A bevy of young white virgins are held prisoner by angry, sadistic black militant jazz musicians ... they are subjugated, tamed, degraded and forced to submit to the kiss of the whip; the humility of bondage; then they must present their bodies voluntarily for defilement and ravagement. Black power demonstrated in the most lascivious, raw manner possible.
He who is merely just is severe.
Voltaire, 1740
CHAPTER ONE
Genevieve Douglas liked to think that she was God's gift to mankind. She was stunningly beautiful and knew it, and took care to see that the young men who went out with her knew it also and were tortured by it. In a word, Genevieve was an expert allumeuse ... a most vivid French term which translated roughly into English means simply, "prickteaser."
She was twenty-one, with flaming red hair worn in a long pageboy that descended below her shoulderblades. About five feet six inches in height, she had a svelte, deliciously enticing figure, with high-perched titties set closely together, a breathtakingly slim waist that curved into sleek, lithe hips and a pair of saucy, tightly spaced bottomovals.
Her face was oval, too, like a cameo; a dainty, somewhat snub nose, with delicate, thin, widely flaring nostrils; a petulant small mouth with insolent upper Up riper than its red mate; slantingly set cheekbones, and intense hazel eyes surmounted by thick curly lashes and eloquently penciled brows. Her skin was a warm cream, flawless and vivid, natural to redheads of her type. And she was also a narcissist-spending hours before her mirror and smiling at her beauty and being proud of it and making plans to captivate more and more young men who would fall victim to the spell of bitchery inherent in her taunting, fickle nature.
She had even heard herself called a "prickteaser" in exactly that obscene but meaningful term: Henry Wilson, two years older than she, stocky, brown-haired, working in his father's insurance agency, had said that to her just last Friday night. They had been off and on friends since high school, because Henry had lived down the block where her parents had their ranch-type house on Orrington Avenue in residential Evanston. Henry thought that one day Genevieve would marry him, but she had other ideas. She found him much too stodgy and conventional to her tastes. Oh, she'd let him have a few kisses now and then and even cop a few free feels. But last Friday night, she had decided to see just how far she could go with him. It was June, a week after the college prom, and she'd agreed to his taking her to dinner at Fanny's in Evanston for that wonderful fried chicken and chocolate cake which were standbys on the menu, and then dancing at the Aragon on Chicago's North Side.
Genevieve had worn her newest dress, a strapless silver lame cocktail frock whose glistening, clinging sheath emphasized the exciting long thighs and provocative hips, and allowed by its decolletage a glimpse of the valley of her magnificent titties.
They had danced to the music of Johnny Caswell and his thirteen-piece combo, a "hep" young group that was already beginning to win the attention of the nightclub critics. Henry's eyes had flamed at the sight of Genevieve's long pageboy swinging back and forth while she whirled about in his arms, and he had inhaled almost with erotic rapture the jasmine scent of her perfume which she had carefully applied to the lobes of her ears, to her nape, to her dainty armpits and also to her bellybutton-though she knew very well that Henry would never get that far.
It had been a delightful evening. She had basked in the obvious adulation which Henry Wilson had shown her as an attentive escort and as one who wanted to be a great deal more. That was always the delicious, tantalizing peak of an evening for her, when she first became aware that the male beside her was beginning to feel the inner pangs of lust for her chaste pussy-for of course Genevive retained her cherry and regarded herself as a wise virgin untouched by such common and uncouth desires as a man felt between his thighs for her appetizing charms.
As they danced, she had turned her most seductive smile upon him, moved closer into his arms so that at times the nipples of her titties brushed against his chest, or her belly at times sinuously brushed his. The naughty sensation of feeling his loins against hers for an infinitesimal moment created a shivering bliss-torment inside her pussy and made its lips moisten and twitch with a forbidden yearning. And as she consciously goaded him with her smile and with the pressures of her supple, svelte body, she saw his face begin to redden, his chest begin to heave erratically, and heard his voice beginning to thicken, until she knew that he was inflamed to the point of wanting to fuck her.
Oh, yes, Genevieve indeed knew all the dirty words. She and her little coterie of girlfriends, who had playfully called themselves "The Sexless Musketeers" because all of them, like herself, were pl-edged to holding off the male until the wedding night, spent many a delightful hour exchanging notes and comparing experiences on how they had excited a man's prick until it was at the bursting point and yet without sacrificing their sacrosanct maidenheads.
And so that night, after they had left the Aragon and Henry had begun to drive her home, she had waited with a smug little smile on her red lips, knowing that he was certainly going to make a pass at her and wondering just how adroit or stupid it would be.
