of behavior was common among boys that age and didn't brand himself a homosexual. But even with boarding school behind him and despite the fact he never had any more sexual relationships with boys after his several goes at it with Brent, he considered himself to be 'bi', coming to be a very liberated young man.
For the fact was, the very summer after his sexual tryst with Brent, he got it on with his first girl during a summer vacation with his family in France. Peter had been with his family on visits to his grandfather's summer home above the French Riviera before, a trip that was always appreciated by young Peter. But at the age of fourteen, the first visit in three years to the town of Bandol where his grandfather's estate was located, he was better able to enjoy the sights of the girls who sunbathed in their brief bikinis, many of the sunlovers sans top.
The small town, a resort and fishing center, was a bit too provincial for Peter's tastes this time around, however, and he was able to persuade his father, who had joined his mother at Madison Le Grande's sumptuous retreat for a few days vacationing, into allowing him to venture to Cannes, where the action was reputed to be terrific.
After arriving in Cannes by bus, he checked into a small resort hotel above the beach and went out in search of fun, aboard a motor scooter he had rented. It didn't take him long to find out where the action was, and once upon the beach, he was able to pick up on a French tart named Jeanie, a pretty wench of sixteen with long auburn hair. Peter was quite cool and collected during his come- on, despite the fact of his virginity. Having crossed over from pounding his own drum, he now was anxious to get it on with as many people as possible, and the nymphet named Jeanie looked like a good candidate. He made no pretense about his age, and when she told him that she was a couple of years older, quite a gap in adolescents, he took it all in stride.
They talked, primarily in French, as Peter's grasp of his second language was somewhat better than her attempts at English. She had something he wanted, he conceded, looking at her svelte body which was covered only by a brief yellow bikini, and he figured as long as he was on French turf he might as well allow her the home court advantage. It was the least he could do.
Within the hour, he had talked the girl into a ride on his motor scooter, and they drove off to a more remote beach, Jeanie clinging to him tightly, her hands clinging excitingly to his ribs.
They found a remote area of beach not far out of town, and he guided the scooter down to the sand, bumping along the shoreline avoiding the running tidewaters that crashed in at them. They found a cove formed by rocks, eaten away by years of salt water erosion, hidden from view from anyone who might attempt to explore the now deserted beach. He kicked down the stand and shut the scooter off, checking the high spire of rocks that gave them privacy. "Mmmm, mon cher," Jeannie exhaled in her best English as she climbed off the bike, "le motor scooter, it makes me feel, how you say, all funny inside."
From the way she smiled, Peter realized what she meant. He'd heard about the way girls could get turned on by riding a horse, so he assumed that the vibrations of a bike could send a sexual sensation into a girl's crotch as well.
He was determined to give her a bigger thrill than a mere machine could though, and it wasn't long before they were speaking a new language, a step beyond sign language... more of a feel language.
As they fell to the warm sand, the girl seemed to sense that she was more experienced in such matters, and she began to take the lead. But Peter was no dope, and at the very least he was an attentive pupil.
The girl moved fluidly against the sand, the in- cessant pounding of the waves acting as a metronome for their movements. His hands fumbled at her bikini top, trembling in excitement, but he was finally able to free the ripe melons. A wave of sprouting goose bumps grew over the alabaster orbs as the cool ocean miasma kissed them, causing the deep pink aureolas to stiffen. Peter felt his cock thump out a heartbeat inside his pants when he viewed the titties, the dark umber of her suntan framing the twin orbs excitingly.
Under her tutelage, he bent his head down to sip her left nipple into his mouth, his lips sucking firmly like a nursing infant. His elbows dug into the sand, the sun beat down on his bare back, as his hands rubbed at the rolling mounds of jello. Jeanie twisted her fingers in his fine brown hair, encouraging him to go on with his oral explorations.
He sucked at one nipple, then the other, his mouth drooling as he ministered to her. His cock was throbbing against the confining prison of his shorts and trousers as he lapped at the breastflesh.
He knew he couldn't wait much longer, so he slipped one hand down and unzipped his trousers, pushing them down, along with his shorts as he dry humped the warm body beneath him. It was a little soon for the girl, but she realized how close he was to making it. She could get him to do her Oedipal crack with his tongue later. Now he could try to put out the fires within her with his pecker.
She spread her legs out after ripping off her slick bikini bottoms, her heels digging into the sand. Still nipping at her breasts with his mouth, Peter ran a hand down to the moist furrow of her pussy and began to rub at it, thrilling at the way it sopped up against his fingers.
"Mmmm-oui," she encouraged him.
But he didn't need much in the way of verbal incitement as he gripped his thick, corded shaft in his right hand and adjusted his hips to the right angle. He looked down and felt a ripple of lascivious desire sweep through him as he viewed the tanned body beneath him, the fine stubs of mowed pubes on her thighs leading to a thick tangle of her bush, the whiteness of her pelvic region contrasting the dark skin of her belly and legs, thin streaks of pale blue blood vessels streaking below the taut skin.
He moved his prickhead towards her cunt, a thin trickle of white fluid dripping out of the eye-shaped slit at the tip of the swollen red head. With a tentative thrust, he slipped the missile into her silo, the thrill of contact causing his back muscles to spasm. With a heavier thrust, he pushed his weight into her hot cavern, a gushing cuntfart escaping as he sank his spear home.
He moved his head up against hers as he pressed his smooth chest down to her spongy breasts, causing the sacs to spread out under the pressure, the stiffened points puncturing his skin.
The girl moaned as he began rocking his hips up and down, propelling his rock-hard cock in and out of her juicy snatch. He could feel his nuts tighten up in anticipation as Jeanie wrapped her slender pins around the back of his thighs, her plump hips, scratching a tunnel in the sand as they pumped to meet his efforts, tiny particles of sand clinging to her dampened skin.
"Oui, moi cher, oui!" she panted, her own rising passion being sated.
He gripped her ribcage as he plowed her furrow, the musculature and cartilage popping as she moved. His swollen urge plunged in and out of her snapping orifice as he crushed his lips against her, bruising in their fury. Her mouth opened wide as her tongue lashed against his in the best manner of her countrymen, as his meat smacked wetly in and out of her twitching hole.
Peter felt himself stiffen as a hot charge began to race through his belly, telling him that it was getting to be about that time. His balls thudded heavily against her sandy buttcheeks as he drove it home. Pounding his pud was never this good, nor making it with a boy for that matter. He built up the tempo of his fuck as he felt his randy load of goo about to explode. He pulled his head back from Jeanie's, a thin string of spittle stretching out and then popping, only to splash wetly on her chin. She smiled insanely, her claws raking at his tender back, her heels thumping at his lower legs. Her nostrils flared widely, her eyes gazed crazily as she felt him about to dump his load.
And then he let go, great curds of goo splashing out in hot torrents against her cavern walls of pink and brown, as he threw himself into her with steady thrusts of finality. She felt herself going over at this time, tripped off by the hot wads that splattered her pussy, moaning out her pleasure as she made it.
After they had rested for a little while, she went on to show him how to eat pussy, and he was amazed at how good the acrid taste of her love hole was. And then she blew him, showing him just why the art was known as the French art. He lay back in the warm sand as she bent over him, gripping the base of his cock with one hand and tossing him off into the receptacle of her warm mouth that puckered around the top half of his thick shaft, her head moving up and down in a facial fuck.
"Oh, Baby," he breathed as he neared completion, "do it! Suck my cock!"
After his introduction to sex on the French seaside, Peter just couldn't get enough sex. In fact, his behavior over the next couple of years hadn't exactly pleased his mother, nor his grandfather, who wasn't approving of the reputation his namesake began to gather on the continent. His father dismissed the worries of his wife, passing it off as being adolescent enthusiasm, inwardly feeling the pride of a father who feels his offspring is a chip off the old block, just a bit jealous of the youthful paramours. But what worried his wife and Madison Le Grande as well was the fact that Peter was acquiring a reputation as being a young rake. To be truthful, Peter found himself gravitating towards a crowd of young jet-setters and pot smokers, people who, like himself, were fed up and bored with their lives and found pleasure only in sexual liberties and in flaunting the authority of the older generation.
The next summer in Bandol, Madison spoke to Peter about his behavior, but the young man was able to put the elder off for the time being, going off to spend most of his time cavorting with his newfound friends. He had a few violent arguments with his mother, who was concerned about the fact that the press had begun to label him as a 'rich hippy playboy', but, secure in the knowledge that his father didn't really feel any deep concern over his son's deportment, he was able to go his own way pretty much as he pleased. At sixteen, he sat for his upper forms and passed, and could have had his pick of colleges, but he declined to attend college, preferring to spend a season on the continent, an idea his mother much opposed. Being bright, Peter had little trouble with schoolwork, even though he spent little time applying himself. But he felt that he'd rather put off college for the time being, or for good if possible, sharing the idea with his youthful compatriots that colleges were a part of the threat to the third world, being just another part of the established order they detested.
But he was still a minor, and had the added burden of living up to a well-established name, and here his mother drew a firm line, battling him incessantly about his proposal to become a rich nomad in Europe. His case wasn't advanced in the least when he was arrested with several of his friends at a party in London that summer, charged with possession of marijuana. His name and family wealth was able to squash the charges, Peter getting off with a stiff fine and warning from the judge, but the press, already covering his every step, had a heyday with the matter. To make things worse, his father, who up to this point had tried to remain neutral in the dispute between mother and son, finally chimed in with his mother, shocked that Peter's behavior had gone much further than even he could ever have imagined.
After a pitched battle in the Vauxhall homestead, which sent the servants from room to room in an attempt to press up to a door for some tidy tidbits, the matter was left up in the air, Peter's father having to go off to South America on the trip that was to result in his death.
After the funeral, Peter found his best defender gone from his corner. Trying to get the situation in hand, Paula decided to pick up stakes and remove to the United States, back to the New York art circle she had reluctantly left to follow her husband's business interests in Europe. She would have a more than substantial inheritance to see her through, in addition to a monthly allotment from the estate. Most of the fortune, however, would be handed down to the male heir, that being Peter, but that wouldn't take effect until he reached his majority at twenty-one.
Shocked by the tragedy of his father's death, Peter returned with his mother to New York, where they moved into the penthouse suite of a very fashionable apartment building on Park Avenue. He enrolled at Harvard, the proper strings having been pulled, and spent the next year living in a dorm at the prestigious institute of higher learning. He didn't much like the situation, but after the shocks of being busted and going through his father's untimely death, he really didn't have much choice. He was able to content himself by throwing in with a rich set of kids and balled and smoked his blues away. That summer, he had been able to spend a couple of weeks in Europe, headquartering in Bandol, but his grandfather's growing concern over his wild lifestyle finally made him return to New York with his mother, who had accompanied him on the trip. He had been hoping to coax her into letting him remain in Europe for the duration of the summer, but she had turned down his request for money. He reluctantly returned to the Big Apple, silently cursing both his mother and grandfather, both cold fishes in his way of viewing things, resolving that he'd get back at them as soon as he received the trust fund. But, shit, he kicked himself, that was over three years away.
While his mother could control his activities as far as fiscal limitations went, she wasn't able to keep him a prisoner in the large apartment the way she would have liked. He had rich friends in the city, friends he'd met through another boy at college whose father was a political bigwig. So, over her objections, he'd go off whenever he liked to be with his friends, especially with Ellie, a free spirit a couple of years his senior who had talked her wealthy parents into financing her somewhat Bohemian existence, which included her own apartment in Greenwich Village.
In fact, that's exactly where Peter had intended to end up this night that he'd been so swiftly abducted. He'd decided to take a few turns around the Times Square area while waiting for the time he would be sure that Ellie would be home, enjoying people watching, one of his favorite pastimes. The characters in this area were really strange to him, especially in his loaded condition. He viewed them with the detached air of the rich who are slumming, getting a laugh at the prostitutes who tried to entice him into an evening of bought lovemaking.
In fact, when he spotted the two tall women in the high-heeled boots, he had taken them for high- price hookers, and was a little amazed that two such striking amazons would be working the streets. And when the blonde smiled at him and spoke his name. Confused as to her identity, wondering just how she'd known him, he offered little resistance as the pair led him to a silver Bentley sedan and opened the door. It was only when she told him to get in that he realized that this wasn't an ordinary situation, but before he could take action, the pair grabbed him forcefully by the arms and pushed him into the car. And now he was riding with them to a destiny not of his own making.
CHAPTER TWO
The steady drone of the highway traffic was the only comforting constant in Peter's life at the moment. Being bound and hooded as he was, he could only guess at the destination of the Bentley and the strange crew and cargo that it carried.
Over a half hour had gone by, in his estimation, since he'd been kicked into silence by the pointed toe of the woman, and he'd just about decided that this wasn't by any means a practical joke. He was sure that these women meant it. He was being kidnapped.
Once his mind had adjusted to this probability, he began to go into emergency gear, formulating a possible escape. He couldn't very well make a dash for it when the car stopped, his arms bound behind his back and his sight cut off by the hood. The car windows were rolled up tightly, and he cursed the fact that they had a European model which, unlike the Detroit-produced cars, sealed as tight as a vacuum. Nevertheless, he resolved that he'd wait for a moment when he heard a car next to them, perhaps at an intersection. Then, he decided, he would scream as loudly as he could for help.
It seemed to him that they were going in a northerly direction, judging from the way the traf-fic had thinned so rapidly, but he couldn't really be sure. In his mind, he went over what routes that he knew, and he silently cursed himself for not paying more attention to various ways out of the city whenever he'd been going off on a weekend with one of his friends. Not having a car himself, and having spent relatively little time in New York, he was at a loss.
One thing he did remember that heartened him was the fact that there were may toll roads, bridges and tunnels leading out of the city. It seemed you couldn't get off Manhattan without paying a fee, and he hoped that this would be the case now. But the car didn't seem to come to any such toll road, and he began to resign himself to the fact that if they were going away from the city, and judging from the length of time they'd been traveling they were doing just that, the driver had plotted their course so as to hit the minimum traffic and to avoid tolls.
After what seemed like another half hour or so, the car seemed to be slowing down, as if they'd entered the outskirts of a town. Steeling his nerves, Peter listened intently, keying himself for any opportunity that might be at hand to yell for help. But just as the car rolled to a stop for a light, one of the women threatened: "One attempt at yelling, and you're dead."
It was as if she'd been reading his mind. Realizing that his captors meant business, Peter swallowed any impulses to cry out.
The car rolled on, picking up momentum, and Peter guessed correctly that they had passed through a small town. During the next hour, the car went through several similar reductions and resumptions of speed, but it seemed that there were no opportunities to yell for help even if he'd dare to challenge the tormentors.
With every mile, Peter felt hope slipping away. Finally, after a length of time that seemed longer than any he'd ever experienced, the car began making a series of turns on what seemed to be a quiet country road. After several minutes of driving, the Bentley turned off onto what sounded like a dirt road, and after a couple of minutes of bumping up this road it pulled to a stop.
"All right, Kid," he heard one of the women say, "this will be your new home for awhile. You might as well enjoy it, it may be the last home you'll ever have!"
With that, the women broke out in laughter, but it only sent a sharp chill up his spine. The door was opened, and he was hauled out roughly, his mask still in place. He felt very hesitant about walking in his blinded condition, so the women dragged him along as if he were a mere toy.
He felt the warmth of a room rushing to meet him, and then he fell clumsily to the floor, having been shoved inside by the strong women. He bumped his head sharply on the floor, and his mind reeled for a second as the strong arms pulled him up and dragged him farther inside. He felt completely helpless with his arms bound and his sight blotted out, the bonds beginning to cut at his hands, his head pulsating in pain from the blow.
"How'd it go?" he heard a new voice ask.
It was a deep voice, that of a female who was older than the others. He felt a disconcerting flash of deja vu when he heard the voice... as if he'd heard it somewhere before. Still it was not a voice that he'd heard often, he might be mistaken. And yet...
"Without a hitch." was the answer.
He heard the sounds of the door being shut and locked, of high heels moving across the carpet.
"Well," the new voice went on, "let's take off the hood and see how the International hippy is holding up."
He felt a twinge of pain hearing himself referred to in such a sarcastic manner, but before he could reflect on it for any length of time, he felt rough hands tugging at the hood, and then there was blinding light.
He blinked his eyes defensively at the sudden intrusion of light, and gradually made out his surroundings. He was in a very large house, an older one that had been kept up. From the style of the architecture, he knew it was an old estate that had been kept up well, judging from the furnishings. The furniture was a bit modern for the style of the house, but expensive. It wasn't the furnishings that gathered in the bulk of Peter's attention however-no, it was the woman who belonged to the new voice. He again felt a pang of near-recognition sweep over him, though if he ever had seen the woman before, he couldn't really place it, nor match it up with the voice. Yet it seemed that he'd seen the woman somewhere before, although it might have been just a face-in-the-crowd situation. It bothered him that he found her familiar, though not familiar enough to place. Had the woman been staking him out? The paranoia of such a possibility was running rampant through his strained nerves.
But the possibility of having seen this woman before wasn't the only thing that threw him off balance. For the outfit she wore, that black leather madness that made her so imposing, seemed very surreal, like something out of a bizarre comic book. The woman was tall, at least as tall as him, and this was accented by the fact that she wore severe high-heeled black leather pumps with heels at least four inches high. She wore no blouse, but had on a black leather bra that was cut away at the cups so that it encased her large, firm breasts, the nipples bare to his view.
To add to the unusual costume, she wore a black leather miniskirt that was shiny and menacing, barely covering her shapely hips. If that weren't enough to set his heart into near tachycardia, she wore long black lether gloves that went up past her elbows, accenting her white skin. Her black hose were covered with fine floral patterns, attached to a garterbelt, the tabs that jutted out from beneath her skirt were also of black leather- The woman had a severe look about her that went with her unusual costume. She appeared to be around forty, but was very well preserved and buxom. Her hair was tinted silver, contrasting with the heavy black pencil on her severely-arched eyebrows. Her lips were painted a deep red, reminding Peter of Dietrich, and etched in a cruel, but bemused, sneer.
What did they want... his money, or something more sinister? When he looked around at the costumes that the other girls wore, he realized that they too were dressed bizarrely, although modified for the street. The tall blonde, who wore her flaxen locks in a modified pageboy, was dressed in a dark, patterned miniskirt. She wore dark net hose that disappeared into knee-length black boots that had sharp stiletto heels. The other girl, a redhead, was just as tall, but wore a yellow miniskirt. Her boots were of the same kind as the blonde's, with the pointed toes that had kicked him so painfully inside the car.
Both girls were well endowed, with big boobs that strained the manufacture of the material. Just then he noticed the driver of the car, a black girl with coffee-colored skin. He had to look twice to make sure she was a girl as she was wearing a grey chauffer's uniform complete with a grey cap which sat atop a modified Afro. But the swells underneath the uniform left little doubt as to her gender.
Despite the humiliation of being captured by women, Peter felt great apprehension about his near future as he took them all in. The overall impression upon viewing their costumes, especially that of the older woman who was obviously in charge, struck him as something out of a James Bond movie... no Warhol. It wasn't to be believed! Money had to have something to do with it, he realized, otherwise they wouldn't have picked out such a wealthy target. But something told him that there was more involved than simple currency. Had he been captured by a bunch of perverts?
"We might as well tell you right off that you've been kidnapped, young man," the woman cut into his thoughts, "if you haven't been able to figure that out yourself. It would be wise for you to use some tact and not try to resist us, for I assure you, escape is impossible. The nearest house to us is nearly a mile off, so you're really out in the woods. The shutters are barred, so you might save yourself the trouble of attempting that."
"This is bullshit," he found himself screaming out, giving some vent to his frustration. "You'll never get away with this in a million years. Release me at once!"
The woman stepped forward and with her gloved hand slapped him hard across his cheek, sending him off balance. His hands were still tied, and the sudden sting, which left smarting welts across his face, reminded him that this was no time for arrogance.
"I told you," she said, clenching her teeth for emphasis, "not to try and resist. That rich boy shit doesn't go here. I'm in charge of this operation, and if you give me any more lip, you'll pay the price."
Peter, his face smarting, gulped at the towering woman, unaccustomed to being in this position of weakness. He shuddered to think of what 'the price' might be.
"I have typed up this note," the woman went on, going over to pick a note off an end table, "and all it needs is a short statement from you in your own writing. And don't get any ideas you nflght have picked up from the movies-the typewriter no longer exists, so it can't be traced. As it was stolen property in the first place, they can't pin that one to me. We've already assembled several notes. Hopefully, we won't need anything more than this first one, for the penalty you pay in the next one is dear indeed I assure you. As you can see, everything has been thought of in advance. This is one case where crime will win out."
As she brought the note over towards him, Peter sank into the lowest despair he had yet ex-perienced. He had no reason to doubt that this woman was capable of carrying out such a crime successfully. He wondered just how dear the penalty would be if his family didn't meet the demands. Would he even get out alive?
The redhead, following the instructions of the older woman, untied his wrists, but even with this freedom, Peter realized it would be foolish to try and make a move at this moment. The woman walked over to a table and had him sign the document. He glanced over the contents of the note, addressed to his grandfather as the old man controlled the money. Besides, his mother would never be able to afford the million dollars, in small American bills, they demanded. His being worth a cool million was small consolation to the trembling boy, however, as he took pen in hand and wrote per the woman's instructions: Please do not attempt to put this matter into the hands of the police, F.B.I, or any such agency. This is for real, and if you hope to see me again alive, you will do as you are in-structed. I am fine for the time being.
Peter The rest of the typed message told him that he would be watched by an insider, a thing that was sure to make the old geezer uncomfortable, whether is was true or not. But the whole thing seemed to Peter to have been very planned, as such a caper, that was sure to draw worldwide publicity, must be, the letter being addressed to his grandfather's private address, unknown to most people. There were further warnings to comply with forthcoming instructions, warning the billionaire not to attempt to keep a record of the money's serial numbers and the like. It all seemed so much like a fiction to Peter, but the sad truth was its reality.
"Anita," the woman told the black girl, handing her the note which had been sealed into an envelope. "You know what to do."
"Yes mam," the girl said, then went upstairs to change into a more suitable costume for flying. For the kidnappers were taking no chances-Anita would be taking the plane to Chicago where she would mail the letter containing Peter's library card for further authenticity.
This was the first time he'd heard anyone of the group addressed by name, but his interest in it caught the attention of the older woman.
"We all have adopted different names for this venture," she told him with a cruel smile, having read his mind. "My name is Julia, but you are to address me as Mistress if you don't want any trouble."
"Whatever you say," Peter replied with a shrug, and was rewarded with another sharp smack to his cheek.
"Don't be insolent with me, young man!" she snapped, her cheeks flooding red with anger. "I told you to address me as Mistress."
"Yes... m-m-mistress," he mumbled apologetically, feeling ashamed of his circumstance. Just wait until this was over, he vowed. Will I get even.
"Just to take some of that snot-nosed attitude away from you, I think you can learn a little lesson in discipline,". Julia announced. "Just as a sample so that you'll know what's in store for you if you fuck up again, scumbag."
He'd never been addressed so contemptuously in his entire life. And there was something about the way she said 'fuck' that gave it a more potent ring that when his liberated girlfriends mouthed the word. But the word that bothered him the most was 'discipline'. She'd pronounced the word with real relish, as if she'd get immense pleasure out of performing the task.
The two young women grabbed him by his arms and walked him over to a long couch, where Julia had seated herself. He winced at the strength of the girls' grip, sensing that it would be hard to struggle with them. The woman in charge left little doubt to that.
"This is Laura," she said, gesturing to the blonde who held his left arm, "and Yolanda," to the redhead. "They are both experts at karate, so if you're smart, you'll address Miss Laura, and Miss Yolanda. Now then, I'll bet you're so spoiled you never had a spanking."
Peter gulped, surprising himself at his reaction to the mention of such a juvenile punishment. It flashed through his mind that Julia must be a sadist, people he'd heard about, but never encountered. It was true-Julia planned to get more from this caper than just money.
"Ah . no, can't say that I have... " he responded, then yelped with pain as Laura jerked his arm suddenly, forcing it halfway up his back.
"No, mistress," she reminded him.
"N-n-no, m-m-misstress," he corrected himself.
The woman produced a wooden paddle from beneath the couch, and waved it in front of her as she spoke.
"Then it's about time you found out what it feels like, you insolent pup!"
Before he could put up a real protest, he found himself being thrown down across the woman's expansive lap. In short order, one of the girls had unbuttoned his slacks and yanked them to his knees, followed in short order by his undershorts. He tried to struggle briefly, but Yolanda, standing at the end of the couch, reached out and grabbed his wrists, stretching them out towards her in a viselike grip.
"Don't try to struggle you piece of shit," the woman warned him. "It'll only go all the harder on you. Besides, this is only a simple spanking. If you give me any more lip, you'll taste the whip."
Peter lay as passively as possible, his buttocks clenching and unclenching involuntarily in anticipation of the spanking. Goose bumps broke out as the cool air kissed the nether globes of his hairless ass, but he sensed they wouldn't be cold for long. He found this form of treatment humiliating, and couldn't believe what was happening to him. Still, he vowed to brave his first spanking ever-it couldn't be all that bad.
He lasted one swat. He jumped in pain when the paddle bounced off his right cheek, making the bubble of flesh jiggle and color. The sorority-type paddle was about twelve inches long with a grip for Julia, and maybe three inches wide and a quarter inch thick. To add to the stinging power of this formidable weapon, three holes had been drilled in the business end, sucking a bit of flesh up into them on impact. The result left little white blisters that stung like the devil.
"Ahhhhh!" he exclaimed as the second spank landed. This was no little kid spanking. He abandoned all attempts at Stoicism at this moment and began to yelp with every smack of the thick paddle.
"You don't think you're such a big sophisticate now, do you?" Julia smiled as she rained blows upon his crimsoning buttocks. "I just wish all your hippy pals could see you now, smartass."
The thought made Peter blush nearly as red as his bounding buttocks. Julia made further comments as she punctuated her remarks with the paddle, telling him that he was just a big spoiled baby who needed this all along; that his bottom was more like a girl's than a boy's; that this was just a sample of what he'd get in the future.
Peter tried to escape from the flailing wood, but he was held firmly by Julia, whose left hand was bearing down on the small of his back, and Yolanda who held his arms. With his p&nts bunched about his knees, he was unable to kick, so all he could do was squirm around helplessly, his crotch rubbing against the leather skirt.
Just as the pain seemed intolerable, Peter blubbering like an infant, his buttocks searing with throbbing pain, the strangest sensation in his life overcame him. Despite whatever his mind rebelled against this horrible humiliation, his very life ultimately on the line, he got an erection!
As he felt the pain blending with the warmth of his arousal, Peter felt as never before. This was more exciting than any feeling he'd ever experienced, ironic as it might be. But he didn't have time to analyze the situation to check out all the psychological angles.
His buttocks began to work in a fucking motion, keeping time with the rise and fall of the wicked paddle, his swollen prick rubbing against the leather of Julia's skirt.
Seeing the remarkable change in her victim's attitude, Julia halted her next swat in midswing. She smiled widely as the young man, his red and blistered ass jiggling, continued to move his hips, little sighs and hissing noises escaping from his lips.
"This is remarkable," she winked at the girls. "It seems that we have a masochist on our hands. It only took this meeting up with us to bring it out."
Peter was just as astounded as they were, as the heat from his battered buttocks combined with his sexual arousal, sweeping him to a level of excitation he'd never known. His nuts felt hot and bursting as he rubbed himself off, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold on for long.
And then he came, his snotlike white jizz shooting out against the lap of the woman, sticking to her leather skirt. He pumped a couple of times and his body shuddered, then relaxed with a soulful moan.
"What's this?" cried the angry woman, her momentary discovery shattered by Peter's untimely come.
She stood up, dumping Peter to the floor with a thud.
"You stupid fucking idiot! You little worm. You don't get to come unless I tell you to, is that understood?" With that she kicked Peter sharply in the ribs, the pain, coupled with the fact that he was coming, only added to his pleasure. Only a few moments before, taken out of this context, the pain would have been terrible. But he had learned a lot of new things this evening.
After the last drip of goo dripped out of his prickhole, he groveled in front of the woman, caught up as he had suddenly become in the unleashing of this unknown facet of his personality. He apologized to Julia, wanting only her approval, whereas moments ago he would have liked to see her hanged.
"Clean it up, slave," the woman commanded him as she sat back down and pointed to the mess of sticky glue on her skirt. "I'm glad to see that you've come around so quickly in this stage of your training, but it's time to get onto the next phase."
Peter was confused as to just what she meant as he crawled up to her, his spent penis deflating. Could it be that this woman, this woman that he knew from somewhere, had,the power to reach deep into his psyche and pull out answers that even he didn't know? He'd never even fantasized over being dominated, but now that he'd experienced it, he doubted that he'd ever again turn from the path of slavery. But this was a high stakes game-the kidnapping was for real. What an odd situation the whole thing was. And what would the next step be?
He was about to find out.
"Lick it off, fuckhead," Julia commanded him, "and do a thorough job."
He found it strange to be licking his own come off the dress of the woman, but he knelt down and did it all the same, actually savoring the nutty taste of the gloppy fluid as his tongue picked it off the leather material and flipped it into his throat, swallowing it down in hungry gulps. Although his recent orgasm made it impossible for him to get a direct physical response from this new form of humiliation, his mind seemed to accept this fact eagerly. It was as if his brain were a computer, and someone had finally written a program for him. There was a strange comfort in having someone else make up your mind for you.
The smell and texture of the leather was pleasing to him, but the best small came from beneath the skirt. As he finished licking up the wads of come, he could smell the unmistakable odor of cunt escaping between Julia's firm thighs. The fishy goodness, smelling like a laundry by the ocean, caused his cock to swell anew.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" the woman demanded after he'd finished off her skirt. Raising the skirt to expose her fleshy cuntlips, she spread her legs out invitingly and commanded him to suck her out.
Peter's pecker throbbed between his legs as he moVed up to dive the muff. The fleecy brown hair indicated Julia's true colors, and he found himself salivating as he bent down to do this pleasant duty.
The fumes from the trench were overwhelming as he stuck a thumb and forefinger into the thicket so that he could slip his tongue down into the slime of the flesh. From the wetness there, he rightly figured that Julia became aroused by whipping boys, but he only paused briefly on this thought, then got down to the business of eating pussy.
He'd eaten a lot of pussy for his young years, but this was the fattest, juiciest cunt he'd ever laid a tongue to. But most of all, it was the fact that he'd gotten his first taste of domination that made this expedition all the more exciting. He longed to stick his entire head up the yawning cavity and suffocate, but as this wasn't possible, he worked his tongue in and out of the hot, moist cunt.
He swallowed in the lather that her cunt produced, wanting to drain her completely, as the two women stripped off their clothes behind him and began to eat each other out. But Peter was hardly aware of all this, other than the cries from the girls that reached his ears. He was too busy, lapping away at the pouch of Julia's.
"Eat, slave," Julia told him, raking his thin washboard sides with her long, painted fingernails.
He was amazed at the size of Julia's clitoris, bigger than any he'd ever seen. He nudged the bobbing finger of flesh with his nose, but continued to probe the hot walls of her pussy with his tongue. He reminded himself not to rub his engorged prick against anything, even though his pleasure was mounting. He didn't want to risk the wrath of this woman he would have gladly defied moments back. But there was a strange sensation in being denied his own pleasure, a compelling fascination in trying to give himself self-control in such a violent state of need, a sort of lingering animated suspension of his feelings.
A thick wad of vaginal spume went down his throat as his curled tongue flicked at the diseased walls of her pussy. The musky scent was overwhelming as it flooded his expanding nostrils, pushing him on enticingly.
His lips worked furtively as he lunched the fuming box of joy, his teeth munching at stray pussy hairs. Her pussy opened and closed spasmodically, hot rushes of air and spray rushing out in noisy sucking splendor.
He pulled back and moved his lips up to the pole of her clit that floated and undulated in a sea of fleshy pink fat. He pursed his lips tightly around it wormlike, and rolled the meat back and forth, biting at it lightly with his teeth, bobbing it with his tongue.
Julia lost herself in this dizzying attack and thumped her feet against his hips in a mad tattoo. Peter kept sucking away until the woman let out a long gasp, then sank her talons into his shoulder painfully, only causing him to become all the more elated, despite his precarious position, coming hard as Peter lapped away at her box.
Peter finally pulled his head away from the woman, imploring Julia with his eyes to be allowed to at least finish off his own lust by hand. But he woman chose to ignore his situation, watching the two girls minister to each other's lusts. As he looked down at the throbbing organ that he dare not touch, Peter wondered if he'd ever come again.
CHAPTER THREE
Madison Le Grande's high forehead knotted into a plane of furrows as he read the strange note on his lap. His reaction to reading the threatening letter was mixed. At first, he'd considered tossing it away as a prank, a cruel one perpetrated by someone with a sick mind. But then he remembered what the local magistrate had told him, about his grandson's disappearance in the States, and he read it over again. Even Interpol had been in touch with his concierge concerning the disappearance that had been reported a couple of days back by his daughter-in-law, so he took another look at it.
He hadn't decided whether to take this whole thing seriously or not, so he put the letter down on the antique table next to him, absently thumbing the library card reputed to belong to Peter. What to do? He decided against getting in touch with the authorities... they were too bothersome. It wasn't that he feared the threats in the letter as to what might happen if he were to seek aid from the police. The police would find a way of getting themselves involved in this whether he wanted them or not. Fortunately, his relationship with those armed clerks, for that's the way he viewed their function much on the same level as he viewed garbage collectors, was somewhat different than might be the case with a less wealthy man. Oh, in a case like this, there might be some fuss in the press about a need to cooperate and all that nonsense, and that all men are treated equally, regardless of race, creed or wealth. But crusty old Le Grande, a man who'd spent his life dodging such claptrap knew the ridiculous nature of such an argument. A man who'd rubbed shit in the eyes of the system like hie had could hardly carry about such a foolish idea in his head as justice and equality.
It was for the paupers, the peons. Oh, if this kidnapping were for real, the paupers would carry on about it, taking their notions of what really went on from the papers. Such notoriety was part of the territory of wealth, and Madison neither sought it out, nor campaigned against it. Besides, it helped keep the peons in their place by instilling the false belief in their heads that the rich were the same as they were and that the proof was in the tragedies they suffered just like anybody else.
The tragedies were merely of a larger scale, the old man realized, blown out of proportion by publicity. Not that the rich didn't suffer, oh no, far from it. But a man like himself could afford to suffer in luxury.
And so as he sat in the library of his summer home, a forty-eight room estate sitting on thirty acres above the French Riviera, Le Grande pondered the note, realizing that some pest of a policeman was bound to break into his serenity in the near future. To be sure, it would be the captain of the local force from Bandol, or more likely a top agent from Interpol, and most certainly the American Embassy would dispatch someone from the C.I.A., but he could deal with them at his leisure, and if they insisted on carrying on an investigation, it was up to him to what extent he chose to cooperate. Cops were such pests, the old man ruminated, but necessary pests at times. He wasn't sure what he'd do if they came into the picture, he didn't want to threaten his grandson's life, no matter how much the youngster had strayed in Madison's considered opinion. But if it were to be believed-that was the problem.
He ran his hand through his thinning white hair and mused over the situation. Paula had notified the police after Peter had been gone for more than twenty-four hours. It wasn't unlike the lad to go off for a longer period than this, but he generally stayed in touch. At any rate, the woman had become disturbed and notified the authorities, not knowing whether he'd run off or been actually kidnapped. In a long-distance call, she'd expressed her fears of the latter possibility, but the old man was his usual non-committal self, expressing his con-cern in his usual monotone.
Once the story leaked, however, Paula had been confronted with cameramen, and she'd really put on quite a performance, tearfully weeping in front of the cameras, expressing doubts that her son would go off like this for several days without notice.
And today his butler had delivered the note, postmarked Chicago, U.S.A. It seemed that some mischief was indeed afoot, although the old man wasn't convinced that the kidnapping was real. He'd call his daughter-in-law first, before going any further with this. He and Paula were quite skeptical about the boy, although she did seem to be genuinely concerned about his safety. He had to let her know about the note at any rate, even though he had a nagging suspicion that the whole thing might be a hoax. He was more removed from the situation than Paula emotionally, but not so very removed at that. After all, about the only thing that roused his passion was money, and the kidnappers were demanding a million from him. He was notoriously tight-fisted for a billionaire, going so far as to install pay toilets in the guest bathrooms in his homes in France and in Newport, Rhode Island, his winter residence, an eccentricity excused by his friends. Yet, if he were actually convinced that the threats were for real, he wouldn't hesitate to capitulate to the demands. He wasn't all as tight-fisted as that.
Yes, he'd call Paula before making his decision. But there was always the chance that young Peter had taken it into his mind to pull this whole thing off himself... yes, that would explain how, they got his card. He wouldn't put it past the youngster. His son had been too lenient with him, looking the other way when he got into trouble. Madison had noticed how much farther out his grandson got each time he visited Bandol. What with the drugs, God knows what he was taking, but even marijuana was terrible enough to the elder Le Grande's way of thinking, and all the other activities-going around the country with all these half-naked girls...
He felt his blood pressure rising, and tugged at the bellrope next to his overstuffed chair. If this was the real thing, perhaps it would teach the boy a lesson. If this was one of his stunts... well, God help him, he'd disown him. Perhaps Peter had cooked this up to get at the money all the sooner. The butler opened the heavy walnut door.
"You rang?"
"Yes, have Claudette bring me a snifter of brandy."
"Oui," the butler bowed and left.
He needed a small snifter to calm him down before calling his daughter-in-law. That damned boy was causing him no end of worry, and to think he was the only male heir to his fortune. He sniffed at the indignity of the situation, holding himself from a full rage with the realization that he may, all the same, be in desperate need. The boy had a good mind. The problem was that he was so damned spoiled. That was the trouble with those who were born into money-they had no sense of values, of the struggle.
He'd struggled. The third child of a French immigrant, he'd left his birthplace of Boston at the age of fourteen in search of his fortune. After kicking about for several years, he'd won a copper mine in a card game out in Arizona. The rest was history, and it seemed that everything he touched turned to gold... or oil. At seventy, his empire was one of the mightiest in the world.
Once he'd gotten into European business, he'd decided to buy the estate outside of Bandol as a sort of homecoming present to himself. It seemed impossible to him that he'd come from the peasant stock in this country, a people he found to be dirty and stupid.
His one abiding passion, outside his business empire, was one not uncommon to those of great wealth. This was in collecting paintings. For a man who flinched at a long-distance phone call, Madison thought nothing of plunking down several hundred-thousand for a painting by a master. This activity was often attributed to great philanthropic need by the general public, but Madison knew that the case was quite the reverse, that his appreciation of the arts was in large part to keep such treasures away from the masses.