She knew very well that they were practically engaged and that their families expected it as a perfect marriage. But for herself, Genevieve knew very well that she wouldn't marry anybody until she had exhausted all the possibilities of being courted, made a fuss over, and treated like a queen by every possible eligible male who came into her circle of influence. And if she did finally marry Henry Wilson, she knew very well that she would keep him at arms' length and dole out her favors as a queen dispenses largesse to her most faithful and devoted subjects, as a kind of reward for performance beyond the call of duty. In a word, she intended to make a slave even out of the man who would put a ring upon her finger and observe all the conventional niceties of wedlock.
He had driven out past Calvary Cemetery along the lake and then, just as she had anticipated, parked his Dodge Polara off a little side road past Grantham Street where there was a tiny little park about a half mile beyond the cemetery. It had been a cloudy evening and the moon was hiding behind the sky, and very few stars were out. He had professed a desire to get out and stretch his legs and smoke a cigarette and enjoy the fresh air. Of course, that was perfectly logical, because Chicago's lake was polluted but out here in Evanston where there weren't so many automobiles and no dead alewives, the lake and the air were still fortunately pure. As pure as herself, she thought cynically. At first, she pleaded lateness of the hour and then pretended at last to yield to his naive urgings to enjoy the view and to take pleasure in the quiet night after the exercise they had had in a crowded ballroom. So she had agreed, knowing very well that he was going to make a pass at her.
They had sat down on a little stone bench and he'd nervously taken out a pack of cigarettes and lit one for her and then puffed at one himself and stared out at the lake and made some commonplace remark about how beautiful nature was. She could almost have written his script line for line, word for word, after that. Next he went on to talk about the wonders of nature and how the birds, the bees and the flowers were harmoniously mated. And then, of course, he had grown more precise and persistent; he had slipped an arm around her waist and, kissing her like a school boy on the cheek, had stammered, "You're so gorgeous, Jenny. I want you so much. You know that, don't you?"
She had smiled at him and archly nodded. Of course she knew it. And she knew what he was going to say next, that because they were practically engaged and certain to be married one of these days, he had to have some proof of her love for him. His hand had wandered upwards until his palm had pressed against one of her jutting titties, and then with a little groan he had cupped her chin with his other hand and crushed his lips to her, panting, "Oh, Jenny, I've got to have you, I'm crazy for you! It's all right, since we're going to be married, you know it's all right."
"What's all right, dear?" she had said blithely as soon as she had been able to struggle away from his embrace. His face was flushed, his eyes glittering, and his breath was short and whistling in his lungs.
He had turned redder than ever, squirmed nervously on the bench and finally croaked, "I-I want to make love to you, Jenny."
She had always detested that diminutive of her name; Genevieve was a stately name, befitting her patrician and exalted status. "Jenny" was the name one might give a chambermaid, the kind of girl who would let a fellow like Henry Wilson put his hand under her skirt and tickle her pussy and make all sorts of outrageous propositions to her. But she, Genevieve, wasn't that kind of girl at all. So she teasingly replied, with her eyes very large and innocent, "But you are making love to me, Henry dear, aren't you?"
He had squirmed again, and groaned, "You know what I mean, honey. I mean, I-I want to go to bed with you."
"You do? But we will when we're married, you know that."
"Oh, Jenny!" he had gasped hoarsely, and then he had grabbed her by the waist and buried his face against the valley of her titties, his lips and tongue adoring the warm creamy bare skin which her cocktail frock displayed so generously and provocatively.
And then she had pushed him away and slapped him, and in a cold haughty voice rebuked him: "How dare you! I'm not a slut, and if you want that sort of thing, you'd better find yourself some little whore. That's no way to treat the woman you expect to make your wife, Henry Wilson. I don't think we'd better see each other until you've thought things over and have the good grace to apologize."
He had got up from the bench in a cold, white fury, grinding his teeth together, and walked back to the car. She had nonchalantly followed, a mocking little smile on her lips. But inside, her heart was pounding wildly, and the lips of her pussy were sticky with her own prelubrication; this cockteasing scene had inflamed her furiously, and she was grateful to him because it meant that she could go home and frig herself deliriously while she lay on her bed with her eyes closed pretending that she was being fucked ... yet without endangering her cherry one iota.
And then, driving her back to Orrington Avenue, he had kept his face averted from her and his eyes on the road, his jaws taut with frustrated anger. And when he had finally walked her to the door, he had looked at her, his face dark with anger, and had snapped, "You-you prickteaser you! Maybe some day you'll learn how to be a woman. I think you're right, we won't see each other for a while. But I'm not going to be the one to apologize. Thank you for a very lovely evening." And then he had turned his back on her and strode back to the Polara and driven off with a squeal of brakes.
She could hardly wait to get into her bedroom and to be naked under the sheets where, languorously, lingeringly, she had tickled the rims of her moist quim with a dainty fingertip until at last she had found her little clittie and made it throb and stiffen with exquisite, furtive touches until finally the explosion of bliss had arched her supple naked body under the sheets and she had pretended that she had just been fucked to come. And thus she enjoyed selfish pleasure without having the burden of sacrificing herself to a man. It made her feel triumphantly superior.