He looked fondly over at the wall to his latest acquisition, a little-known rendering of earwax painted by Van Gogh. This said it all to Le Grande, not known for his true understanding of the artworks he collected. If only Q-Tips had been around in Van Gogh's day, the man might have been spared a lot of misery.
His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Claudette, a petite girl of twenty who had brought his brandy. He motioned for the young wench to place the snifter on the table next to him, and remembered why it was that he'd asked for her to bear the spirits instead of the butler.
"Will there be anything else, monsieur?" she bowed quite crisply. "Yes... the usual," replied Le Grande, unzipping the trousers of his blue suit without changing his stony, unsmiling attitude. Even when he was happy, his friends said, no one could tell. His tight lips, a half-size too long for his face due to its petrification brought on by years of unchanging solidity, would merely twitch at the very corners when he was extremely pleased with something.
Claudette was used to all this by now. Knowing well what the 'usual' was, she knelt down in front of him, displaying a great deal of cleavage in the process. She wore a black French maid's uniform appropriately enough, lined with white lace ruffles at the arms, neck and the bottom of the short dress, complete with white apron and black cap which was also lined with lace. Her garters, encasing a lovely set of French gams, were of the same lace, holding up a pair of sleek black hose which fitted into black pumps.
As she bent over to minister to the boss's needs, her short skirt rode up over her hips, revealing the fact that she wore no panties, a condition that the old gentleman insisted upon as was their arrangement. This was in case he wanted to proceed beyond the usual, as he seldom did, but just in case... At any rate, the condition of her attire gave the butler and cook many a fetching sight as Claudette went about her household duties.
Despite his conservative nature, Le Grande wasn't a total prude. While he remained sexually active at his advanced age, he did go about it in a rather detached way, seeing it as a necessary function more than anything else. But this new maid made him randier than usual. And she played her role well, pretending to really enjoy servicing the fossil.
"Oh, mon cher amor," she cooed in her heavy accent Gaulishly, "Why such a long face? Things can't be that bad."
"I should have had another child... a son," mused the old man, allowing the girl to slip down his trousers and boxer shorts, revealing his scrawny white-on-white legs, streaked with varicose veins. "My daughter died... " he referred to his girl who died at birth-yes, tragedies do run rampant among the wealthy... "and now my son. And the only male heir is a... a... I don't know what."
The girl had heard of Peter's disappearance, but knew nothing of the note confirming the kidnapping. As she'd only met the boy a couple of times this past summer, she hadn't really gotten to know him, her only knowledge being that of household rumor among the staff.
"It can't be all that bad," she said, grasping his pencil by the shaft.
Madison said nothing more, wanting to escape his worries if only temporarily. His wife had been long since gone, not that they'd been particularly close, and now there was no one but young Peter, that troublesome burr in his side.
But now his mind was erased by the gently manipulations of Claudette's hand. She took his semi-flaccid tool in her hand, trying to ignore the fact that the grey flesh looked as dead as its owner, sprouting up long and thin from the white roots of his garden like a plant that had too little sun and had grown leggy.
But she was patient, and soon blood was filling the blue-corded prick, giving it enough stability to stand without a crutch. She moved her soft young lips down against the swelling senility of his ancient organ and began to blow on the mottled tip, cooing as she did so, talking baby talk in French to the cock.
Madison couldn't stand French, the language of his father, but he tolerated it from Claudette as she made it sound rather harmless. But to hear a Frenchman, one of those arrogant bastards on the streets of Paris, start expleting the nasal words made him practically ill. He often tried to forget his ancestry, preferring to think of himself as a creature apart from the rest of the world, which he nearly was. He hated the poor of all races and creeds unless they worked for him-American, Irish, Japanese. But he reserved a special circle in his inferno for the French-Christ, he hated those goddamned fucking frogs.
All except for the one who was blowing him. Her pliant lips made him forget all about his grandson and the nasty possibilities brought about by this kidnapping business. He folded his eyelids over his steely-gray eyes, running his arms out along the armrest. His mouth still held in its usual expressionless glower, though, slashing across his face as if a rubber band were attached to the edges and pulled tight back around his head. From the waist up, he looked very much like a living statue, a piece of history in limbo, a figure of dignity displayed in a war museum, his plain white shirt, the tie, the suit all in place. But the bottom half was denuded, the pants in a puddle around the oxford shoes as if they'd melted off the scarecrow legs. His gray prick alone was alive thanks to the life-giving efforts of the beautiful young maid who labored over him, her pink beauty the very antithesis of his wretched infirmity.
He made so little effort to involve himself in the drama, one would have sworn he was not a living thing. Yet, the girl was used to this. The man had actually thought himself gone to sexual waste, having had no sexual life at all during the previous five years, only to find it reawakened by this young piece of fluff, who had joined his staff only months ago. True, he wasn't able to expend much effort into the act, but the girl's overabundance of health and stamina seemed to compensate in this rather three-legged tango. She had even been able to work him up to the point where he could maintain a hardon long enough so that she could switch from her mouth to her pussy as receptacle if she hurried and didn't wait more than a few seconds between the time she let his thin stick drop from his mouth to the time she squatted atop him and sucked it into her snatch. The pencil didn't have enough lead left in it to stay exposed to the cold air for long, but with the proper ledger for it to write in, it could still manage to jot off a couple of lines, provided the entry was one well worth the making.
But today it would be the usual, and the girl bent to her task with a vengeance, her tongue sliding out between her fatty lips and licking at the eye of his needle, bent upon extracting a thin string of liquid thread from within. Her peaches-and-cream ass chibbled with her efforts, exposed to the air of the room as her dress rode up above her hips. But the man, whose venose and gnarled instrument she was sucking, made no move to touch her.
She moved her hand up and down the crooked shaft, exerting just enough pressure to send wave impulses to the ancient nerve ending. Once she had squeezed too hard, and the tool had gone flat on her.
With puckered lips, she took the semi-smooth head, the substance of which reminded her of a brain she had seen in an anatomy class when she went to le Acadamie that was creased with lesions across the spongy surface, into her mouth. Now that the man was so old, she figured, he probably couldn't pump enough blood into the mushroomed tip of his cock to fully inflate it.
With her hands jerking regularly up and down the shaft, she began to suck at the head between her pursed lips, her tongue trailing across the surface of the tip. She let out a light puff of air, and then sucked and tantalized the machine with her tongue, alternately sucking and blowing.
At this moment, Madison Le Grande let out a tremendous fart that was cushioned somewhat by the stuffed seat of the chair. It startled the girl only slightly as this had happened often in the past, the old man having lost some control over his bowels over the years. But she did try to breathe as little as possible, for the man's gastric disturbances had quite a fetid odor about it. It was impossible to breathe through her mouth, stuffed with cock as it was, so she invariably had to inhale a bit of the putrid gas, but after a couple of difficult breaths. Yet she kept at her task, not wanting to lose what favor the man showed her, which was in fact considerable when compared with most people-even the members of his family.
Madison, for his part, didn't bat a reptilian eye. While the gastric troubles had bothered him years ago when he first was plagued with them, he had long since reconciled himself to his fata morgana. As far as embarrassment went-he felt none, enjoying that privilege of the rich not to feel such need to apologize to those he felt his inferior, and that included practically everyone, from the lowest gutter tramp to heads of state.
Once the odoriferous cloud had passed into the elements, Claudette began to bob her head up and down the shaft more vigorously, her swelling breasts which threatened to pop out of her neckline at any moment, pressing against the old man's inner thighs. Her fingers worked their way down to his dangling balls, particularly musty-looking ornaments that hung loosely in fuzz-covered bags that looked like worn, bleached leather.
She stuck more and more of the slender spire into her pillowed lips with each bob of the head now, her fingers pulling at the base of the shaft in tandem until better than half of the prick was being administered to orally. She built up the rhythm of her headgiving, realizing that the man, if, indeed, he displayed a sign of life
although he displayed no outward signs of a coming orgasmitself) was about to make it. She
blew hard, and sucked harder, her cheeks puffing out with effort, droplets of sweat beading on her forehead.
And then he came... weakly, but he came. The first splash of the thin, watery gruel struck her tonsils, and she swallowed quickly, his feeble splashes of seminal fluid escaping down her throat. After several spurts, the stream ended abruptly, and the thin cock began to wither before she even had it out of her mouth. If one looked closely enough at Madison Le Grande's face, one could swear, despite the fact that he hadn't even so much as flinched during his orgasm, that he detected a slight upturning at the corners of his mouth, but if this were the case, it would have taken a da Vinci to have detected it-indeed the subtlety of his smile would have made the Mona Lisa look like a mugging, grinning idiot by comparison.
CHAPTER FOUR
Peter had gone through quite a few mental changes during the week he had been held captive in the farmhouse. When he was in the presence of Julia, or the other girls for that matter, all of whom were now putting him under their dominance, he was enthralled, completely captive to the situation. But when he was locked away in his room for the night, strapped to his bed with leather harnesses, he had time to contemplate his situation and began to wonder if he was losing his mind as a result of this captivity.
For the first time in his life, he was feeling guilt, yes guilt. The steady indoctrination that Julia was putting him through had led him to believe that he was at fault for having lived a life of depravity and shamelessness to date, and the feeling had begun to set in that he had brought the kidnapping upon himself, rather than his being a victim of blind fate.
Intellectually, he hadn't quite submitted to this doctrine, however, and the long nights, strapped naked to the twin bed in the sparsely furnished, locked bedroom, found him tossing about as much as his fetters would allow, wondering just what was happening to him. The thing that bothered him most, he had come to find, had little to do with his final outcome, as to whether or not he would be rescued from this plight.
While this was his ultimate thought, the mental pressure brought about by the constant enslavement at the hands of the four females (Anita having returned from Chicago after mailing the note) left his mind a complete jumble of emotions. From the astounding moment that he discovered his latent attraction to domination, his entire life underwent a radical change and all his life up until he was snatched from the streets of New York was rendered practically meaningless. It was as if his entire life drama were being played out in this remote farmhouse, suggesting to him that his life had no meaning until Julia and her companions endowed it with such.
What little snatches of news he caught from time to time from the radio sent a slapping recognition through him, welding him momentarily, at least, to his past. He had heard his mother's voice coming from the radio a few days back, imploring someone to give her news of her son. It sounded hypocritical to Peter that she who had exhibited so little concern for his feelings when he was at home now pleading for his return.
Julia had snapped the radio off angrily when she heard him listening and rewarded him with a couple of stinging cuts with a riding crop for his efforts, but not before he had ascertained that she hadn't heard of the kidnapping as of yet.
But when the headlines were splashed with the release of the kidnap note to the news media, Julia really saw red, slamming things about in her wrath.
"That old skinflint is fucking the whole thing up!" she fumed.
Indeed, he had gone against the warnings in the note. It seemed that a contact from some agency of the police had been able to persuade the man to release the information, despite the warnings to the contrary. The stories didn't exactly come out and say that the billionaire was cooperating with the police, but Julia was convinced that no matter what the media had to say about it, the authorities would be lurking somewhere in the background.
"The old bastard really cares for you, kid," she told Peter sarcastically. "With family like that, who needs any enemies?"
Most disturbing to Peter was the implication that his grandfather thought the whole thing might be a hoax. The old man had only said it in passing, but the news media had jumped upon it and had begun openly speculating on this possible twist of Peter's having arranged his own kidnapping, citing his bizarre behavior over the past few years. The implication left him seething, and whatever feelings he may have once had for the old geezer disappeared.
But after Julia had vented her anger upon him, having him kneel on a pile of hard beans for several hours until he thought he'd pass out, her former air of self-control returned as she speculated on the possibilities.
"At least he didn't say anything about the key part," Laura offered, scanning the paper as they sat around the kitchen table.
"I just hope he didn't tip the cops to that part," Julia offered, swigging down her coffee.
What Peter didn't know about the 'key' part was overlooked during the strain he was undergoing when affixing his own statement to the note, was that whenever his mother had the money, which was to be paid to her account from the Le Grande Lawyers she was to tip the kidnappers off in a statement to the press. He listened from the corner where he had been told to stand, facing the wall like a child, and ascertained that his mother was to make arrangements for delivering the money once she had it. The tip-off was the word 'Betty', that she was to slip into a statement to the press in an illusion to his old nanny, supposedly harking back to happier times when they were together. Once Julia heard this, she was to deliver him to some prearranged sight and make an exchange for the money, although the women didn't mention just how this transaction was to take place. If the police were watching his mother, Peter feared, they might bungle the whole thing, exactly the senti-ments of the kidnappers.
"I still don't like it," Julia mused. "Especially if the old fucker doesn't come across. A joke... shit, that's the same thing the kid thought when we first nabbed him. You must have some bunch of jokers in your family, Peter," she shot to his corner. "But if he doesn't get the money to her in a week... six days, it'll be a big joke on you."
Peter shuddered at the thought of this, the reality of the situation breaking into the fantasy enslavement he'd been undergoing. There could be no illusions about Julia's statement though-in spite of the games they'd been playing, this was a kidnapping for ransom after all.
When the conversation resumed, he was able to gather that they didn't really have an inside girl in Madison's estate, a fact that had been alluded to in their note.
"Too bad we don't," Yolanda put it, painting her long nails a blood red, "'cause then we could find out what the fuck's really going on."
"I'm sure the fucking police are checking out everybody over there," Julia surmised. "Even if we did have someone over there, they'd find her out and then they might blow the whistle on us. It's better this way, although I would like to know what's with that old bastard."
Once this was done with, Julia commanded Peter to come over and lick her toes. He'd been introduced to increasingly harder forms of punishment with each passing day, and to his astonishment, he found a strange force inside him caused him to enjoy these various forms of humiliation. No matter how he might question them when he was alone at night, the actuality of them never failed to turn him on, no matter how bizarre the treatments might be.
After licking the lint from between all the women's toes, he was taken to his room on the se-cond floor and strapped in for the night. Apparently the disheartening news had squelched their sexual appetites. Peter reflected on the fact that he had only been allowed to have one orgasm since that first night, and pondered over the puzzling reason that he found such a form of bondage so attractive, as he had every night. No matter how aroused he might become during a session of whipping or other humiliation, Julia would not allow him to relieve his own lusts, with the exception of one time. That was about the fourth night of his captivity when the woman allowed him to jerk off in his hand after undergoing a spanking, then forced him to eat his own come from his hand.
There was no possibility of his tossing himself off at night as his hands were strapped firmly to his sides. It was very difficult for him to try and sleep, much less jerk off, as he was accustomed to sleeping on his side. The fact that he couldn't move from the position on his back gave him a helpless feeling that bordered on total insecurity, especially when he realized that he couldn't have brushed a fly from his lip if one had landed on him. But there had only been a fly in the room one night, and it had only landed on his legs. Nevertheless, the torture was maddening as he lay awake half the night in anticipation of the fly's next move, its fearful buzzing growing so loud he felt his eardrums would burst when it flew around in the darkness.
Yet, for reasons that defied his imagination, he felt as if a great weight had been taken off him since he'd come under Julia's control. Somehow it was so much easier to accept the fact that he'd have to do no thinking when he awoke in the morning. It was as if he existed to serve and please only his captors.
The only real problem was the night. Locked and strapped away in omnipotent silence, the room grew loud with his own breathing. All this was a part of the plan, he realized feebly, so that he would look forward to the morning to the point that any form of attention would feel good, even if it came from Julia's springy riding crop.
The day after hearing about his grandfather's press release, Julia tested him to see just how far her training had gone. After lunch, she had the girls pretend to leave for a walk, allowing Peter to believe that he was alone in the house with just Julia. Puttering in the kitchen for a moment, she made sure the lad was watching her, then made to go upstairs, apparently forgetting him.
Peter felt his heart leap in his chest at this his first opportunity to be alone and unshackled in a week. While he was becoming more and more enslaved to the women's domination, this first glimpse at possible escape made him realize that the real game had to do with his survival, his very life. Cautiously, he crept to the open front door and stepped into daylight, he caught a glimpse of the open fields and prepared to run.
"Just as I thought!" Yolanda grabbed him by the arm, having appeared from behind a shrub, joined by the other two girls.
The shock of being trapped like this sent a quick - chill up his spine that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The girls grabbed him and hustled him inside, where an angry-looking Julia was waiting.
"You've let me down, Peter," she hissed coldly. "I suppose we'll just have to take sterner measures. Girls, take him down to the basement, I'm going to change my clothes."
He was hustled down to the cellar, the first time he'd ever been down there. He put up little resistance as they pulled him down the old wooden stairs and forced him inside a dark, damp room that presented itself behind a heavy wooden door at the foot of the stairs.
Anita flipped on a light, and Peter was confronted with a sight that seemed to be straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. The one window of the cellar had been boarded up heavily, so the only light came from a strong naked bulb that hung in the center of the room, casting sharp, exaggerated shadows along the floor and walls.
The floor was bare concrete, the walls large gray stones that looked cold. There was a steel table with leather straps across it in the center of the room, looking very much like an operating table. But the object that really caught his eye was a pulley contraption against the far wall. The pulley was suspended from the ceiling, and over its double runners were heavy chains. One end of the chains ran to a cranking mechanism on the wall, several feet to one side of the pulley. The other ends hung down against the wall, and were secured to two metal cuffs. Against the background of cool gray stones, the device looked like it belonged in a dungeon. To complete the furnishings, a rack hung from the adjoining wall and was well stocked with whips that made the leather paddle and riding crop he'd tasted over the past week seem like toys-long blacksnake whips, cat-of-nine's-tails, buggy whips with pointed tips of metal, an array, in short, that would have made the Marquis de Sade envious.
Anita and Yolanda dragged the frightened young man over to the wall, and Laura fastened the heavy metal cuffs to his wrists. And then, the striking blonde, went over and began turning the crank, the slack end of the chains becoming taut, forcing Peter to extend his arms well over his head. The metal chains made an ominous clanking sound as they tightened, and then Peter felt a tug at his shoulders. As the chains went higher, he was left with nowhere to go, his shoulders feeling as though they were pulled out of their sockets. He pushed himself up on his tiptoes to try and relieve the pain, but Laura continued to pull the creaking device until his toes left the ground, finally securing the crank when his toes were a couple of inches off the ground.
Then Anita and Yolanda wasted little time in stripping his clothing from him, which wasn't hard as he'd been wearing only his T-shirt and slacks and undershorts, the same outfit he'd been wearing when captured, his shoes having been taken away from him the first night, probably to discourage an effort on his part to escape on foot as he'd just so futilely tried to accomplish.
"Mon," Anita started in her Jamaican accent, having spent the first ten years of her life there, "I'd sure hate to be in your place."
'Too bad we won't get to see this," Laura laughed, "but we've got to go get groceries girls. I'll bet there'll be hair on those walls when we get back."
With that, the girls departed, leaving the nude boy suspended by the pulley. The cellar was cold, making his blood run cold, but he realized he'd be in for the hottest experience yet when Julia came down. His shoulders ached from the weight of his body, and he tried to swing himself up to the cold bricks of the wall for support, but his effort proved useless as the wall was several inches away.
The wait seemed intolerable, but it was actually only a few minutes until he heard Julia's heels clicking down the stairs, then echoing across the floor behind him.
"Now you'll learn what happens when you try to think for yourself," she told him, drawing a long cat-of-nine's-tails from the rack and swishing it menacingly through the air to test its weight. "I'd go ahead and kill you if I didn't still need you," she said, walking over behind him to take her position.
Peter tried to crane his neck around to see what was about to befall him, but it was impossible. Her threats, along with the cool dampness of the cellar made large goosepimples break out along his flesh, as he shivered in anticipation of the first blow.
The leather-clad dominatress measured the distance, then brought the whip lashing across his buttocks, making Peter yelp and strain against the chains, his feet now brushing against the wall as his body recoiled in pain. The leather whip left several red welts across his flesh.
WHOOSH-THUCK-this time the leather thongs cracked across his back sharply, feeling like tiny knives to the jerking boy.
"Remember this the next time you think of running off," Julia shouted, bringing the whip down across his squirming ass again, a tiny trickle of blood coming from one of the stripes it inflicted.
"And this!"
The whips curled around his legs, the tips catching the insides of his tender thighs, causing him to lunge towards the wall, swinging from his human swing as he was flailed.
The pain was unbelievable, and Peter cried out in utter agony. There was nothing erotic about this type of pain, only punishment. He could feel his back growing sticky, his head swirling as the whip landed again and again on his naked body. Finally, when he thought he'd die from the pain, he felt his eyes going dim, then merciful darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Peter awoke and blinked his eyes, aware of throbbing pain in his buttocks, arms and legs. How long it had been since he'd passed out was impossible for him to judge, as he was placed in a room that appeared to be a dungeon of sorts, perhaps located in the cellar, that let very little light inside, making it virtually impossible for him to tell if it was day or night. Only a bright sliver of light was able to slice under the crack between the heavy door and the floor, giving off just enough diffused light to the room so that he was able to barely make out a few shapes.
Just how long he'd been there he didn't know. Was it only days... or weeks? His eyes tried to bat away the darkness, but the painful nictitation yielded little after the first moment of awakening. Stiffly, he began to move about, attempting to stretch his muscles. But as he tried to move, he began to realize that something was hampering his efforts.
As he came to he realized that he was strapped to the table that he'd seen, the cold stainless steel chilling against his back. And then the whole scene came before him again and he recalled the whipping. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see the brutal pulley and chains against the far wall, the links of the chain glistening back what light it could reflect from the crack of the door.
As he tried to pull up, he winced in pain, his back practically sticking to the steel table. But he was strapped down tightly, and there would be no use in trying to get up. At least they could have tied him face-down, he grumbled, feeling the fresh wounds on his back, buttocks and legs. The smell of alcohol made him surmise that someone had probably bathed off his wounds recently, but it had done little to soothe the burning pain that vied with the aching in his strained shoulders for dominance.
He heard the sound of feet clicking down the stairs, the noise ricocheting off the bare walls. Then he heard a fumbling at the heavy door, saw the shadows of feet cut through the only light source, heard the rattle of the keys. Then the door swung open suddenly and the light clicked on, the intensity of the sudden flash too bright for his eyes to bear.
The person walked over slowly, and he was able to squint open his eyes to see that it was Laura. She was wearing only a garterbelt of a light tan material that fastened to dark finemeshed hose that accented her long, alluring legs. She had on high-heeled red pumps. Her pendulous breasts swung free and her blonde hair cascaded down towards them. From the flush on her face, it looked like she'd been recently participating in sex.
"How do you feel?" she asked with more concern than she'd displayed to this point.
"Alright, I guess," he told her. "It still hurts."
"She was a little rough on you," she conceded, leaning with one hand on the table. "I tried to clean off the wounds, but it wasn't easy. She insisted that you be strapped onto your back anyway... I guess as a sort of reminder to watch it in the future."
"How long have I been here?"
"Since yesterday," she shrugged. "Anyway she had to go off and take care of some business... had to use a phone or something. She's getting pretty antsy about not hearing anything from your mother or your grandfather or something, so she left us in charge."
Peter was a little surprised at the open manner in which the girl was speaking, almost as if she were growing tired of the whole gameplan. Still, he was cautious, the pain in his back being a result of the last time he thought the captors were letting their guards down.
"Poor, poor baby," she pouted, running a hand over his head sympathetically. "She said I could bring you upstairs if you came around. You must be getting hungry."
Actually, food was the farthest thing from his mind at the moment, but he'd give anything to be away from this cold dungeon, so he nodded in agreement, still somewhat amazed at the girl's sudden candor. He supposed that she was letting her guard down a bit now that the boss lady was out, but he still didn't trust her all that much.
"You went to college didn't you?" she said, trying to make idle conversation.
"Harvard," he replied blankly, realizing that the fall term would be starting pretty soon and wondering if he'd be there to join his classmates.
"I went to college once," she went on wistfully. "Nothing fancy like Harvard though. Just a small junior college out on the West Coast-Los Angeles. Edgar College. Ever heard of it?"
He shook his head negatively.
"It doesn't matter," she continued, shifting her weight so that her breasts jiggled seductively. "- Nobody's ever heard of it."
She caught herself, a shock passing over her beautiful features. She'd said too much. "Listen, forget I ever told you that... ah... actually I just made that up. You know that we're all using fictitious names."
But from the way he looked at her, she knew that he'd seen through her slip.
"Don't worry," he tried to reassure her, hoping that she wouldn't snap back into her militant role. "I'll never say anything... if I ever get out of this."
"I sure hope you do, kiddo," she smiled. "I really don't know what the hell's up. Julia's all uptight about the way everything's been going. I'm not even sure what she plans to do with you."
The reality of the possibility chilled Peter. Even though he was strangely attracted to the domination of the silver-haired woman, the episode that occurred yesterday had scared him, making him wonder if the woman had all her marbles. The brutal whipping had only brought fear to him and impressed upon him the true gravity of the situation. But here was a weak link, he deduced, unless this girl was a better actress than he'd been able to detect.
He still didn't want to press her too far though, for he realized that she was involved in the whole thing up to her pretty neck. Even those big boobs wouldn't keep her afloat if their plan backfired. Even though she had been the least hostile towards him, he feared her strength. And although she might be somewhat a mush-heart, he knew that if the chips came down to it, she'd be scrambling to save her own neck first, like anybody with any intelligence at all would do.
But aside from the bravado she'd shown during the capture and occasional displays to impress Julia, Laura had only acted under orders, the good soldier. There was something about her that kept her from being as cruel at Julia... or Yolanda for that matter, who seemed to delight in punishing him even when Julia wasn't around. Oh, she could get into spanking games, but she liked sex in other ways, he felt. Just looking at her, he felt a rekindling of a sexual desire he hadn't felt since the first night at this hideaway, one that didn't involve the kinky games that he'd grown to want. He wondered if straight sex would still be enjoyable to him as he gazed at her lush boobs.
"How'd you get involved in this... I mean, not all the details, I know you can't tell me that. I just wondered why you'd go to such a risk."
"Desperation, what else?" She shrugged her shoulders and gave a pitiful smile. "I knew Anita in college, and I got hard up and came here when my marriage broke up. Mot up with Anita again, and she clued me in on the job. I need the bread, and Anita's been working for Julia. This thing comes up and I hassle my mind about, then finally have to go with it. I got stuck with all the debts from my ex's Karate Studio when he split, and I need the bread, that simple... oh, shit, I'm talking too fucking much. If Julia ever found out, she'd kill me for sure."
"She won't," Peter winked, surprised that he could feel compassion for a captor.
That's why she was so aggressive whenever Julia was around-she had to prove herself. She went on to tell him that she didn't know Yolanda that well, but that she'd been working for Julia some time, in just what capacity she thought best not to tell him.
"I wonder about her," she confided in a whisper, looking around to make sure the walls weren't bugged. "She seems to get as big a kick out of the torture stuff as Julia. Shit, if I'd have known it was going to turn out this way, I probably wouldn't have gotten into this in the first place. But Julia wanted girls who knew the martial arts, and she's paying well enough for it."
"What about Anita?" he pressed her.
"She's okay... but she always has gone in for the kinkier aspects of sex. She's the one who turned me onto girl-girl sex. But mostly she's in this for the money just the same as me."
She again felt that she'd gone too far, but Peter reassured her that he wouldn't bring it up as it would be foolish for both their sakes. But he did feel closer to the tall blonde at this point.
"So you don't go in for the torture bit?" he smiled, trying to change the subject.
"Oh, I don't know," she cooed playfully, running a long fingernail over his bare stomach, sending strong messages to his brain. "How's this for a torture? A guy, completely jaybird naked is strapped to a table laying on his back. He can't move, he's totally helpless. And a tall, sexy blonde tortures him out of his mind by giving him head."
Peter got the point, feeling a surge of blood flow to his cock in anticipation of a nice surprise.
"But you've got to promise not to say anything," she said seriously. "You're not supposed to get off under any circumstances-Julia would be so pissed! But I feel kind of sorry for you going without sex all week. Especially after you get so worked up. It must drive you out of your mind. And I've just been working out with Anita and Yo. Well girls are great, but I like to get it on with a guy every now and again just to keep me straight. So long as you don't say anything."
He nodded an eager agreement, then lay back and waited for the torture to begin as there was noplace else for him to go anyway.
She bent over the table, her long blonde hair spreading out across his thighs and began kissing him all around the tender pubic area, causing his hairs to stand on end. As he watched her, he felt sort of sorry that he was tied down like this as he would have loved to get his hands on those ripe melons of hers, the nipples now growing under the excitement of performing the duty, resembling the shape of a cigar ash, round plateaus that were flat on the crown, reddish-brown in color and just begging to be sucked upon.
But maybe he'd get that chance later, he decided, realizing that he was enjoying these bound ministrations just the same. His cock had loaded up with pulsating blood upon feeling the soft kisses Laura was bestowing upon his crotch, and he was somewhat relieved to realize that he could still be turned on in this manner.
"Oh wow," he found himself saying when her lush lips touched his prickhead, but she silenced him by motioning towards the ceiling with her eyes, indicating that it wouldn't be too good a thing if the other girls overheard them.
He bit his lips, sucking them inside his mouth, making the best silent appreciations of her efforts as he could manage. As he felt the heat once again pounding in his loins, he smiled down at the blonde as she munched his stabber into her sloppy mouth and munched merrily on it, then blew, then sucked, her hands playing with his sackful of nuts and the base of his cock.
It had been a long time since he'd come, and he felt the temperature rising fast. After all, he'd been worked up so many times to near completion this past week, then left hanging high and dry. No wonder he'd probably be coming fast. But he didn't want to blow it all that quickly, so he began trying to disassociate himself from the present, letting a string of long forgotten batting averages run through his head. This attempt was short lived, however, for Laura's slurping mouth was not to be ignored.
She really got off to giving the head, so long it had been since she'd polished one off. Her head bobbed up and down furiously as she bent over him, and she ran one of her hands down to her furry grotto and began rubbing herself off, the other still gripping his cock in a chokehold.
The swelling and pounding in his guts couldn't be denied and he moved himself as much as possible on the table, his sore back reminding him of yesterday. But Laura's lapping mouth overcame even that, as she slurped and snorted, her hand still rubbing furiously at her clit. It was a good thing that she was all sopped up down there or else the friction might have started a forest fire.
Finally, Peter stiffened, his teeth clenched tight to stifle his groans, and he let lose a great gusher of come that exploded off her tonsils. But this only egged her on as she pounded at the base of his pud with her hand, and bobbed her head up and down the slippery slide, swallowing as fast as she could, a thick trickle of his white juice running out of the corner of her mouth in spite of her efforts.
She sucked him dry, until his prick began to soften, and she finally reached her big 0, her knees buckling under her as her hand rubbed her clitty. She let out a small squeal as she came that was muffled by his cock.
"Laura," came a sharp call from the top of the stairs. "Laura."
They'd made it just in time. Shocked into reality, Laura wiped her mouth. "Coming right up... he just came around."
She quickly unbuckled the leather straps and he rose painfully off the table, his back peeling off the stainless steel surface. It was great to have come, but the idea of going back to the zoo upstairs rendered his pleasure short-lived. He winced as he swung his legs over the edge to the floor, rotating his shoulders to ward off the deep ache that had settled there.
"Poor thing," Laura cooed as she looked over his welted back. "At least they've closed."
Peter was glad he didn't have to look at his back. If it looked half as bad as it felt, it would be a wonder if there was still any skin on it. He looked around for his clothes, but Laura informed him that Julia wanted him kept nude for the time being, hiding his clothes away so he wouldn't get any ideas of trying to run off.
"Shit," he smiled. "She thinks that would stop me. I could just say I was streaking. A striped streaker," he smiled reaching around to finger the weals on his back.
"Just don't let on like anything happened," she reminded him as he slipped to the floor. "Oh, I almost forgot." She went over by the door and picked up a leather collar of black, similar to that a dog would wear. It was attached to a thin chain leash.
"You're supposed to wear this from now on," Laura shrugged apologetically.
"She sure is hung up on leather and chains," Peter commented, allowing her to put the symbol of this stage of his bondage on. He didn't much relish the idea of going back into the subservience after having had a taste of relatively free-form lovemaking so recently. He felt foolish as Laura led him up the stairs, but remembered to play the proper role, not wanting to tip the others off.
"Oooooo, lookie at the nice doggie," Anita teased when he was led into the living room.
The circus was on once again. Anita and Yolanda had been playing some games of their own, from what it looked like, reaffirming Laura's hints about them. Anita, her whippy chocolate body, covered with oil that made it shine was wearing hip-high white vinyl boots that contrasted perfectly with her skin, and caused Peter to lust inwardly. She had a belt made out of the same white vinyl strapped around her waist. She had a black leather belt in her right hand, that slapped lightly against her thigh menacingly, as Laura pulled him over to be closer to the other girls. He noted that the thick belt was studded with metal brads, and he hoped that the ominous-looking weapon wouldn't be used on his so recently whipped hide.
Yolanda was wearing her black boots, stockings and garterbelt and nothing more. She got up and went around to check out his wounds and Anita followed suit.
"That's no doggy," Yolanda laughed, her sharp teeth flashing, "that's a zebra. Just check out those stripes."
"Oooo, mon. You're right," the black girl agreed, walking around him to check the damages.
He tried to avoid Laura's eyes, ashamed that she was seeing him in this role. He noted with surprise that Yoland's high-cheeked ass was reddened and discolored, some slight blue dots pebbling the red. He guessed correctly that this was a result of the wicked-looking belt that Anita held, and he hoped she wouldn't get any ideas. So Yolanda liked getting it as well as dishing it out? He wondered silently what kind of games she and Julia played.
"Hey," Anita announced in her sing-song dialect. "Julia missed some spots on this here boy. I guess I'd better touch him up."
He started to protest, but thought better of it when Anita took the leash from Laura and gave it a sharp tug, causing him to tumble to the carpet.
"Now you crawl over here like a good doggy and take good care of Miss Yolanda, you hear? She just had a hurting put on her and you've got to make her feel all better."
The strange thing, Peter realized as he crawled towards the redhead, was that the same feeling of helpless ecstasy was growing within him again. Just what flicked this switch on he couldn't tell, but even though his conscious mind might rebel against it whenever he wasn't in the situation, the presentation of the same domination clicked it back on. It seemed to operate on an even deeper level than his normal sexual libido... it was all too confusing.
Yolanda had seated herself on a low footstool in front of the fireplace, spreading her legs wide so that he could service her orally. Anita stood over him as he crawled up to the waiting snatch that was sheltered with dark auburn short and curlies, the black threatening him with that terrible looking belt.
As he came face-to-pussy with Yolanda, Anita gave him a sharp slap on the ass with the belt, reigniting the fires in his tortured buttocks, but this didn't take away from the thundering sensation he felt growing in his loins. As he dipped his lips into the furry patch, Anita gave him a lighter thwack, slackening off with the chain so his head could be free to service Yolanda. But even the light flicks hurt as the studs bit into his flesh, ripping at the tender weals raised by Julia's whip the previous day.
Luckily, Anita only gave him a few more token lashes as he buried his nose into the damp, wriggling forest of Yolanda's snatch and ran his tongue deep into her dripping gash. As he went about the task, he realized that he could get a sexual thrill out of domination from someone other than Julia, but he didn't have much time to reflect on it as he busily licked away at the hot twat.
His prick was stiff as a board as he munched hungrily at the twisting gorge, pacing himself between the tiny pink clit and the pussy itself. As she reached her mark, Yolanda beat on his shoulders, Anita giving him another sharp whack with her belt. His only regret, one that he was growing used to, was that nobody returned the favor, and his cock throbbed untouched between his legs. Maybe all that with Laura had only been a dream.
CHAPTER SIX
Paula Le Grande was bearing up well for a woman whose son had been kidnapped so recently, her statements to the press nonwithstanding. She was locked in an embrace with one her friends, Mrs. Hamilton Farnsworth, better known as Bob- bi. Paula had gone to school with Bobbi, and it was this very woman who introduced her to lesbian sex as a sorority sister at the Tri Ep house. She had married a wealthy industrialist, not nearly so wealthy as her own husband, and had settled in New York. While in Europe, Paula had missed Bobbi, longing for the kisses the blonde woman could tantalize her with as she lay faking it in the arms of her husband.
One of the big reasons she'd opted to return to New York was for Bobbi, although she didn't let this information out to anyone else. She'd only been able to get it on with Bobbie a couple of times during the past ten years, on quick trips to the city and that wasn't nearly enough.
But now, she was renewing her friendship, locked in a loving embrace called sixty-nine atop her furry bedspread of her king-sized bed. She had given her maid and cook the day off, leaving her to an afternoon of fun with Bobbi. The whole thing was made easier by the fact that her son had been kidnapped and couldn't come barging in unexpectedly. She could hardly preach to him about morality if he caught her eating another woman's pussy.
The whole kidnapping escapade had her worried. Her fucking father-in-law hadn't bitten. Although she had to feign a liking for him to get to her ends, she hated doing it, even by long distance. But the old asshole just hadn't bought it, and he hadn't forwarded the money to her account as the note from the kidnappers demanded. And besides that, he'd gotten the police involved somehow. Oh, that was to be expected. It had been Paula herself who'd first went to the police, but she urged them to back off in the interest of her son's safety. But she had the sneaking hunch that old Le Grande had pulled the cops in on the whole thing, though he wouldn't admit it to her over the phone. He just told her to keep in touch for the latest developments, leaving her strung out as to just when, if ever, he'd pop for the million. And the F.B.I, had come snooping around, and more newsmen. It was all too much.
On top of that, her new friend, the one who ran the art gallery was away. Her lovemaking was even better than Bobbi's, but she never let on to Bobbie that it was.
For now, Bobbi's cunt sucking was the greatest. It took her cares away from the frustrations of dealing with the press and the police, and worrying about her son. It's too bad Peter hadn't been a girl, but knowing that chauvinist of a father-in-law, he probably wouldn't have set up a trust fund so generous had his only heir been a girl. But when it came to sex, she wished more men were women.
Never once in her life had Paula had an orgasm with a man. Of course, her husband was the only man she'd ever been to bed with, but he'd been enough to convince her that the only reason they'd been there in the first place was to make Peter. And now he was giving her trouble-just like a fucking man. After Peter was born, she turned her husband away more often than not, enduring his crude lovemaking only often enough to keep him. She wanted to hold onto the money, so they kept up a front. He probably had affairs with women during his travels, she figured, and she was able to arrange a few lesbian trysts around London, but they were barely enough to compensate for her lifestyle. Aside from the smaller income, which was still generous, she was glad that Harold had crashed and burned in the airplane.