CHAPTER TWO
Genevieve Douglas shifted luxuriously on her chaise lounge and cradled the French phone against her shoulder, using the affixing bracket, while she languidly reached for a cigarette, flicked on her silver, monogrammed fighter and touched the glowing flame to the tip of the long filtered tube. Her delicate, sensuous nostrils flared as she exhaled a wreath of blue smoke. Then, holding the cigarette between right forefinger and median finger, she picked up the phone with her left hand as her eyes sparkled with anticipation. "Peggy? This is Genevieve Douglas. How are you, darling? Oh, just fine. Tell me, are you and your cousin Margie doing anything tomorrow evening? That's wonderful. Oh, I have a little amusement in mind and I thought that since we were all sort of alumni, we might just still have some fun. Sure. Have you ever been to a real black and tan joint? I didn't think so. Well, I just happened to get hold of a jazz magazine, and there's an article about how much really creative new jazz you can hear on the South Side. Of course there are niggers there, darling, don't be so naive. But if the two of you go with me, and I'm going to ask some of our other friends, they won't dare bother us. After all, they're just hired entertainers, and our money is just as good as theirs. Great. Then it's a date. Well, I was thinking of asking Brenda Abrams, and maybe Julia Vickery and Dorothy Tompkins. That would make six of us. Fine. I'll call you back as soon as I've got them on the phone and find out. Otherwise, you and Margie and I will make a nice threesome. Bye now, Peggy honey."
She put down the phone for moment and took a long puff of her cigarette. She wore a black satin negligee and smoke-hued gauzy nylons and high-heeled sandles. She glanced over to the dressing table in her boudoir with its built-in huge oval-shaped mirror, and made a face at herself. She arched herself a little so that the closely spaced globes of her high-perched breasts thrust boldly against the bodice of the negligee.
"You're real sexy and delicious, girl," she said narcissistically to the mirror and made another pert moue at it. She took another puff of her cigarette, and left the cigarette in her mouth as she slowly and delicately ran her right hand down from her bosom to the hollow between her thighs which the negligee gently shaped out. Beneath the satin, she was creamy naked, and she felt the lips of her pussy twitch as she tried to recall her last meeting with Henry Wilson. So he had called her a "prick-teaser," had he? Of course she was. Why should a mere man, just because he felt a stimulus in his gonads, have the audacity to think that she, Genevieve Douglas, would He down and spread her legs and submissively receive him and be grateful in the process? Men were such egotistic beasts, and all they wanted was to get between your legs and shove those great big swollen ugly things into your dainty flesh and never mind whether you liked it or not so long as they could have their pleasure. Well, if that was being a "prick-teaser," then maybe she was and glad of it.
But just the same, until she really fell in love, really met a man who could master her and whom she could respect and admire and who could rouse her to passion, she wasn't going to sell herself cheaply just because some fellow who had gone out with her a few times felt the urge and he had to use his hand ... just the way she did when she felt excited. Why didn't men have the brains to realize that girls often felt the same passions they did, only it wasn't supposed to be nice for a girl to admit it aloud. Men could have their cake and eat it too, but just let a girl be bold and she'd be labeled a slut and never live it down. No thank you.
She sniffed disdainfully and then reached for the phone again and dialed the number of Brenda Abrams. Brenda was one of those intellectual and beautiful Jewesses who had got out of Northwestern the same time she had, just two weeks ago, at the age of twenty with a degree of Bachelor of Arts. Brenda was going to be a journalist, and intended to get a job as a copy girl on one of the Chicago papers in the fall. He father and mother were going to take her to Europe in July, and then she would probably find herself matched to some nice fellow her mother and father had already picked out and forget all about writing newspaper stories. She was a pretty nice girl in spite of her religion and her race and her money, and so far as Genevieve Douglas could like anyone except herself, she rather admired Brenda Abrams. If she only knew it, the feeling wasn't mutual at all....
Brenda Abrams, at this very moment, if the truth be known, wasn't going to be able to answer the phone when Genevieve rang her, for the very excellent reason at this exact moment she was in the apartment of a handsome towheaded young man, Ben Lorway. Ben was twenty-three, also a graduate of Northwestern, and a clerk in his father's chain of hardware stores. He was starting at the bottom of the ladder and learning the business the hard way, which was exactly the way he wanted it, and that pleased his father a great deal. Ben was an energetic, intelligent and alert young man, but he happened to be Gentile. Brenda had met him last summer because she had gone to summer school to get some extra credits so that she could graduate a year ahead of schedule and maybe convince her parents that her brainy work entitled her to pursue a career and not get married. She knew perfectly well whom they had in mind: Jerry Levin, a studious, rabbinical student who was the son of a South Side Rabbi and who unfortunately was dull as dishwater.