Her father, a staid New Yorker banker had been the first man to turn her against men in general. He was a stern man who frequently impressed his straightlaced ideas on her with the back of a hairbrush, even when she was sixteen. She viewed her father as a closet sadist, taking out his lust on his own daughter by baring her bottom and tossing her over his knee, then whacking her with the hairbrush until she couldn't sit down. She'd gotten onto his game by the time she was about fourteen. He was wailing away at her crimson butt with the brush, when she'd bumped against something stiff and hard that stuck up from his trousers.
She was glad for Bobbi at this moment, glad that her tongue could lick away all the problems for the time being. She spread out with her dark bobbed hair towards the headboard as her blonde friend lunched on her pussy, her own twitching pussy hanging over Paula's mouth as Bobbie straddled her face and bent over to lap away. Their large breasts mashed against each other's skin, Bobbie's huge orbs smashing down against Paula's sweating tummy; while Bobbie's thighs rubbed against the sides of her own tits.
Her mouth sought out the charms of the V- shaped pussy that hovered over her, jiggling and oozing as the other woman moved to suck out her beehive. The cunt spewed out droplets of sweet vagina juice as she ate away, the large twin spheres of ass jutting out over her.
Now she sought out the hot button of love and lolled it around in its fleshy pillow that set Bobbi to moaning, the hum of her lips sending hot currents reverberating through her own clit. She giggled devilishly and spread the bum cheeks further apart, then ran her tongue up the furrow and prodded at her friend's asshole, bringing a nice response from her for her efforts.
And then she felt a sharp stab at her own asshole, as her friend ran her sharp-nailed finger up the sputtering passageway, browning her as she continued to lap the clit. Paula tried to match the effort, gripping the woman more tightly, curling up her tongue and rimming her asshole good, a deep scent of funk permeating her nostrils. Meanwhile, Bobbi continued to ream her asshole with her finger, making her guts clench and unclench as she marched on towards her goal.
She could feel the sweat trickling down her sides and legs, only to drop on the fur of the bedspread. She worked her hips to facefuck Bobbi's unceasing mouth, wriggling up so that her friend's finger had her skewered.
She moved her own tongue back down the damply-matted hairs of Bobbi's pussy, thrusting her tongue, swordlike, in and out of the gaping hole. Then she moved her head up and through a liplock around the elusive yoni, biting it firmly between her teeth as her tongue flopped it violently about, threatening to dislodge again.
She felt her body begin to melt as the heat from her asshole and pussy began to spread, sending thrilling tingles racing through her nerveways. It was about time... but no, Bobbie had beaten her to it this time, prodded over the edge by her own mighty lips and tongue. Bobbi squealed in delight, sounding like an impaled pig, but the moans only hummed her pussy all the better. Finally wave after wave of pleasure swept over her, lifting her gently off the bed, then smashing her down on the shore.
"Mmmmm, that was good, lover," Bobbi smiled at her after a bit. "Say, I've got to be going. Ham will be home in less than an hour."
Her eyes widened as she viewed the bedside clock, and she sprang into action, her butt and tits jiggling as she retrieved her scattered clothing- they'd been at it for four hours, not to mention the hour preamble in which Bobbi felt it necessary to talk about the kidnapping. Paula had held up through it all, though she was really sick of it all... but then, Bobbie didn't know what was really going on.
Just then the phone rang, and Paula reached over to the bedside table to answer it, her eyes lazily looking at Bobbie as she pulled on her dress. Then her eyes sparked as she recognized the voice on the other end.
"I told you not to call me here," she hissed, trying to keep her voice in control so that Bobbi wouldn't hear. "Just a sec," and she covered the receiver with her other palm, screwing on her best face to try and hide her sudden anger. "Listen, Bobbi, it's been swell. Got a call, see you later."
She waved goodbye to her friend and waited until she heard the front door slam, then uncupped the phone.
"You're not supposed to call me here."
"I couldn't help it. From the news everything seemed so screwed up," came the voice from the other end.
"This could be bugged."
"Shit, you really think so?"
"I doubt it. They're not onto me, but that fucking Maddy's fucking everything up. Got the cops coming around and all that shit. He just didn't buy the kidnapping. As long as you've called me we won't wait around for the rest of the week. We'll just have to go ahead with plan B."
"Whew... you sure?"
"You've got the doctor's number... go ahead and call him, he'll know what to do. That old fart over in France isn't going to buy it unless we do it that way. He needs something really convincing. What's the matter, you losing your nerve at this stage of the game?"
"No... no," came the voice, "I just didn't think we'd have to go through with this part."
"Well, it seems to be necessary. How's Peter taking everything so far?"
"You'd be amazed. Your son's a regular masochist."
"What?" Paula was startled.
"I know, it surprised me too. But I guess he was a closet case. It just came out when I started lambasting his ass the first time."
"Well," Paula hesitated, "at least he'll be better prepared for what's in store for him next."
"Listen, I didn't really think it would have to go this far. What about the police and all?"
"We can't turn back. Besides, this is the only way the old fucker's going to come across, I'm convinced of it. Once he gets the next surprise package, he'll get the money to me in a hurry. And the beautiful part is, even if the cops are watching me, they'll never see me make a delivery. You just let Peter go a week after I give the signal. Then you get the money later-very safe. They'd never suspect me. But the best part will be when Maddy sees how well-behaved Peter will be when he gets back. Then there won't be any more talk about stopping his trust fund, you can bet on it. Okay, Julia, you've got work to do."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Peter was in heaven, though you could have been fooled. Anita and Yolanda had decided to let him make it after all, having been aroused by the action that had taken place earlier that afternoon in the living room. While their intentions were not so altruistic as Laura's had been in the cellar, the pair had conspired and decided to let Peter ball them. But they didn't come to their decision for Peter's sake. They were horny for cock.
They checked with Laura to see if it was alright with her, not knowing that she had so recently sucked him off, and she gave her okay.
"But we can't let Julia know," Yolanda added, reclining seductively on the couch, enjoying the after effects of her orgasm so recently provided by Peter's tongue, "And that goes especially for you, twerp," she pointed threateningly at him. "Not one word."
Peter agreed, nodding his head submissively, trying to hide his delight at getting a crack at the other girls. Even though he had no feelings for anyone but Laura, he'd gotten so worked-up from eating out Yolanda, he just couldn't control his rising need.
"I know you're not as horny for the cock as I am, Yo Anita began, "what with just having your pussy eaten out by this fine boy... "
"Go ahead, go ahead, "Yolanda smiled. "But why don't you take him upstairs? That way we can keep a watch in case the old lady comes back early."
Peter eagerly followed the black girl up the stairs, thrilling at the way her sleek well-oiled ass- cheeks popped and bounced in front of him. The collar had been discarded, and he was glad of that for it had chafed his neck. He was also glad to see that Anita had left her paddle downstairs. His ass was sore enough.
She pointed the way into the bedroom where he'd been kept before his night in the cellar, and he went inside. He saw that they hadn't done a very good job of hiding his clothes. They were neatly folded atop the dresser.
"You'd better do me good, boy," Anita told him, motioning towards the bed. "Yolanda doesn't really go for guys all that much, so you might say the whole thing was my idea. I really miss feeling a hard cock throbbing up inside my pussy. What the old lady don't know won't hurt her."
Peter sat on the edge of the bed, wincing a bit as his buttocks made contact with the spread. Anita moved towards him the feline grace of a big cat, her umber skin glistening in the afternoon light that peeked in through the shuttered windows.
"What's that oil for?" he asked absently.
"It's so folks like you will ask a lot of dumb questions," she scolded lightly. "Actually I use it to condition my skin. I sort of like the way it looks too."
"It's great," he replied, attempting to get on her good side.
But he soon found out that Anita wasn't much of a talker, before, during or after sex. It made him feel good to at least know what little history about her that Laura had provided, especially since she didn't know that he knew, what with her not wanting to provide any information on her own account.
It didn't really matter, he realized as she moved up to grind her pussy into his face. He'd never made it with a black girl before, and he found that the prospect was all that his cock needed to begin rising. He ground his face into her curly pussyhairs and began to lick at her ebony thighs and belly, grasping her firmly by her tight hips.
"I don't want you to eat me all the way there," she instructed. "I want to finish off with that cock of yours up me. I'll let you know when."
He breathed in the strong scent of her pussy that mingled with the scented oil that covered her skin. Her ass was a bit slippery and kept sliding out of his hands, which became covered with the emollient as the girl stood in front of him and shoved her pussy at his face.
It soon became apparent to both of them that this wouldn't work too well, as her legs couldn't spread out wide enough to accommodate his tongue properly. Anita took the initiative, pushing the boy down onto the bed, then climbing atop him. But then she found that it was hard to kneel properly with the hip-length boots on.
"Help me get these off, slave," she ordered, somewhat annoyed that the rhythm of their pre-coital lovemaking had been destroyed. But the long boots were soon pulled off, and the girl had Peter lay on his back while she sat on his face, balancing her weight on her thighs and hands as she pushed her cunt to him.
Peter, whose meat had swollen to gigantic proportions, eagerly serviced her. He found the way between her thick labial folds and began exploring the depths with his tongue, Working it in and out of her snatch until the juices began to escape from her cunt.
He worked his way up to her dark pink clit and bobbed at it with his tongue before sucking it in between his lips. The girl squirmed with delight as he did her, and it seemed like no time at all before she pulled away.
"Put that pecker in me, Peter, and let's boogie!"
So saying, she scooted down to hover her pussy over his shaft, grasping it with one hand, while she steadied herself on the bed with the other. Her spread cuntlips eased down over his prickhead like a slab of liver and soon gobbled it up. She began working her ass up and down over his shaft, running her sharp nails over his chest as she fucked him. He didn't have to do much work in this position, but he humped his hips up off the mattress to keep time with her fucking, his eyes taking in the beauty of her small, but firm titties. He had a sudden urge to grab the orbs, so he lifted one hand away from her hips and began tweaking at the stiff nipples as they balled.
Anita was enjoying maximum penetration, and it felt really good for Peter to sink his cock into warm pussyflesh for the first time in weeks, or at least it seemed like it. A blowjob was great, but there was nothing like feeling his prick inside a steaming cunt.
Anita worked her hips in a circular fashion to change the tempo of balling, then switched back to the up and down bouncing, her vaginal muscles snapping open and shut to give the boy a better fuck.
He could feel his hot load of bubbling semen cooking inside his nuts as the smooth asscheeks of Anita pounded down against them on the downthrusts. His prick sliced in and out of her juiciness, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he got it off.
But she had a head start on him, and was going off into a wild abandoned orgasm, her face screwed up tight in ecstasy, her mouth blurting out little cries of passion that almost sounded like laughter. She was really bounding atop him now, so he threw both arms around her hips tightly, not wanting her to buck off. The sleek hips slipped through his fingers, smoothed by the oil, as he felt his first hot gusher go shooting up into her. Her pussy fluttered when he shot off his rabid load, the sprays rising against her pussy walls, then sliding back down until they emerged from her cunt, cooled by the air as they cascaded stickily down into his crotch.
After they had rested for a short period, Anita thought it best to go back downstairs to see what was happening. On the way out, he grabbed his shorts and slipped them on, not really knowing why he did so, but somehow it just seemed like a good idea to have them with him.
When they got downstairs they found Laura and Yolanda locked in a sixty-nine embrace on the floor. Laura had switched into a white leather outfit-pumps, hose, garterbelt and gloves. They hadn't exactly decided on a position yet, and they rolled around on the floor, lapping hotly at each other's cunts.
"I told you she'd rather do it with girls," Anita told him.
Then, much to his dismay, she spied the collar and leash lying on the floor. She had him sit on the couch as she fastened it around his neck, then went out to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Peter felt himself getting hard as he watched the two Amazons battle for position in front of him, their mouths acting like magnets as they ate each other out. He had just about worked up his hopes for getting a shot at sticking his cock into one of them, or even both of them, when he heard the car pull up the drive. Anita, having been alerted by the sound of the car rushed out and slapped the two perspiring girls on their rumps.
"Party's over," she announced.
Peter hung his head. It had hardly begun.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Seeing Julia for the first time since she'd whipped him so cruelly, gave Peter a start, but he was surprised that she didn't seem to command his attention right off. No, it seemed that her face was trying to fight back some sort of concern or something. It became apparent that she'd had some sort of contact with someone involved in the plans. For the first time since that first night, he again was struck with the notion that he'd seen her before... but he couldn't place her exactly.
She was whispering to the girls who had gathered around him. All he could pick up was something about a plan B, or something like that, and that the doctor would be here in the morning. He noted that Laura's face, which so recently had been flushed during her sexual bout with Yolanda, had visibly gone pale, and she glanced nervously over at him from time to time, filling him with more anticipation.
Something was up, but he had no idea what. Who was the doctor? Probably a code name for a man, perhaps the leader of the whole gang. Surely she couldn't mean a medical doctor, not an M.D. Perhaps they planned to kill him-no, that couldn't be. How could it be such a big deal. Unless the radio had picked up his mother's 'Betty', statement while he was out of it in the cellar... but now, there'd been no mention of it from Laura. Unless she'd been left out of it informationwise. Maybe that's why she was so pale.
But his rampaging mind was soon stopped as Julia stepped over to him, her air much less demanding than before, almost motherly in nature.
"Peter, I want you to stand up and turn around. Let's see how your back looks today."
God, he couldn't believe all this concern-first Laura, and now Julia, his chief tormentor. He turned and showed her his wealed back, and she bit her lips nervously, almost apologetically, at least for her. But she regained her composure and told him calmly: "I'm sorry I had to whip you so hard yesterday, Peter, but you earned it and I just got carried away from my anger. You were coming along so well. Let that be a warning to you never to try such a foolish fucking thing in the future, do you understand?"
He nodded meekly, not sure where all this was leading.
"I don't like having to take such extreme measures, but sometimes they are necessary. I want you to remember this whenever something similar happens in the future. It's all a part of your training, and you'll benefit from it in the long run, you'll see."
The idea of training and everything seemed so strange to him. This was much more than a plain garden-variety kidnapping, he'd realized that for some time. But he merely thought the woman was venting her sadistic streak on him as long as she had him at her disposal. Now, he got a strange feeling that he was being trained for something that would take place after he was released... but at least, he breathed a sigh of relief, the very implication of the idea would mean that they weren't planning to kill him at least. Not that he could be sure of it, but that's the way it all seemed to be happening. Could it be that old Madison had finally come through with the money, that they would be releasing him soon. Maybe it had all been a simple way of the woman getting her sadistic jollies in the bargain with the ransom. Now that they were about to let him go, they felt a bit of guilt about their behavior. He understood enough about the phenomenon by now to realize that the sadist could feel guilt as well as the masochist-particularly when they'd overstepped the careful limits that must be established with this dangerous diversion.
But there was something about Julia's manner that did suggest that this form of degradation would go on in the future. But where? How? Would these ladies take the money and keep him besides? Or would they turn him over to some other underworld group? For the first time, he considered the far-out notion that Madison Le Grande himself may have been behind the whole scheme. Perhaps the old codger had rigged this so he could be spirited away secretly into a life of slavery. But that was too far-fetched an idea, the old paranoia striking deep. It was probably a reaction to the fact that his grandfather had accused the boy himself of possibly engineering such a cover for a more nefarious scheme. Little did he know at that moment, just how dangerously close to the gist of the matter both he and his grandfather had come in their far-ranging observations and conjectures.
But try as he may, young Peter could only come up with more question marks to this new turn of events. After all, who could these people be training him for... his mother? That was ludicrous. She was such a prude she'd probably never heard of the types of things he'd been going through at the expense of his name. To believe in the worst, of his being killed seemed almost a relief. At least it closed out the alternatives. Not that he would really prefer to die. But whatever had been touched off inside him by his sudden recognition of his will to be dominated was closely akin to the same feeling. He felt uncomfortable trying to think now that he'd experienced this phenomenon. Let somebody else do his thinking for him from now on and hope for the best.
So he tried to put all this talk of the doctor, and plan B out of his mind, giving into the commanding presence of the woman overwhelm him. And he was really in for a surprise when she told him: "Just to show you that a good obedient slave can sometimes have rewards given to him as well as punishments, I'm going to let you go to bed with me after dinner. You'd like that wouldn't you dear? I'll even let you come right inside my big pussy."
This was getting out of hand, he thought, but he felt his reason giving way under the baleful stare of the woman just the way it always did. It would be fun to do things to this woman. He'd never done it with such a mature lady, a woman probably about the same age as his mother.
And so, after dinner had been cleared away, he was sent to his bedroom, Anita dragging him by his chain to prepare for the orgy. He still couldn't figure out just what the woman was trying to make up for, but the thought of getting to come again was predominant in his mind. After all this denial, this would be his third fuck today, counting the blowjob from Laura.
Anita winked at him, reminding him that he shouldn't mention the party they'd had this after-noon to Julia as they didn't want to push their luck.
"Oh, don't worry Miss Anita," he assured her, "I want the pussy too bad."
Only a short week ago he'd been carrying on philosophical arguments with his friends, and now he was reduced to talking like a slave.
When Julia entered, wearing the familiar black costume-the black skirt, the black garterbelt and stockings and the high-heeled boots. However, she wore no panties as she was ready for action. The confining sling of black leather that encased her tits made them more exciting to Peter, and also compensated for the tendency for the huge orbs to sag, but they weren't bad for her age.
"All set, Peter?" she asked.
"Yesss mistress," he told her, remembering to put in the proper titles for fear that he wouldn't be allowed to carry out the balling.
He noted that Laura, still wearing the white leather outfit, had come into the small bedroom along with Yolanda. The redhead was dressed differently that he'd ever seen her before. She had on a tightly-laced black leather corset that fit right under her enormous boobs. Jesus, did she have tits. Too bad she was a lesbian, he thought. The corset forced her boobs to jut out straight from her chest giving her the build of a Cadillac. He noted that the corset didn't quite lace up all the way on her big frame-it was probably designed with a smaller woman in mind.
Nevertheless, the way the laces that crisscrossed her back made an interesting pattern across the inch or so of bare back between the two edges of the corset itself. Her skin puffed out and dimpled where the laces bit into her flesh. There was a garter attachment at the bottom of the corset that went down the outsides and insides of her thighs. Attached to them were sheer black net stockings -that curved down, clinging to the silky- smooth legs, until they disappeared into the spike heel boots.
But his attention was quickly averted to Julia, who sat down on the bed and spread her legs, bunching the leather skirt above her hips. She pointed to her prominent pussy and he fell to the floor in front of her, recognizing that oh so familiar odor. He'd been called on to eat her big pussy many times over the week, but this time would be different as he'd get to sink his dick into her later.
The smell of the leather mixed with the strong odor of her crotch. He liked the smell and feel of leather, and hoped they'd let him wear some in the future... whatever that future was to be.
But he forgot all about the leather as he drove into that large gash between her legs, locating her love button, that large finger of flesh that was nearly twice the size of those on the other girls. With a thumb and forefinger, he steadied the quaking flesh that surrounded the pink bud and began to suck it between his tightly-pursed lips.
Julia let out a sigh as he lapped away, making sucking sounds as he ate the pussy. He could hear some moaning and lapping in the background, and he could only guess that the other girls were involved in some kind of sensual scene themselves.
His cock began to swell between his legs, pulsating with every heartbeat as it grew. He loved to eat the big snatch of this woman, and he did the best job he could. He switched his attention to her gaping entryway and stuck his tongue straight in, pumping it in and out of the mushy hole until the woman's vaginal goosh began to flow in great clods of white foam. He swallowed as much of this in as his flapping tongue could manage, still working the tongue in and out.
"Okay, dear," Julia told him in a very matronly fashion. "Now you may fuck me. And as a reward, I'll take this off for now."
She undid the collar and cast it aside. Peter was overwhelmed at her manner, the harsh commanding tones absent from her voice. It was as if he'd done something exceptionally well, and now was being rewarded, but just what he'd done to. earn this he couldn't tell.
There was something about the woman that reminded him of his mother, but in just what way he found it hard to tell. A fleeting bolt went through his head that associated this woman with his mother, but in what way, he couldn't figure out. He had little time to ponder the matter though, so he just figured the association must be due to the woman's age or something. Her actions were so unlike Paula Le Grande's, the very antithesis.
Julia pulled her skirt off and lay down on the bed, her open arms invitingly spread. Peter fol-lowed his hardon like a divining rod and practically jumped atop her. There was something so verboten about screwing a woman his mother's age.
Julia took his ramrod in hand and moved the head across her steaming nest, sending a shock of electricity to both of their bodies. She tugged at the loose layer of skin that sheathed his boner and pulled him to the moist hole of plenty. He sighed as he settled over her, his eyes feasting on her outlined breasts. He settled his weight on one elbow and toyed with the titties with his free hand, manipulating the resilient orxs into a state of pink readiness, taking the right nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolling it until it was pinched into erection.
But before he had a chance to play with the other tittie, the woman tugged at the shaft of his pecker rubbing the sensitive tip against the opening of her pussy. He felt fire leap up his back like ice and he fell forward so that his chest rested on the fleshy mountains of her boobs.
"I want you to fuck your mama, Peter," the woman intoned, taking in an almost silly voice that he'd never heard her use before. "I want you to take that big hard fuckstaff of yours and ball the shit out of me."
He was only too willing to oblige, although the mother reference threw him off a bit. But she had the experience his mother would never have, not in a million years, a great dominating earth-mother dressed up in her Sunday kicky-kinky clothes.
She pulled his penis tip into the hot hellhole and caught it with a twitch of her muscles. Wow-did she ever have control over her vaginal muscles, he thought, punching down with his lean and welted hips to shove his prick home. She made even Anita seem like an amateur.
He sank his cementlike cock into the yawning chasm of fat-coated muscle. This was a pussy a person could feel secure in, Peter mused, noticing the contradictions of her vagina. It was buttery soft on the outside, like mounds of whipped cream, but underneath, the muscles of the wall would tighten and grip at his plunging prick, then unlatch, allowing the butterfat to flow free once more and his cock slide away. She used her pussy better than some people used their hands.
His hips worked in coordination with hers, but even though weapon was more obvious, she used hers more effectively, bringing him painfully close to milking his fetid load, then grasping hold of the tool with the muscles and making him hang there in anticipation, the flood holding behind a new retainer, only to overflow again, then to be stopped at another dam.
Peter was going mad under this when he felt a sharp pain attach his rear. He looked around, his muscles jumping and found that Yolanda had inserted a dildo up his ass, a plastic vibrator of some sort. The pain was unbearable, and it threw him off stride, but Julia clutched him tightly, her pussy taking his prick for a waltz as she waited for him to adjust to the new form of sex.
At first, it didn't seem like sex at all to Peter, but just another cruel trick. He doubted if he could pull out of Julia's hot and nasty pussy without losing his mind completely, but he realized that he was under her strange hypnosis that he would have done anything for her, even pull out. The pain caused by the rude intrusion to his anal canal had pulled his libido down a notch or two. He waited, figuring that the woman would suddently revert to her usual self, calling him a slave and worse, making him pull his cock out without satisfaction.
But nothing happened, and then the searing pain in his rectum subsided, replaced by a pleasant warmth that began to spread through his entire sexual apparatus.
Julia smiled at him when she saw his reaction.
"Your asshole is a very overlooked part of sex, Peter. Listen to your mama and she'll teach you. Especially in men, it's great because of the prostate."
But before he had a chance to ask her what she meant, she clawed at his back and began moving her hips, letting his cock loose from the deathgrip. He began pumping his own hips again to move his even stiffer cockmeat in and out of her slushy pit, while Yolanda moved the dildo, premoistened by Anita's box, in and out of his asshole, browning him roughly. It felt like he was being stuffed, but the pleasant ache only made his nuts throb all the harder. He felt the hot load of buttermilk ready to explode and he bit his lip in anticipation, then let fly with his cookies, the jizz raining all over Julia's convulsing pussy. He thumped and thumped at her, his prick sawing more quickly, until he'd dumped the entire load and collapsed upon the woman heavily.
He headed for dreamland, wondering what he had done to make these people treat him so good.
CHAPTER NINE
It was a nightmare. This was too unreal to be true. He was back in the cellar, only things were different. He was strapped down to the cold table and lights, blinding lights were all around him. His head felt groggy as he blinked up at the faces that seemed to be all around him, swirling and grinning. There was Laura, looking pale and slightly woozy, dressed in a white frock. And at his feet there was Julia, her eyes blazing brightly, her lips fixed in a tight slash not unlike his grandfather's.
And there was this man dressed in white. He had on a white cap and a mask, and a long gown. Rubber gloves... moving fast, to his waist... the light was too bright, several lights on stands, blinding him. He looked up to see what the gloves were doing and they were at his waist. He tried to move, but the straps held him down. Laura looked sympathetic, but then she looked away. She was holding a metal tray and kept handing things to the masked man.
He pulled up his head, feeling a sharp bite in his neck and saw a pile of rags around his middle. They were stained with blood. His blood? His blood!
But he couldn't feel anything... not from down there... just the pain in his head that forced him to plop it back down to the table. He could see the masked man take something with funny long pliers. There was something golden clasped in its jaws, a circular thing... a ring. He tried to lift his head again, but the room was spinning around, bright lights, swirling... all around, dizzy, dizzy, the pain in his head like he'd been kicked by a mule.
What were these people doing to him? What were these people doing? To him? To him.
Another swirl, another pain, darkness. Darkness.
Madison Le Grande missed Claudette. She had quit when the men from Interpol had questioned her, refusing to put up with such an indignity even though she'd been cleared.
"None of them check out," Smedley told him. "Not even the girl who quit. Either it's a bluff, that is assuming it isn't a hoax, or a shakedown of some kind, or the insider they speak of is in your offices."
He crunched down on his pipe, brushing some imaginary lint from his lapel and waited as the wealthy man wheezed out a monotonous replay saying that it was highly unlikely as his offices were in New York, London and Paris, not to mention the branches. No, if the so-called insider wasn't down here in Bandol, then he didn't exist, all the more reason to point towards a fraud.
But if it was fraud, he had a feeling that it might be his daughter-in-law! The old man had mused it over for several days after he first called in the authorities, much as he didn't like that. But he had received the note, and Paula had already called Peter's disappearance to the attention of the authorities. It was his duty, unpleasant as it must be.
And so a man from Interpol, a sharp Englishman named Smedley had come to be assigned the case. He had impressed the old man with his logic, appealing to the number one sore point-money.
"If they get away with this, rich men all over the world will continued to be fleeced by such claptrap. It's up to you, but for the sake of the free world... "
"For the sake of the free world?"
"For the sake of the free world."
That had sold him. And the process of checking out his domestics began. Oh, how he missed Claudette. Sitting there in the library as Mimi, the new plump maid of thirty, labored over his flaccid tool with her lips. But try as she may, the old withered worm wouldn't stand up and do tricks. He was just about to regret having called the police in despite what Smedley said. He'd lost Claudette. Still it was a duty... and Peter had still not shown. But it only took him a couple of calls to Paula to rouse his detective instincts. He told Smedley of his apprehension about the way the woman had talked to him. She seemed overly anxious about her son, too anxious. When he saw her on television, pleading with the press in front of her apartment building, it all seemed too contrived. Why, she hated Peter practically as much as he did!
He told the official of his apprehensions, and wondered if the coordination with the F.B.I, might be stepped up. They had done all the work thus far behind the scenes, hoping to lull the kidnappers, if they did exist, into making a slip. He asked if he might have his daughter-in-law's phone tapped, but Smedley told him that might be sticky. What with the Watergate mess and all, it might be hard to pull of on a mere suspicion, although a life was at stake.
"Goddamn it," the old man cried, raising his voice for the first time in Smedley's presence, "I own half of N.T.&T., and I've done all kinds of favors for the bureau ..' let's fix it up."
As the poet said, money doesn't talk, it swears. Within twenty-four hours, Paula was tapped. But it was just twenty-four hours too late to intercept the call between Julia and Paula. So they waited, hoping the so-called kidnappers would make a move. Le Grande wasn't sure it was Paula-it could still be Peter, or the two of them working in concert. He just couldn't believe his grandson had actually been kidnapped. He must not let on to Paula, but that was easy to do with his monotone. He would just have to wait.
He really missed Claudette. Peter blinked his eyes, aware of the great pain in the area of his groin and the thudding of his head. He was still strapped down, still to that steel table. It hadn't been a dream. It was a nightmare.
He'd been here for two days since the operation. From what he gathered from the conversations he'd overheard, Anita had left to mail a package to his grandfather, this time from Boston to throw the police off the case. Just what it contained he didn't know.
There was a dull ache in his groin, from whatever they'd done down there. He couldn't reach it as his hands were strapped tightly to his side. He tried not to think of the possibilities, but left alone with his thoughts, he couldn't help but let his mind wander through paranoidal paths. They had attached some kind of catheter to his penis so he could urinate, and had strapped a bedpan under his elevated hips. They came in twice a day, Yolanda and Julia to attend to him, forcing him to drink water and eat some bread that nearly made him choke, but the pair remained strangely silent as they went about their duties, refusing to answer his frantic questions.
He wished that Laura would come down, but he never saw her. He wondered if she had really been there during the operation. She would know what they'd done that made him hurt so. He couldn't help but feel that something was missing, and something added if that were possible.
Madison Le Grande was roused from his armchair slumber by the butler. How he missed Claudette! He blinked his eyes and coughed, motioning the man to come in.
"A package for you sir."
He checked the package over, postmarked Boston, then opened it, sending the butler out. When he got it opened, he saw that there was a package of thick plastic wrap and a note inside. He opened the note and read it, his hands, trembling as he went on. If this was a hoax, it was the working of a very sick person. It read: Dear Sir: If you would have heeded our first note, this would not be necessary. As you have failed to comply, we have sent you this package containing your grandson's, Peter Le Grande, left testicle. Please do not doubt that this is from his body. The thumbprint at the bottom of the page is his. Please deposit the amount of one-million dollars in small unmarked United States currency in the account of Paula Le Grande, and we will be in contact with her as soon as we see that you have acted in good faith to work out the arrangements for returning Peter to her custody. This is our last warning. If you fail to follow the instructions, or attempt to contact the authorities again it will result in the death of your grandson.
He couldn't believe it, it must be a joke. The thumbprint at the bottom of the page was a red-brown, the color of dried blood.
With shaking hands, he opened the plastic bag. He noted a foul odor as he unwrapped it, still not believing it possible. As he unfolded the last layer, he saw that there was a greyish-pink object covered with hair in the bag. For the first time in his life, he fainted.
As soon as he recovered, he contacted his lawyers and ordered them to make arrangements to transfer the money to Paula's account. Then he called up Smedley, telling him the grizzly details.
"Whatever you do, you must not tell the press," Smedley cautioned him. "Just don't make a move till the boy's safe," Le Grande said, placing the receiver down. Now he would wait for the authorities to come and get the package. He stared long and hard at his bookshelf, cursing his lack of foresight. He'd really been wrong this time. Really wrong.
Peter winced as Julia pulled at the stitches, cutting them first with a small pair of scissors, then yanking them out with the tweezers. It had been five days since the operation had been carried out, and whatever they'd done to him, he'd soon know the results.
His whole body ached terribly from being tied in this one position. The crumpled towels around his waist blocked his view of the procedure, and he winced as each stitch came out. From the general area of Julia's ministrations, he felt that he was sure to be in trouble no matter how you looked at it.
"Now," said Julia, with the old familiar sadistic smile, you're about to see what happened to you. You'll look mighty fine this way, I'm sure."
Even though it was this sadistic bitch who'd been talking to him, he felt a relief at hearing a human voice after five days silence.
"Where's Laura?" he asked.
"Laura... you want Laura?" she teased evilly. "I should have known about her. Too weak. It's a good thing she had her little accident."
"Accident, what accident?" he implored impatiently as he pulled at his bonds, his head being all that he could move.
"Don't adopt that tone of voice with me you pigfucker!" she ordered him as she stepped near to his face. She had picked up two clothespins off her tray and menacingly held them over his chest. Then she clipped them onto his nipples and snapped them hard, causing him to yelp. She left them in place, protruding painfully from his chest.
"Those are strange little titties, but you might have real ones in the future."
The future again. What the hell was this woman trying to do to him? One moment breaking out of the cruelty and coming on like mother, then the next thing he knows he's tossed into the cellar and operated on for who knows what.
"Laura had a little accident the day of your operation. I guess she just didn't have the stomach for it, poor girl. It seems she stepped off of a chair with a rope wrapped around her neck."
The woman smiled, letting the impact set in. "You murderer," he found himself creaming. "I'm afraid you'll have to have a few more lessons in obedience if you don't tone down. Actually Laura did it all of her own volition. I guess your operation was just too much for her to witness. She hung herself.
"The good doctor disposed of the body. He has an abortion clinic and he knows how to take care of such matters in the right way. Poor man. Drinks you know.
"You see," she went on, relishing the horror on Peter's face as she spun the tale, "your grandfather just wouldn't believe the first proof we sent him. So we had to really convince him. That's why we called the doctor in for your little operation-plan B.
"Your food was drugged the night I came back from making my calls. After you had displayed your wanton abilities atop me, you passed out. We carried you down here and set up the operating room. When the doctor was halfway through the operation, you awoke from the drug, but we'd strapped you down-he used a spinal anesthetic. You passed out again shortly... "
He was beginning to suspect the worst... no his cock was still there, but he figured something else might not be. His mind flooded with crazy images, images his mind refused to really latch onto. Laura hanged. His body... he'd find out shortly... but he was beginning to click in on one thing... yes, he had seen this woman before. The woman who owned that art gallery. She'd called up several times too, asking for his mother.
"You're... my mother... you know my mother!" he finally blurted out.
"Better than you'd suspect. You see, this was all her idea. You really were quite an unmanageable young man. One day I finally suggested to her that you might be screwed up because you really were a girl at heart. We split the money fifty-fifty, after expenses for the help. What with Laura gone, that'll be less. And someday in the future we'll all live together, your mother, me and you. You'll be our maid. Oh, I can see how much happier you are when you're serving someone. We might even continue, after a suitable time, your operations. Maybe you'll enjoy life more as a real girl.
She was crazy. He couldn't believe that his mother would fall under the spell of such an evil person, his straight mother. But all the rest was babble to him, for he felt his mind slipping away as he screamed out his last protest. Now that it all made sense, the less sense it really made. His mind was going, he couldn't handle it anymore.
But as the coup de grace, the laughing woman pulled off the sheets and held a mirror up above his pubic area, adjusting the handmirror so that he could see. Through his feverish eyes, Peter Le Grande saw what had happened, saw the flap of skin where his testicle used to be and the golden ring that pierced through the skin. He screamed until he could scream no more.
CHAPTER TEN
Paula Le Grande made a final inspection of the apartment, humming to herself as she went about the chores. Tonight was Peter's homecoming. Of course, none of the guests would know it. It wasn't about to be announced. Peter would simply stay missing for a long time, an unsolved crime. Only after the publicity was over could she make a rightful claim to Madison's fortune... well, all the details puzzled her, but Julia had that all worked out. She was so much more exciting than Bobbi had ever been, turning onto those leather clothes and domination.
She went into the bedroom and opened a drawer, reflecting on just how well she'd handled the speech to the press a week ago, fitting in the part about Betty the nanny, then breaking into tears. Madison had come across with the money, and that would hold her until the old geezer kicked off.
She picked up the slender riding whip and ran it through her hand. It would be some time before she'd be able to get together with Julia. She'd be going off to Mexico for a few weeks of well-earned vacation. But somehow, the details would all be covered by Julia, it would all work out. Besides, she'd have Peter back. Thinking of him, she cracked the whip down over her hand, fantasizing how it would bounce off his buttocks. Sweet revenge.
The figure at the end of the chain moved a bit awkwardly on the high heels, as if she weren't quite used to them. Still, her figure made up for whatever dexterity she may have lacked. She wore a maid's uniform, or a modification of one. A black lacy bra fitted around her shoulders and back. The garterbelt of black matched the black hose, that fit snugly to the slender well-shaved legs.
Yolanda held the other end of the chain, tugging it slightly as she put the girl through her paces, walking her back and forth across the floor. Yolanda wore her black leather corset and boots as she paraded the girl back and forth to the amusement of the woman in the black miniskirt who sat on the couch.
The chain disappeared under the girl's white lace apron, and when it was tugged, the apron would pull up in front, revealing that it was attached to a gold ring that was attached to the flesh of the girl... only now you could see that it wasn't a girl at all.
"We'll have to tape that down before we take him," Julia said from the couch.
"I've shown Petite how to do it herself, isn't that right."
"Yes madame," he-she at the end of the chain replied with a curtsy.
The voice was deep but very feminine. The face was covered with pancake makeup. The eyebrows had been shaved. As Peter-Petite had a light beard it had been no problem to cover. The mouth was painted full and red, and full hoop earrings hung from the ears. If it hadn't been for the fact that his hair was short, a person would have thought the person a girl.
There was one thing though that was troubling when you looked deep into the blue eyes. The eyes had a glazed look not unlike the look of a schizophrenic. They never really focused on anything, though a person would have to look carefully to tell for sure.
Peter-Petite was not unlike a person in a mental institution in fact. But it hadn't taken drugs or shock treatments to achieve the placid expression. No, Julia had sensed the madness within Peter, and had exploited Peter's vulnerability to the hilt. When his mind could stand no more conflicting images, he had retreated into himself, and he had come back out inside out.
He remembered his former life as Peter as a dream. But it was safer in here where he didn't have to talk unless first spoken to. He knew that he was going to live with his mother, but that he must never mention to anyone else outside of her and the people here what had happened to him. Otherwise, evil people could get him and hurt him.
Now the only way he could ever be hurt is if he made a mistake that displeased whomever he was serving. Then they could take him across their knees and spank him... but they only did it for his own good, to protect him from the really big hurts that he'd experience if he ever tried to be Peter again.
He knew that his name was Petite now, and that he was a girl. He was never to flirt with men, though, they were nasty. He could be polite to them, but shouldn't go any further than civility required.
He was always to address his mother as Mssss. Le Grande.
He was never to talk about his background, with the exception of a few carefully-phrased lies that had been programmed into his skull.
He should never disobey Paula.
It had been fairly easy to program him once he snapped. He would need more training as far as how to handle himself as a woman, but Julia knew that Paula would relish handling that job.
It was about time to dress him in a more sedate maid's costume for they would have to leave soon. The wig would be placed on, and Ms. Le Grande would have a new maid.
"Petite, come here," Julia said in a quietly authoritative voice that the maid had learned to key on.