She had always been a good daughter, and had made the effort of going out with Jerry on two formal occasions just because her parents were friends of Jerry's mother and father and felt that it would be a good thing for the young people to get together. He wore glasses, he was stuffy, he was forever quoting the Talmud and he hardly ever read the newspaper, and he didn't even know how to dance. Not that Brenda was flighty and not that she expected to lead a gay nightlife as a young married woman, but at least a girl expected a little romance and a little imagination, even from a rabbi's son. Besides which, when he had finally got around to telling her that he ad mired her-and that was exactly the formal stilted term he used-he mentioned that he had always believed in large families as a blessing, and Brenda had rolled her eyes to the heavens and said to herself, "This is too much." The thought of being pregnant the first year and then bearing a brood and finding herself fat and with a huge family by the time she was thirty appalled her.
And that was why she was out with Ben, and up in his apartment now, because his father, who had been a widower seven years, was out of town on a buying trip and wouldn't be back for another week. Brenda felt a certain little guilty twinge of conscience when she huddled close to Ben on the couch, because she knew first of all she shouldn't be unchaperoned with a fellow in his apartment, and rest of all she shouldn't be with a goy. If her father and mother knew that he was necking with her right now and she was returning his attentions with considerable interest, they would probably inflict the first spanking she had had since she had been five years old and knocked over three of her mother's favorite dishes in a tantrum fit.
Brenda was really delicious. She wore harlequin glasses, which gave her a pert and provocative look. She was about five feet five with dark brown eyes, a full ripe mouth, a dainty nose with somewhat thickening nostrils, and slantingly set cheekbones. Her body was really lush, which was probably one reason her mother, who had married when she was only seventeen, secretly felt it would be a good idea to marry Brenda off before she began to have sex problems. She was a shy woman in spite of her youthful marriage, and unfortunately she had had several miscarriages after Brenda, leaving the beautiful brunette an only child, but all the more adored for that reason. Brenda's dark brown hair was coiffured in a thick bun at the back of her head, with the hair combed away high off her forehead.
Her body was a poem of rich and appetizing delight: round full succulent breasts, spaced well apart, a graceful though not slender waist which flared into spacious hips, upstandingly round bottomcheeks and delightfully plump thighs and rounded calves. She was olive, warm and smooth, and she had an adorable little mole on her upper thigh just under the base of her bottom. Ben had already discovered this beauty spot. In fact, at this moment, just as Genevieve Douglas was thinking of dialing Brenda's number, Ben's lips were ardently pressed to the adorable little mole.
Brenda lay back on his couch, her head tilted back over the top, her eyes closed, her skirts rolled up to her waist as well as her slip, and she had pulled her knees up against her bubbies and was holding on to them tightly. In this exquisitely lascivious pose, her bottom was upturned, sheathed in a very brief pair of white nylon panties. The weather being warm, Brenda had worn no stockings. Ben was kneeling on the floor and had his hands gripping the backs of her knees while his face pressed against the warm olive-sheened naked skin of her upper thigh. The feel of his warm trembling lips on her bare skin was driving Brenda wild. If he didn't stop, she was going to be unable to stop him from what she was sure he wanted to do. Put it into her. She had never learned any dirty words, but she had read enough books to know exactly what was going to happen in short order if she didn't call a halt to Ben's agressiveness. Secretly, she thrilled to it. She had had five dates with him, all unbeknownst to her parents, and she was learning to work things out so that she could marry him and live happily ever after. He wouldn't be like Jerry at all. Jerry would probably wear a sackcloth and ashes to bed and read from the Talmud about how blessed it was to procreate and multiply. Oh gosh!
"Ben, darling, please! You-you're embarrassing me terribly," she giggled in a high-pitched voice, which always made her feel so self-conscious and which she always did when she was under some emotional stress. "This is ridiculous and it's embarrassing too! Let go of my legs and let's act nice and proper, please, dear."
"But I don't want to act proper with you, Brenda. God, what gorgeous warm skin you've got! Do you know what I'd like to do to you right now?"
"Please don't tell me. You-you're making it terribly hard for me as it is."
"Look at who's talking about making it terribly hard. I'm the one that's terribly hard and it's all your fault. Do you want to see?" he said hoarsely.
With this, he released her legs and stood up, and Brenda, with a gasp, promptly swung her legs down to the floor, squirmed around and hurriedly pulled down her skirt and slip. Her cheeks were crimson, and her brown eyes were humid and dilated. Her nostrils flared and shrank, and her titties rose and fell with an exuberance that wasn't exactly due to her need for oxygen. Worst of all, she felt a suspicious tickling moisture in the region of her crotch ... and she knew that she was awfully near that telltale point when a girl gets worked up and has a climax. Oh, how exciting he was! What a wonderful husband he was going to make, and what an even better lover! If only he weren't a goyl
"I-I don't know what you're talking about. Now please be nice. If I thought you were going to be like this, I would never have come up to your apartment alone with you," she stammered by way of token protest.