When she got to the couch, the woman's legs were spread apart and she pointed at her naked beaver. Without a word, Petite fell gracefully to her knees and began lapping the creamy patch. It seemed that she'd done this sort of thing a long time ago, way back in the distant past. Only now, there was a different taste mixed in with the raunchy cuntjuice-lipstick that was it. Her own lipstick was coming off her mouth as she ate the pussy. She laughed inwardly as she ate the pussy, noticing that there were traces of lipstick on the woman's big cuntlips now. She was mildly stimulated by the activity, but she couldn't under-stand why Yolanda and Julia wanted to do it all the time. Oh well. She hoped that the next person, her mother, Ms. Le Grande treated her as well as she'd been treated here. Oh all the practicing at walking was rough, but they were so nice to Petite. But she couldn't figure out why everyone shouldn't be nice to Petite.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Paula Le Grande smiled as she said goodnight to the Fletchers, the last couple to leave her party. It had been a wonderful party, and her only regret was that Julia couldn't have been here to enjoy it with her, She'd been a little apprehensive at first, wondering just how it would go. She couldn't be too miserable, even though it had been three weeks... nearly four since she'd last seen her son. But these people would understand why she couldn't just go into mourning, these were wealthy people who realized that life must go on. Still, she didn't try to show she was having too good of a time. After all, it was only last week that she sup-posedly dropped the money off in a remote spot for the kidnappers and there hadn't been any word. This was the time to really expect the worst.
The people, mostly old friends from her days with Harold, were fairly straight, but once the party got rolling, they got into their cups and got as loose as straight folks can. Paula felt a little remote about seeing these people now. How did she ever fit in with them? Even Bobbi, who was out of town, was straight.
The party didn't really turn out to be a rip- snorter, but that would have been improper under the circumstances, and these people were well known for propriety. Paula viewed this as a farewell party to these old friends, for she'd outgrown them. Oh, they really didn't bother her that much-they were the perfect people to invite to a wake, which in effect is what this was. Of course, she didn't tell anyone. No she was perfect, she recalled as she closed the doors on the last guests, excused herself and let them out. She should have been an actress with the way the people would come up to her and offer her their sympathy in dealing with her 'current problem.' She wouldn't let them dwell on it too long. She showed the proper grief, then told them that this party was to take her mind off it.
"Life goes on," was a cliche she used at least a dozen times, and as there were a dozen guests that figured out just right.
But the real success of the party was Petite. And to think how she and Julia had fooled the cops... the world. With all that publicity, and Peter returns right to her very apartment building. Of course, the doorman would have a hard time recognizing him in that dress, those high heels, that wig, the make-up, the pseudo-fur coat.
Anita had accompanied Peter-Petite into the building and up to the door. While Paula would liked to have seen Julia, she knew it would have been impossible to tear herself away from her once she saw her. There would be time enough for all that later.
As soon as Anita left, she inspected Peter thoroughly, amazed at the changes. He was docile, so dainty, so very... girlish.
She made no references to being his-her mother, merely giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
"Julia instructed you as just what you'll be doing?"
"Yes, madame." The voice was so authentic, she was amazed at what her friend could do. It was a miracle, that's what it was.
Showing Petite to her room, which was right next to his old room (she had to keep appearances up) she told the maid to change into her outfit. Julia went into the kitchen to arrange the snacks she'd made herself, having discharged her staff so as not to arouse their suspicions. Petite could serve the snacks and drinks. She was positively thrilled with the transformation, but she didn't want to let on too much to Petite.
When Petite appeared in the kitchen, now wearing her short, black French maid's costume, it startled Paula momentarily. She looked every inch a woman in high heels, her nose and the cute little dress with the ruffles all over it. And that lacy apron, and the cap! The brown bobbed wig made it all so complete.
Paula watched Petite with satisfaction from the corner of her eye that night, making sure that the maid was not only doing her job correctly, but that the guests weren't questioning her too closely. It was a fulfilling experience to witness, knowing something as daring was going on. Only one man gave Paula a scare when, after offering his sympathy about Peter, told her that the maid looked familiar. But when he said the name of a movie star that he thought Petite resembled, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Peter, looking through Petite's mask remembered some of the people vaguely, but as if through a fog he couldn't get through. It was nice not to have to talk on and on with them like he'd had to do, secure in the role he had now adopted.
After everyone had left, Paula told her that she could clean up the mess in the morning, that she now wanted her to come to the bedroom with her. Petite followed behind the woman, coming to a stop when she was ordered to do so. The woman took a long riding crop from a drawer and held it in her hands.
"Petite, I am very pleased with your service.
However, as I'm sure Julia told you, you will have to be punished whenever you do anything wrong. Just so you understand me from the start, I'm going to give you a few cuts of the riding crop to serve as a tiny example of what you'll be receiving from me if you fail to obey me. Now drop your drawers and pull your dress up."
Without a word, Petite did as she'd been ordered, slipping her panties down and bending over, her dress hiked above her backside, presenting a tempting target to Paula. A shiver of anticipation ran through her body, but she didn't utter a sound until the crop fell across her buttock cleft with a sharp snap.
Petite endured five cuts of the cruel whip, sobbing quietly as she received them, but offering no resistance. Then she pointed towards her crotch, slipping her panties off and hiking up her dress. She was pleased to see that Petite had learned the silent command well.
The girl knelt in front of Paula and began to lap at the matted hair of the crotch. Paula held onto the riding crop, threatening to strike if the least thing wasn't to her satisfaction, but she didn't have to use it. She was amazed to see the transformation in her son, who lapped steadily at her clit.
Peter-Petite too was amazed at the difference in the old Paula and the new Paula, the late model carrying on in a lascivious manner that would have appalled the earlier version. But just as Petite had really begun to eat the lollypop, a sharp knock came at the door.
"Who is it?" Paula yelled in an annoyed voice.
"Police, open up!"
Paula froze in her tracks, her face going white as she dropped the riding crop onto the floor. She hesitated, thinking of going towards the door, for she didn't know how to run. But the police, guns drawn, saved her a decision, kicking the door off the jams. There were several uniformed men, along with plainclothesmen, as well as a police woman.
"We've got them," the man in charge said. "You the only ones here?"
"How dare you," Paula began, trying to intimidate them as her custom. "Do you realize who I am? You might get away with this with ordinary citizens, but I am Paula Le Grande.
"Save it Mrs. Le Grande," he said, throwing up an arm. "You're under arrest for kidnapping and accessory to murder. I'll read you your rights... " he went on and read them, despite Paula's attempt to interrupt. It was clear that she was in a state of shock.
Meanwhile, the policewoman examined the ring in her boy-girls scrotum, establishing the identity. Petite, having not been ordered to do anything had remained kneeling, the ring in plain view.
"Shocking," the policewoman said. "We'd better get an ambulance and take this one to Bellview," she told a uniformed officer, taking a quick look at Peter-Petite's general state, the glazed eyes staring at hers like a child.
"You see, Mrs. Le Grande, there's this doctor who was running an abortion mill, over in Jersey is where it was. Well, we just happen to make a raid there, a charge concerning the abortion laws. Well, what do you think we find but a girl's body. He held out for a week and a half, up until the time they charged him with first degree murder. Well, then he says he didn't kill the girl, that he'd been given the body to dispose of. By the time he's finished talking, we've got quite a sensational story. And it'll hold up in court.
Petite wondered where all her friends had gone. The people in the suits had put her into this big ambulance and taken her on a ride. She wondered where she was going now, and wished they'd play the siren and the big light. She hoped she'd make new friends there. People had been so good to her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
How long had it been? Days, weeks, months? Peter couldn't tell for sure. He wasn't always sure he was Peter for that matter, although the doctors and nurses kept telling him that was who he was. He-even that seemed strange. For much of the time he felt more like a woman. Peter was the name they all called him, but there seemed to be some other name... P... something with a P, but he wasn't quite sure.
But the people here tried to keep him from being so confused all the time. The nurses and doctors in their soothing white uniforms would give him nice pills to make him sleep and forget. Sometimes they would talk to him in quiet voices, but he couldn't really understand what it was they were saying. He just smiled back at them, trying to be as polite as possible, feeling placid as he looked past them to the pale green walls.
Sometimes he would become very frightened at night, and he would wake up screaming, twisting and turning in his sweat-soaked sheets. Then the people would come and stick a needle in his arm and he would drift off to a mellow dream where there were no faces and harsh voices to taunt him.
Madison Le Grande sat up in his king-sized bed, resting his thin back against the velvet headboard, smoothing the yellow satin sheets over him. There had been a knock on the door of his huge bedroom, and he had propped himself up before calling out for the person to enter the room.
A thin sliver of light came streaming in from the window where the heavy drapes had been drawn slightly to let the late morning sunshine from the harbor enter his room. After the terrible experience of the kidnapping, the senior Le Grande having closed his summer home in France earlier than usual this year, having returned to his Newport, Rhode Island mansion.
The door opened and in stepped a trim blonde, carrying a silver tray on which a tea service rested.
"Your morning tea, sir," the girl smiled, setting the tray on a bedside table.
Old Madison showed hardly a trace of life as he took the morning paper from the girl and opened it to the financial section, while the pretty wench poured hot water into the teacup, dropped in two cubes of sugar and a teabag and began to stir.
Heather had been in the Le Grande employ for only a couple of months, having joined at the time Madison returned from Europe just after the kidnapping tragedy. After serving the tea, she looked expectantly at the old man, waiting to see if there would be further orders.
"Sit down," the old man motioned to a chair by the window, "Just let me finish the stock market."
The girl did as she was told, settling herself in the straight backed chair, crossing a shapely thigh over her other leg as Madison continued to pore over the paper, taking an occasional sip of tea.
This girl had been a real help to him, he realized, and he treated her with more respect than he had shown to anyone in his employ in years. Perhaps it was due to the guilt he'd felt over his mistakes in handling the kidnapping of his grandson. But more than that, it was due to the fact that this pretty young girl of nineteen had done more to rescue his flagging sexual drive than anyone during the past decade or so.
Madison truly needed someone who could take his mind off the events of the past couple of months. He had seen to it that Peter was placed in one of the finest private sanitariums in the country as Peter's mind had really fallen apart from the terrible ordeal he had been subjected to. Yet there still had been little progress over the more than two months of treatment he had undergone.
As for his daughter-in-law, it looked very much like she would receive a life sentence for her part in the scheme, and Madison was sorry that capital punishment was not in favor at the time. As for Julia, who had been captured a week after Paula's arrest in Acapulco, it looked like she would receive the same. The two other girls could probably look forward to lighter sentences, and the doctor who had performed the cruel operation upon Peter had saved the state the trouble of trying him by committing suicide.
Madison folded the paper and called to the attractive young girl, a slight smile creasing the corners of his ancient mouth. This girl had brought about some change in the old man, and at times he would actually break into a full grin, a feat that many observers had previously thought would cause Madison's face to break.
But if anyone could bring joy to the old geezer it would be such a girl as Heather. Measuring barely five feet, the girl packed as many curves into her short frame as humanly possible. Despite the fact that she only weighed a bit over a hundred pounds, she had a pair of breasts that measured thirty- eight inches, the orbs taking up nearly all of her frontside above the waist. Her face had the constant expression of innocence, featuring large blue eyes and a pair of full lips that were a cocksucker's dream.
As she moved over to the bed, it was evident that her full hips and curved thighs weren't bad either. Knowing what it was the old man wanted, she reached behind her and unfastened her yellow minidress, letting it fall to the floor.
"Good morning," Madison wheezed as he sat up further to take in her charms.
"And a good morning to you, sir," Heather smiled, pulling the clinging white slip off, revealing her white bikini panties and flimsy bra that scarcely held in the bulging mounds of flesh on her chest.
As the girl unhooked the bra and tossed it aside, old Le Grande, breathing heavily, pushed away the sheets and slipped off his silk pajamas. His thin, weather-beaten cock stood straight up in anticipation, a testiment to the attractiveness to the girl. His other maids had had to work hard to get the old man's meat to stand, but this girl's looks alone were enough to get the blood flowing to his skinny prick. The flesh of his genitals even flushed a slight pink in comparison to the gray hue it usually assumed.
"I'm gonna do it to you, Daddy," Heather teased, running her tongue seductively over her full lips as she tossed aside her panties and hopped atop the bed.
Arranging herself on the old man's spindly thighs, she sat on her haunches and bent down over his throbbing cock. Taking hold of the narrow shaft with one hand, she bent down and touched her lips to the head, her full breasts pillowing against the man's thighs as she did so.
"Eat it all up," Madison intoned, the words not being so unusual except for the fact that he spoke them at all.
Even his face took on an attitude of excitement as she moved her lips further down his shaft, quite a feat when one remembers how unmoved he had been when similar ministrations were given by his French maids. His eyes twinkled and his pulse throbbed at the temples as he laid his head back on the thick pillows to receive the blowjob.
Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead as the girl continued to peruse his dick, her mouth taking more and more of the cock into her mouth as she alternately sucked and blew at the shaft, her right hand jacking off the meat from the base. , Madison reached out with his clawlike hands and grabbed her shoulders as she blew him, his eyes marveling at the way her voluminous breastflesh heaved and wobbled as she ate him, the large pink nipples surrounded in a sea of jello.
If the girl was faking it, it would be hard to tell from the way she went about the headgiving to her employer. She breathed deeply and moaned as she sucked and blew, sending deep vibrations through the man's organs as she worked. Her little fingers snagged at the man's testicles and gray pubic hair, adding further excitement to the situation.
"Now," the old man managed to choke out.
The girl pulled her lips away from his bulging cock, a thin string of saliva popping between her lips and his cock as she did so, taking the cue to change her mode of operation. For the old man loved to finish off the job by burying his thin cock in her pussyflesh, _ an activity he seldom participated in... until Heather that is. This girl could bring new life to his old skin, and he loved to feel his cock as it went in and out of her moist folds.
She moved her firm ass up and positioned herself over the cock and gently lowered herself over his pole, guiding it in with the use of one hand. Madison's body shivered as he felt his cock being captured in the hot pussy, and his hips pumped feebly off the bed as she began to fuck him.
He really couldn't do much moving around in this time of his life, but it was more than he'd been able to manage for a long time, longer than he cared to remember. Not that he had to do much moving at all in this prearranged meeting, the girl sitting atop him and doing most of the work. She planted her hands on his knifelike shoulders and bounced her ass up and down the narrow cock, a gleam in her eyes and a smile on her face as she screwed him.
Old Madison reached up and played with her bouncing boobs as she worked on him, marveling at how large and pliant they were. They jounced about wildly as the girl bounced up and down on his shaft, and Maddy was like a kid at his first circus. Heather reached down with one hand and began to diddle with her clit to increase her own enjoyment, sensing from the look on the old man's face that he was about to come. After working him up with her mouth, the old man usually could only go at it for a couple of minutes, so she didn't want to be left hanging herself. But for a man of his age, this was quite a performance, and it took his mind away from all the problems that had arisen as a result of the kidnapping.
A thin smile spread across the man's features as he felt his load about to be dumped. He let a soft moan of pleasure escape from his lips as he shot a hot load into Heather's twitching snatch. If only he had met this girl a few years back. Then maybe he wouldn't have to worry about a male heir... he could have married this beautiful blonde. But now it was much too late for him to sire an heir. He had to hope against all hopes that the staff at the sanitarium could come up with some miracle to bring his grandson back to life.
Peter was having another of those dreams. He tossed about on his dampened sheets, not sure what was real and what was not. He was in some kind of basement and was surrounded by evil- looking women dressed in black leather costumes. He was strapped down to a table. There were fish floating about in the room, but instead of being in water, they were floating around in the air. Somehow this was the only thing that didn't bother him about the scene, the only thing that seemed normal.
"Petite!" A woman commanded, and he responded, for this seemed to be his name. A tall, dark woman with an evil smile advanced towards him, a whip in her hand. Somehow, he sensed the woman was his mother, although she didn't look exactly as he remembered her. His mother had lighter hair, this woman had black hair. At least her eyebrows were dark. He couldn't see much of her hair, as the cold face was topped off by a leather helmet that looked like a bathing cap. The rest of her body was encased in black leather too, a tight fitting outfit that looked like a skindiving suit. The other girls and the fish seemed to disappear as this woman took over his senses. All he could see was the background, a dark sort of cave, except that it had windows.
"Mother has to teach you how to be a good girl, Petite," the woman said as she brought the riding whip down across his chest, causing a red weal to rise. But he felt no pain. It all seemed natural.
"My little girl needs a lesson," the woman went on, bringing the whip down across his bare thighs.
The woman's face kept changing from one person to the other, faces that Peter thought he could recognize, but he wasn't sure. After the whip came down again, he jumped up, the straps that had been holding him down giving way easily. He ran out through the hall, which turned out to be a hallway similar to those in an office building. He could hear footsteps behind him, but he didn't look around, realizing that to do so would only slow him down.
He tried the doors in the hall, but none of them would open. Finally, he came to the end of the hall where there was an open elevator door. The door closed behind him just as the woman, along with several vicious dogs came up, shutting them out. The door was glass and he could watch them as they crashed against it, threatening his life. But instead of going up or down, the car took off sideways. When he turned around, he realized he was in a helicopter. He turned around to see who was flying it, but realized he was alone. He looked down at the panel, but couldn't figure out how to operate it as it flew above the city.
He finally realized that the chopper was controlling itself, so he just looked down at the view as the machine took him out past the suburbs. It finally flew over a large golf course and somehow he was transferred down to the course itself, just how he couldn't understand.
He was playing golf with a very old man who said nothing. The man had a type of wheelchair from which he could play golf, a mechanical contraption hitting the ball for him. Peter saw that it was his grandfather. After hitting his drive, the old man winked at him and asked him for a kiss, so Peter ran away. Finally he found himself alone on a putting green, leaning over a putt. But when he struck the ball, it would just roll to the middle of the green and stay there. After going through this frustrating motion several times, Peter realized there were no holes in the putting green, so he threw down the club and began walking over towards an old building that appeared to be the clubhouse.
But as he left the green and walked down into a sandtrap, he was pulled down by a couple of men dressed in the costume of Arabs. They had a machine gun in the bunker and were firing it at some other men on the ther side of the green who also had entrenched themselves in a sandtrap. As the bullets flew, Peter bent down to avoid them. After this went on for several minutes, an explosion in the bunker killed the other men. Just as he got up, the woman from the cave came up and pointed a gun down at him as she stood on the green, several other women, also armed with him.
They were all dressed in Nazi uniforms and ordered him to march over to a rundown looking house several feet away.
"You can't hurt me," Peter dared them, "because this is just a dream."
At that moment he was trying desperately to awake from the dream, but the women would have nothing of it, forcing him in the old house. The inside of the house looked like an old French farmhouse that had been pretty well destroyed by warfare. The woman, gun in hand, ordered him to take off his clothes and lay down on an army cot.
After doing so, he looked up and saw that she had put away her gun and taken off her clothing, all except a black bra and matching panties.
"I have you at last, Petite," the woman smiled, pulling off her bra and exposing a set of pointed white tits.
"But I'm Peter," he exclaimed, but was silenced by a sharp slap from the woman.
"We shall see," the tall women told him as she stripped off her panties, causing Peter to gasp. For she had a cock, a big cock that was erect and menacing. She threw herself down on top of him and held her cock between his legs. She began to kiss him, but he thrashed his head back and forth, not wanting this woman/man to enter him. But with a mighty shove the woman put the cock inside him... inside his ass or pussy, he wasn't sure just what, and began to ream him, causing him sharp pains.
"No, no!" he screamed... "No... "
And he was awake. As he looked around the room, he realized he was back in his private room at the sanitarium. The room was sparsely furnished-just the bed he was lying upon, an armchair, a bedside desk and lamp. Sun was streaming through the barred windows so morning had come at last.
He noticed that the doctor was in the room, along with the pretty new girl who had started there the last week. He had opened up to her somewhat, at least more than he had with any of the other therapists. She was a cute redhead in her early twenties named Peggy. What he didn't know was that Dr. Melcher, the head of the sanitarium who now stood with Peggy in Peter's room, had recruited her in a special attempt to break through to the boy.
Peggy had volunteered for the work, having broken in her technique at a new lab in San Francisco. The new therapy called for the therapist to act as a sexual surrogate, to engage in sex with an individual who was having sexual problems. As Peter's case was extreme, brought on by the identity crisis of his enslavement, Peggy had yet to make any sexual advances on Peter. Rather, the doctor had wished her to break through to Peter si- owly, gaining his confidence through conversation, attempting to establish the boy's masculine role. As it was until recently, the lad had wavered so between his masculine and feminine identifications, he had withdrawn from the world. Gradually, with the aid of various depressant drugs and patient therapy, they were beginning to get through to the boy. The difficulties, the doctor realized, were primarily mental, the severe shock of his ordeal having caused his identity problems. The loss of one testicle could hardly keep him from functioning as a male. They had removed the metal ring and the wound had healed weeks ago. No, Peter's problems were strictly mental, and the way he resisted therapy had caused the doctor to go to new methods in an attempt to break through to the young man.
"Feeling better, Peter?" the good doctor smiled.
Peter blinked, then nodded his head in the affirmative. Somehow it seemed reassuring to be called Peter. So often in his dreams he was that girl . the girl with the name that also started with a P... Petite, that was it. It was all so confusing. But this new girl, this cute redhead had called him Peter so often, that now whenever any of the other staff members used the name, he responded to it.
The sheets felt sticky to him, so he tried to pull them away from his body. The doctor said goodby, closing the door behind him, leaving only Peggy in the room. She approached the bed, sitting a pan of warm water on the bedside.
"Don't worry," she smiled at him, "it was only a bad dream. My, you certainly worked up a sweat. I'll give you a nice sponge bath to cool you off."
Peggy began to strip off her starched white uniform, an unusual procedure in nursing, but one that Peter certainly didn't object to. For the doctor had decided that the time was ripe to try and break through to Peter and that Peggy should go ahead and begin to attempt a sexual breakthrough now that the boy was responding so well to her.
Peter watched with mouth agape as the shapely woman stripped down to white bra and panties, a long-forgotten surge of pleasure coming to him. He was particularly excited at the way her freckles contrasted with the white skin of her sleek young body.
He lay passively as she began to sponge him off, applying the washcloth to his sticky skin. He wore no clothing as his nightmares had caused him to nearly strangle himself in his pajamas once, so his body was completely open to the ministrations of the nurse.
He felt reassured with this woman as she spoke softly to him, running the rough cloth gently over his arms. He raised his arm at her direction so that she could bathe off his underarm, laughing a little as it tickled.
"I see we're breaking through to you, Peter," she smiled as she washed off his chest.
It was true. He seemed to respond much better to her than to anyone else, and now that she had taken off her dress, he was responding even better. Still, she realized, the real test was yet to come.
She dipped the cloth into the basin of water and began to wash off his chest.
"My you're quite a man," she smiled as she worked, trying as best as she could to reinforce the masculine identity to him.
"I am?" he puzzled.
"Oh, yes. Any woman in her right mind would be crazy about you. It's all I can do to keep from jumping right in bed with you."
"Really?" he smiled.
For he was getting turned on in a way that seemed quite foreign to him. It ad been some time since he'd responded that way. In fact, the whole experience was new to him... or so he thought.
Pulling the sheets off his genitals, Peggy gave a big smile, seeing that Peter had a big erection.
"Why, Peter," she smiled. "What a big cock you have."
"I do?" he stammered, not sure just what she meant.
Running the cloth down to his stiff cock, she cooed at him, making no mention that he lacked one ball, not wanting to blow it now. She grasped his cock with her hand, the rough washrag making thrilling contact. This could be the big moment, she realized as she pumped away at his cock in a masturbatory fashion.
"Show me how much you like me, you big hunk of man!" she encouraged him, increasing the tempo of the masturbation.
Peter was thrilled at the sensation, feeling the hot bubbling come grow in his belly. She kept pumping at his cock faster and faster, and Peter smiled as the good feelings grew. Finally, his whole body stiffened and the room began swirling around in front of his eyes. Hot gushes of jizz spilled out into the washrag as the smiling nurse kept pumping away at his tool.
"There, wasn't that nice?" Peggy said as she wiped him off, pleased at how well the therapy had gone.
"Yes, Mother," the boy answered, his eyes staring off beyond her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Things had really changed at the Bandol mansion of the family Le Grande. Where once the airs of the chambers were silent and stately, now the air breathed of life, of frivolity, and an occasional odor of marijuana. For Peter Le Grande, grandson and heir to Madison Le Grande's fortune, now was the king in residence at Bandol... or at the Rhode Island mansion if he chose.
But Peter was aware of the sacrifice it had taken him. Before the kidnapping, he had taken his birthright with a grain of salt, the idea that he would someday have millions not really phazing him. But he had since sacrificed a nut for it, and that made it all hard-earned as far as he was concerned.
His grandfather had passed away only six months ago. Peter had had little time to get well acquainted with him after his discharge from the hospital, but the old man seemed pleased to have him back again, even if Peter did evidence a return to his wild ways-even that was better than the kid being a fruitcake all his life, the old man realized. Feeling somewhat guilty about his failure to act quickly enough during the kidnapping, the senior Le Grande had drawn up a new will, giving Peter a trust fund of twenty-five million outright, and setting up a plan that would assure the youth ownership of the entire empire someday when he had learned management. In the meantime, the corporation would be passed on to the hands of trusted employees, the reins to Peter, whenever the old man died. Whatever burst of youthful zest Peter showed was just part of the Le Grande rebeliousness, Madison figured. The kid was a chip off the old block . blue chip to be exact.
The old man must have sensed his time was coming, for he remade his will only a few weeks before he passed away in his sleep at the Rhode Island estate. It provided for health care for Paula, who had been sentenced for life at the New York Hospital for the Criminally Insane, a place where Julia too was confined.
After the funeral, Peter set out to take over the Bandol estate, seeking to get back to the Europe he loved. He tried to keep a low profile for the first few months, himself being only nine months removed from confinement, but as he established new jet-set friends, he began to throw more and more parties. He had replaced the staff with younger, hipper servants, so that they would fit in more with his lifestyle. He had been assured by his lawyers that he was very rich, and with a minimal of work on his part, could keep himself that way for life, entrusting the workings of the company to the men who had run it so well for Madison.
He had also hired round-the-clock armed bodyguards to prevent a repeat performance of the kidnapping. He was made to realize that, even though his mother had been put away, there were others who sought to gain political or financial gain through the abduction of wealthy persons.
His recovery at the clinic had been long and painstaking. Gradually, once the sexual therapy had gotten through to him, he had come to understand what an ordeal he had undergone. With every day more and more of his masculine identity had come back, until he was acting in a much more masculine manner than he ever had, even before the kidnapping. It was understood, upon his release, that he could always check in with the head doctor if he felt confused. But Peter had found a much more theraputic way to release his anxieties, one he enacted with his pretty new girlfriend, Randi.
Randi was perfect for his game, a hip jet-setting girl of twenty-three, a rich girl who made an excuse for her rich way of life by posing as a photo- journalist, a field in which she had some interest. The sexy blonde, stood five-six, and when she looked at Peter with her full blue eyes, Peter could see that she was properly neurotic.
The first girl he had tried his new act out on had threatened to go to the authorities when confronted by his act. Peter hadn't tried it on her at first, balling a few times before going to the closet, but she hadn't been a good subject. He knew that he could never be touched with his money, but he paid the girl the hundred-thousand she asked for just to keep things quiet anyway. After all the publicity the Le Grandes had been through during the past few years, he felt it best to try and keep a lid on it But Randi was different. She'd come to one of the countless parties he'd been throwing at his Riviera mansion a few months back on the arm of rock superstar, Val Maggot. But as the party went on, it became clear that Maggot only used girls as escorts to coner his homosexuality. Maggot soon had gone off with one of the pretty boys that hung around the fringe of Peter's new group.
It hadn't taken Peter long to see that Randi was perfect for his new identity. She was passive and sensual, and all fucked-up in the head, having a father complex. In less than a week, she had agreed to move in, acting as both Peter's regular mistress, and as queen of the mansion when it came to hosting the parties they threw.
In fact, a party was just winding down now. Peter, having recently screwed a little French nymph had come back down to the large living room to survey the scene. He had an under-standing with Randi that he could fuck whomever he pleased, but that she had to be faithful to him. The wealthy American heiress accepted it gladly- she was perfect for him.
He took a hit off a fat joint passed to him, then wandered around the mass of fucking, naked bodies, taking deep hits. There still were about twenty couples there, but Peter was bored and looked around for Randi so that he could retire. He put the roach into the remains of the avocado dip, then stepped out on the terrace, feeling the cool evening air hit his bare chest. Then he spotted Randi, dressed in a white pantsuit of the latest fashion, talking with one of her girlfriends. He walked over casually, a faintly bored look on his face.
"Bedtime," he announced, looking cooly at his mistress.
"Oh, yes, just a minute, Pet," she jabbered. "I just want to tell one more thing to Jenny."
The rather plain girl gave him a forced smile. She was lucky she had money, Peter concluded. Otherwise she'd never get a tumble from the guys.
"I didn't say later," Peter went on, his voice a hard edge that grated the nerves. "I said now."
Blushing, Randi allowed herself to be led away by Peter, leaving Jenny to self-consciously brush at her sleeve. "I wish you wouldn't try to embarrass me like that in front of my friends," she pleaded lamely, stepping over the undulating bodies beneath them.
Peter tightened his grip on her arm, but spoke quietly to her. It was a frighteningly quiet voice however, one that held a threat.
"Since when do your wishes count?" he shot coldly. "If you don't like it here you can leave."
"Oh no, please," she turned to him as they reached the broad marble stairs. "I just didn't want to be so... well so rudely treated in front of her."
"If you don't like it... " he repeated cooly.
"Oh, I'm sorry Peter, honest I am!" she blurted, moving close to him, her head looking down at her feet.
"I suppose you need a little lesson," he stated, turning to lead her up the stairs. "Oh, please," she said. "I'm still so sore from the other night."
He said nothing, making her heart beat in anticipation as he led the way down the carpeted hall to the double doors of the large master bedroom. He let her walk in, entered, then bolted the thick doors behind them.
"Get me the paddle!" he commanded, coming over to the large bed and stripping off his pants and shorts, leaving him lean and naked.
"No, no," she pleaded in a little-girl voice, taking on her role in the ritual.
"Perhaps you'd rather have the riding crop?" he threatened, sitting down on the satin sheets of the bed.
"Oh please," she stammered, then rushed to the closet and pulled out a round wooden paddle.
Very contritely she brought the paddle back to him, her cheeks blushing in shame. The paddle was a quarter of an inch thick and made of polished wood, about the size of a ping pong paddle only slightly smaller.
Meekly, she handed him the paddle and looked at him, her large blue eyes begging for mercy.
"Strip!" he ordered, patting his lap with emphasis with the menacing paddle.
Slowly, she began to strip off her garments, her eyes never leaving his as she pleaded to be spared. Peter loved this part of the ritual as the anticipation built in the girl and in him, causing his prick to swell up excitingly. Towards the end of his therapy the doctors had noticed a new manifestation in their patient, a tendency to be slightly sadistic during sex. As Peter had never recalled being that way before the kidnapping, the doctors believed that he was now seeking to repay his mother, and women in general, for the harsh treatment he had received at her hands.
As Peter began to understand and to remember more of what had happened to him, he confessed to his doctor a thrill at the domination game that had taken place during his initiation at the hands of Julia. This excitement still got him off, but now it was reversing itself. The doctors didn't want to force a relapse and have him revert to the Petite character, but at the same time they didn't want him to go the other way on them. So they cautioned him on the use of sadism, telling him that a little bit was all right, but for him not to go too far with it.
Peter had almost gone too far with the other girl, the one he'd had to pay off. But with Randi it was just right-this girl was a born masochist, a girl who had a hang-up on her father who seldom was home. He soon realized that they could work out a ritual that was exciting to both of them, Peter paying back his mother for all the troubles that she had caused him, the girl submitting to authority that she so desired. It enhanced their sex, and by this time they both realized just how far they could carry it without causing any real damage, their roles being well-rehearsed.
"Please don't make me do it," Randi said in the proper child's voice, now standing in only panties and bra.
"You've been naughty, trying to challenge me in front of Jenny," he stated cooly in a fatherly manner, still tapping the paddle to his leg, seated on the bed. "If you don't hurry, I'll make it harder."
With a fake sob, she undid her bra, letting her lush round tits fall out. They measured a nice thirty-seven and pointed up at the tips, having yet to give into the ravages of age. These firm mellons were all that kept this slim-hipped girl with the Voguish figure from being mistaken for a child, for her voice sounded like that of a six-year-old.
Gulping, she lay down over his lap, her head on the soft bed, her legs stretching off the end of the bed so that her toes barely touched the carpet.
Setting the paddle aside for the moment, Peter reached down and hooked his thumbs in the yellow nylon panties, yanking them down the girl's long legs, leaving her bare buttocks completely bare to whatever punishment he decided to inflict upon them. There were slight blue discolorations at the base of the hips, although quite faint, the area that had absorbed the maximum punishment a few days back.
"You still have some signs of your last whipping," Peter smiled, picking up the paddle. "If you weren't so bad, the marks would go away before I had to spank you again."
The girl let go a sigh at the sound of the word 'spank.' This was a key word to her sexuality. She could even get it off when they were fucking if he told her that she was going to get a spanking. This all fit in very nicely with the new image Peter was projecting.
He patted her nude buttocks with the smooth paddle, causing her to bunch up her muscles, making the cleft of her ass all the more pronounced.
"That won't help you," he chuckled, noticing how goose flesh had broken out over the white mounds. "Now you're going to get the spanking you deserve."
He placed his left hand firmly on the small of her back to hold her in place, then slowly hefted the paddle with his right, holding it over his head for a prolonged moment, causing her to squirm in anticipation.
SWHISH! The paddle came arcing down fast, cutting the air and causing Randi to tighten her asscheeks in a vain attempt to ward off the blow.
WHAP! ~ The paddle jumped off her right cheek with a solid CRACK, leaving a jiggling cheek in its wake that first went white as the blood was driven from the fleshy area momentarily, then flamed an angry pink, the gooseflesh all the more prominent.
"Oooooo!" a short gasp escaped her lips.
Then the paddle came swishing down again and landed on the left cheek: SPLATTTT!
"Yikes," the girl moaned, bouncing up slightly off the bed. But Peter held her firmly in place, marveling at the way the other cheek had reddened to match the other.
Then he began to spank her with a regular rhythm, spacing the swats at about three second intervals, the paddle covering every inch of her butt-the top of the right hip, then a blow to the base of both buttock clefts, the middle of the right cheek, a whap to the left thigh.
Randi bucked and moaned over his lap as the paddle landed, giving out with extra-loud cries whenever the paddle landed on her tender thighs, the sound being a duller WHAP when striking this tender area. She beat her feet lightly on the carpet, her hands against the bed, but made no real effort to get away-for the sharp burning pain had begun to be replaced by a steady glow of pleasure, that curious mixture of pleasure and pain that masochists love.
"You shouldn't be so naughty," Peter began to scold as he spanked, using the flailing paddle to punctuate his remarks. "Then I wouldn't, have to spank."
She shuddered as each swat landed, her most intimate parts being displayed to him as he paddled away, her ass working violently as it reddened, several puffed areas beginning to show a few blue dots. But still -he brought the punishing paddle down, harder and harder. SMACK! "There that should show you!"
WHAP!
"Youch... I'll be good!"
She had begun to cry now, but it wasn't the crying of someone in true pain, but more a part of the ritual. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps, and her voice broke as she pleaded, letting Peter know that she really wanted more spanking not less.
He gave her her wish. SPANK!
"You've been bad!" SPANK!
"Oh, ouch... sob, harder, HARDER!"
She had reached that point of no return, her hips working violently up over his knees as if to reach up for the spanking paddle. He brought the weapon down more rapidly now, as the girl approached orgasm, rubbing against his thigh as she bucked up and down, begging for him to lay it on hard.
Peter could see nothing but his mother now, viewing the deep-red ass as that of the woman who had dared to fuck with him, to dare and give the order to have his nut chopped off. A hollow ache grew in the void where that nut had once been, but it was an ache of lust, his cock hard and ready to fuck from spanking this mother surrogate so hard.
With a final flurry of spanks, he concluded the spanking, leaving Randi's ass an apple red and swollen, several streaks and bruises showing through.
SPANK! SPANK! SPANK!
"There, there, THERE! Take that, Mother," he said, throwing the paddle to the floor after delivering the last and hardest spank that left her butt jiggling.
"OH! AHHH! AHHHHHHHH!" she screamed, her buttocks continuing to pump up and down even after he'd quit spanking her as she went through an intense orgasm. She moaned and groaned, her face nearly as red as her ass as she bucked through her come, until her whimpers died down to long sighs and her hips slowed their frantic pace.
"Suck me off!" Peter commanded, feeling her pussyhairs touch against the head of his swollen organ.
She quickly scrambled to the floor, sucking the snot that had accumulated in her nose during the time she'd cried down her throat so she could breathe as she gave head.
Once the nasal area was cleared, she knelt in between his thighs, balancing on her knees, and grasped the thick shaft of his by the root and pumped at it with her fingers. She moved her head down and took the swollen skin of the head into her mouth and began to munch away.
Peter permitted himself a sigh as he leaned down to rest his hands on the shoulders of the blonde. He marveled at how red her ass was as it jiggled in time with her bobbing head, while she sucked and blew. He shivered as she did one of her favorite tricks, running one of her fingers up into the empty sac and probing around. It made him gasp out in pleasure, as she probed the empty area, then pulled it out to play at the other full sac of marble, and to tug at the scrotal patch.
"Suck me, Mama," he shouted, visions of Paula still in his head.
She blew out her cheeks and sucked, her mouth puckered around his cable as she bobbed her head up and down the organ, her first still working at the base of the shaft. Her other hand clawed at his hips as her tongue darted wildly over the sensitive surface of the cockhead.
"Here it comes!" Peter shouted to his mother replacement, his ass bunching up, his belly stiffening, as he felt the hot load come unglued from his stomach.
The girl steeled herself, pumping at the shaft harder with her hand, and took the first gob of goo into her throat and swallowed it down, her Adam's apple bobbing as she continued to suck. Peter let out a long moan of satisfaction as she drained away his come, relaxing and falling back to the bed as she gobbled down the last drop.
It was so nice to be back in the mainstream of life, he thought, enjoying sex the way it should be. Maybe someday this girl would let him cut her with his knives and do the things he really wanted to do... maybe he'd even get to snip off those big nipples of hers. It was so good to be back to normal.