"One thing I respect about you, Brenda, is that you're truthful and not one of those stuckup snots like that Genevieve Douglas," he replied hoarsely, for he was still panting with frustration. He wore a pullover sport shirt and light slacks, and there was a suspicious bulge at their crotch. Brenda tried not to be conscious of it, but stealthily she looked at it out of the comers of her eyes, and her face got redder than ever. Oh, my, how-how big he was-there ... and she had brought this about because he was so passionate for her. What she wouldn't give to be able to tell him that she wanted him just as much. There were times when she couldn't sleep in the last year or so, burdened down with all the homework and the study she did because she wanted to get out of school earlier and realize her ambition of working on a newspaper, when she had tried to play with herself ... down there ... and sometimes she could work herself up for such a long time that she would almost faint away when the explosion finally came. And it would always bring sleep, blessed sleep, but this time she didn't want to sleep at all. She-she wanted him to tickle her there ... to even ... yes, she wasn't ashamed to admit ... k-kiss her there, too!
"You know perfectly well, Brenda, that I'm crazy about you. And I'm not going to rape you, if that's what you're worried about. I don't believe in that. When two people are in love with each other, they naturally want to enjoy each other's body. We can give and take pleasure when we're together, and it isn't selfish. Besides, I want to marry you, if you want to know the truth. I hadn't planned to say it quite out like that, but I want you to know that I'm not just a guy looking for a quick lay," Ben now insisted.
"You-you shouldn't talk so vulgarly, darling." She chided him with a certain maternal solicitude which was typical of her race and creed. "I know what you mean. But you know perfectly well we can't get married. We're of different faiths."
"Dad wouldn't care. I've told him all about you and he thinks you're a swell girl. He says any girl that would buckle down and finish school in three years instead of four had brains and should make a good wife. And he doesn't care if you're not a Protestant."
"I know, sweetheart, and it's wonderful of him and you to say that, but my parents wouldn't agree, I'm afraid. They've got somebody picked out for me, I know they have, and I probably will have to marry him even if I don't want to. Unless maybe I can hold a job at the newspaper and have a career of my own and talk them out of forcing me into marrying somebody I don't care for," Brenda earnestly explained. She leaned forward and stared at him, because it meant very much for her to retain Ben's good will and friendship. Maybe, maybe by some miracle, although right now she didn't know how it would possibly happen, she and Ben could be together for always....
CHAPTER THREE
When Genevieve Douglas found that Brenda's mother was answering the phone and didn't know where her daughter was (which was just as well, considering the way things were at the moment), she thanked Mrs. Abrams politely and asked that Brenda call her as soon as she got back. She started a chain of thought in Mrs. Abram's mind, for Brenda had told her that morning that she was going downtown to the library to look up some books on journalism. If that were the case, she certainly ought to be back by now. Maybe she was out with that-no, Brenda was a good girl, she wouldn't, she wouldn't go against her parents' wishes and take up with a goy. Mrs. Abrams sighed. She was still a very handsome woman at thirty-eight, with only a streak of gray to her jet-black hair worn in an imposing pompadour. She knew what Brenda was going through now, wanting independence, wanting to get away from the old stereotype of early marriage and children and a family and responsibilities weighing her down and making her an old woman by the time she was thirty. It was such a terrible shame that nice Jewish girls always seemed to get fat and dowdy when they reached thirty, and lost all the spirit and girlishness and sweetness which they had when they were in their teens. Sometimes she thought that the tradition of the family was so very strong that it didn't leave room for individuality. Jerry was such a nice boy, but if she personally were Brenda's age again and had to consider marrying him, she would have to admit to herself that it would not be too ecstatic a prospect.
Genevieve Douglas now impatiently dialed the number of Julia Vickery. Julia was an insipid sandy-haired blonde of twenty-two. She had graduated the same time as Brenda and Genevieve, because she had lost a year first with a marriage annulment and then with a nervous tizzy about the annulment which had made her drop out of school. She just hung on by the skin of her teeth, to use the expression, till she could get the diploma. She was probably going to wind up marrying a nice rich young North Side bachelor with social connections and an important family name. Genevieve liked her because Julia was easy to handle. Julia had no real opinions of her own, and she had a very tyrannical father (her mother was a pale shadow and had really no say in the Vickery home), and she happened to think that Genevieve was just perfectly wonderful. So at times Genevieve used Julia to natter her own growing and insolent ego. What she wanted was a little court of sycophants about her. She had often read that Negroes were supposed to be terrific lovers and that in the South, white women secretly went wild and would do anything to have a nigger get into bed with them, even though they would cry rape right afterwards and have the poor guy lynched. She had to test her power. She always wondered what it would be like to have a black-skinned buck in bed with her right over her bare white skin and mauling her and slobbering all over her. If she could put Henry Wilson into such a state, she just wondered what she could do with one of those big sturdy strapping black bucks when she flaunted herself in one of her Saks Fifth Avenue evening gowns. Of course, she knew there'd be safety in numbers and the nigger wouldn't dare do anything except look with his tongue hanging out. It amused Genevieve to think of this. That was why she had conceived the idea of going to the black-and-tan nightclub tomorrow night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brenda Abrams called back about two hours after Genevieve's message to her mother, and Genvieve had explained the reason for her call and also her invitation for the next evening. Brenda decided that it was probably just as well to spend the evening in a "hen party" so she could have a good chance to think things over very seriously about her boyfriend, Ben Lorway. She realized things were getting quite serious with Ben Lorway and that she was going to have to make a decision very soon. She didn't think she could keep it from her folks if she took him on just as a lover, and she really didn't want that.
In spite of her desire for independence, Brenda Abrams was an innately conventional girl who just wanted to give all she had to the man of her choice and let him serve her in every possible way in which a fellow could make a girl physically happy. Maybe she ought to work on Ben and try to make him adopt her faith, but she didn't think that would work at all. It was just dreadful that parents had to insist that there just weren't decent, marriageable young men outside of your own religion. Otherwise, everything that Ben had to offer would certainly have made a hit with her folks, because he was dependable, from a good family, and he was certain to inherit his father's hardware stores and be sure to offer her a wonderful life-although that wasn't too important as far as she was concerned. What would she do if her parents went on insisting that she marry Jerry Levin instead, and she had to come out and tell them the reason she didn't want any part of him-and that included the part between his legs! Besides, after listening to Genevieve's comments about the Negro night club they were going to visit tomorrow night, Brenda though she might even get a chance to do a future story on it and try to sell it to one of the Chicago papers and thus get herself a job at one fell swoop. And if she did get a job and was able to be on her own, a break with her parents would be much easier. And living on her own would make it much easier to see Ben Lorway.
Genevieve Douglas's final call was to Dorothy Tompkins. Dorothy Tompkins was twenty-one; her honey-colored hair styled in a long pageboy, very much like Genevieve's and she had a charmingly rounded, ingenuous face with dark blue eyes, a softly rounded and deeply dimpled chin, and a generous, ripe, and very kissable mouth. She was about medium height, with a carnation-tinted skin, and she had a breathtaking figure, especially her calves and thighs, which never failed to draw the eyes of men, even if they were walking on the other side of the street. Dorothy had what could be called "saucy" legs, because the curves of her calves were high-set and they rippled and flexed deliciously when she walked. Her thighs were gradually curving and ripening as they neared her mobile and enchantingly undulating round bottom. Her breasts were small, though firm and shaped like apples, yet they had charming proportions and very saucy dark coral nipples. Yet there were plenty of men who preferred a woman's bottom and legs to her titties, and so Dorothy Tompkins had her fair share of male admirers.
Dorothy lived with an elderly aunt, although she had an income of her own left in trust to her, and stood to inherit the bulk of her father's estate when she was twenty-five. She had had a few flirtations, but nothing serious, and she was also a virgin. She did not quite have the sophistication to be a prick-teaser as Genevieve was, but she secretly admired Genevieve's ability to dangle a man from her little finger. That was why Genevieve liked her-because Dorothy was so transparently easy to control and also was one of her most respectful and admiring sycophants.
The insolent redhead hung up the phone and smiled to herself. Tomorrow night was going to be a lot of fun. With five girlfriends along, there couldn't be any trouble. She just wondered what sort of appeal she would have to a nigger, whether he would openly show his lust for her. It would be fun to find out.
Genevieve Douglas was going to find out exactly what her appeal was. The only trouble was, five other unsuspecting and not nearly so supercilious girls were going to be involved in the drama which would change Genevieve Douglas's psyche in a most unexpected and violent manner.
CHAPTER FIVE
Genevieve Douglas would have been much luckier if her parents had lived, because possibly they might have resorted to the parental hairbrush upon occasion and spanked some of the arrogance and selfishness out of her. But they had both been killed in an automobile accident when she was fourteen, and her father's older brother had become her guardian and executor of her estate. He died of a heart attack just three months ago, on the day after her twenty-first birthday. As a result, Genevieve inherited quite a good deal of monc, had her own swanky apartment on North Lake Shore Drive, and there was nobody to advise her or suggest how she really ought to behave. She was therefore a law unto herself, and thus far she had gone on unchecked until Henry Wilson had applied that vulgar but very graphic and certainly deserved epithet to her.
Now, in the cab which was taking her and five friends to the Club du Sable, Genevieve Douglas looked about with a supercilious little smile. It did her ego good to have her little retinue about her, like a queen presiding over her court. Of course she would stand treat for the bill, which would make them further beholden to her.
The cab driver parked in front of the nightclub, which had a long canopy over its entrance running from the door out to the curb, and a neon sign in red and green annouced the name of the establishment. There was a liveried doorman, over six feet tall, looking like a professional wrestler, with a Van Dyke beard, who opened the cab door and tipped his cap. He thought to himself, "Oh, oh, another lot of slummers, comin' to see how us black folks lives. Hope they learn something." His hope was to be realized even more graphically than he could dream, and later on he would kick himself for not having been able to take part in the action. But Millard Finchway, forty-two, married and with three children, and all he could do to keep a little black-and-tan sweetheart on the side without his wife's finding out.
"Evenin', ladies," he said in his mellow bass voice, "welcome to the Club du Sable."
"Are we in time for the first show, doorman?" Genevieve insolently demanded.
"You sure is, M'am. Gonna start in ten minutes. Jist time for you and your friends to get yourselves a table and have a quickie," he cordially explained. He was thinking to himself, "Gosh Almighty, what I wouldn't give to have a quickie with any one of these ofay chicks!"
Genevieve Douglas arrogantly stared at him, then tossed her head as she called to her friends, "Come along, so we don't miss anything."
"Just a minute, lady," the cab driver spoke up respectfully, "you done forgot to pay me."
"Oh, how stupid of me!" Genevieve Douglas airily exclaimed as she turned around and opened her purse. "How much is it, my man?"
The driver, a lanky, wiry young mulatto, scowled at her. He didn't much care for a white slummer to call him "my man," and he had a vague inkling at the back of his mind that this haughty white piece of society stuff might just have been trying to beat him out of his fare. "It'll be five-ninety, 'eluding all the extra riders, that's what."
"Here you are, my man. That's for your trouble," Genevieve said grandiosely, handling him a five, a one, and a fifty-cent piece. He took it, with another scowl. A sixty-cent tip all the way from the Near North side, with the extra riders too, wasn't exactly par for the course. Maybe that's why these white folks were rich, because they hung on to it. He shifted gears and drove away without a word, while Genevieve Douglas stared after him, then shrugged. "I'll-mannered boor," she said aloud, then strode towards the doorway of the club which Millard Finchway hastened ahead of her to open for her and her friends.
Some of the musicians were tuning up on stage. It was a seven-piece combo, and the room was semi-darkened, with tables placed in a circle towards the stand, and a number of booths along the walls on two sides. At the wall directly opposite the stage there was a bar. There was also a narrow stairway to the left which led to private rooms where special parties, conferences and sometimes amorous assignations took place.
The headwaiter, a pompous-loo long, plump bald Negro in his fifties, wearing a tuxedo and carrying a menu, approached Genevieve and inclined his head: "Your pleasure, ladies?"
"We'd like a table close to the musicians, if you please," Genevieve Douglas commanded in her most imperious tone.
"I'm real sorry, M'am, but don't you have a reservation?"
"Of course not. I didn't expect one would need one in a place like this," the young redhead contemptuously replied.
The Negro maitre d'hotel frowned. "I'm right sorry to disaccommodate you, M'am, but Friday evenings and Saturdays too are our best times. We're booked solid. 'Course I can give you ladies a table at the back and to the side, but that's the very best I can do on such short notice."
"Now see here," Genevieve Douglas stamped her pumpshod foot, her eyes flashing, "we aren't accustomed to having to beg for a table, especially not in a nigger nightclub! I'll have you know my name is Genevieve Douglas, and my parents were very important socially here. I live on North Lake Shore Drive and I've plenty of money to pay for one of your silly old tables. Now I've brought you six people in all, and I expect service. Here! See what you can do for me!" With this, again opening her purse, she handed him a dollar bill.
The Negro maitre d'hotel stared at her for a moment, contempt and disgust visible in his eyes. Then he shrugged, and in a subdued voice remarked, "If you'll come this way, please."
He led her down to a table at the very fringe of the stage, only a few feet away from the bandstand where the combo was to play. "I trust you'll be satisfied with this, M'am," he said as he laid down two menus.
"There are six of us and we'd like a menu apiece," Genevieve insolently remarked as again she stared at him with withering contempt.
"I'll have to apologize for that, M'am," he obsequiously replied, "but we don't have that many extra menus to go around, and most folks know what we've got to serve anyhow. You'll have to make do with just these two. I'm sure it won't be too great an inconvenience."
"Are you trying to be insolent, fellow?" Genevieve hissed, flushing hotly. "Now you just leave six menus here and send a waiter over if you know what's good for you. Otherwise I'm going to complain to the manager of this club."
"I happen to be the manager, M'am," he said softly. "You'll just have to make do with these two menus."
The other five girls had already seated themselves and were listening to Genevieve with openmouthed attention. Dorothy Tompkins, who thought that Genevieve was wonderful, was breathless with excitement. She secretly hated niggers, and she was ever so happy to see dear Genevieve put one in his place. But with the unexpected comment of this rude fellow who had seated them, saying that he was the manager, Dorothy Tompkins was a little nonplussed; she was wondering now how Genevieve was going to get out of it.
The redhead stared at him again, and then sarcastically remarked in a loud voice, "Well, it's easy to see that this isn't a first-class nightclub. I'm not accustomed to being treated like this. In Paris or New York or San Francisco, I can assure you we'd have six menus."
"I'm sorry, M'am. I'll get you a waiter right away."
The other tables had begun to fill up, and the place was about half-filled by now. As a rule, in this part of the South Side of Chicago at 38th and South Park Avenue, the guests of the Club du Sable usually flocked to the second show which went on about quarter past nine. Even so, the attendance was quite good for a Friday night and a first show. And there were enough people at the neighboring tables to have heard Genevieve's loud and insulting comments quite clearly, and they were glaring at her and mumbling to themselves-for all of them were Negroes.
An elderly white-haired Negro waiter now approached, bowed unctuously and, grinning pleasantly, inquired what the ladies would like to have for dinner.
"We ought really to have eaten before we came here," Genevieve Douglas said aloud to her neighbor at the right, Brenda Abrams. "I can just imagine how dreadful the food is here."
"No'm, dat ain't so, it really ain't so," the waiter apologetically interposed. "You try our fried chicken, you gonna be back for more, and we got fine roast beef and good steaks too."
"Well, we'll soon see. You just tell the chef that I'm going to send anything back we don't like, you hear?" Genevieve Douglas said unpleasantly, as she raised hostile eyes to the elderly waiter. He bobbed his head: "You can feel puhfectly free to do jist dat, lady," was his reply. "We's proud of what we serves here."
"All right, I'll try the chicken. Do you have any wine?"
"Got maybe some muscatel and that pink wine, you know, a rosy."
"The man means rose," Genevieve insolently explained to her friends. "I'll take a half bottle of the vin rose, please, and make sure that it's properly chilled.
"I don't rightly know effen we got any half-bottles, lady, but I'll go ask."
"Then bring me a bottle. We'll share it, won't we, Dottie, dear?" she turned to her left and beamed at her favorite acolyte, and Dorothy Tompkins was thrilled at being singled out for this attention from her adored friend: "Oh yes, Genevieve darling, I'd like that very much!"
Julia Vickery sat next to Peggy Davidson, another one of Genevieve's dear friends from school Peggy was twenty-two, with jet black hair in a pretty, youthful ponytail, about medium height, with spectacularly large round closely set titties and a voluptuously upstanding, round and succulent bottom. Peggy wasn't a virgin, having had a very quick initiatory love affair last year while she had spent the summer at an Eastern ocean resort and let the handsome young program director take her cherry. She was still very prudish about sex, though she secretly enjoyed what had been done to her; however, her elderly mother ruled her with an iron hand and often forced her to give up a date if she didn't approve of the fellow. Peggy's cousin, Margie Eulles, was from Atlanta and had come to stay with them this summer. Margie was just a few weeks past her nineteenth birthday, with light brown hair styled in a chic upsweep, a sweetly rounded, heart-shaped face with big blue eyes, dainty little uptilted nose, and a ripe full mouth. Although she was technically a virgin, she had been petting and necking ever since her high school days, and only her fear of getting into trouble and her strict father and mother had kept her from tripping lightly down the primrose path. She was secretly hoping that now that she was up here in Chicago and living with her darling cousin Peggy, things would happen so that she could find out what going all the way was really like. She was about to be granted her wish!
All seven musicians had now come out on the stage, and the leader was a trombone player, tall, wiry, with mustache and beard, light-colored, with dark brooding eyes and lean jaw. His name was Dick Tunbold, and he had ambitions to become a big recording star, having already made one or two platters for a local Chicago record firm. He was thirty-two years old, and he was the idol of the young Negro girls and women who visited the nightclub just to hear him tilt his trombone to the ceiling and give out with wild and imaginative solos. That wasn't the only reason they came, however. Dick Tunbold was a bachelor, more or less an occupational hazard in the band business because there was a great deal of traveling to do even for one-night stands. And these one-night stands also included screwing a pretty chick who had taken a fancy to his music and sent him a note backstage asking if she could meet him after the set. The chicks were never disappointed when they finally bedded down with Dick Tunbold; he was possessed of a virile eight-inch cock with a broad and elongated head set off from the shaft by a wide circumcisional groove. Some of the girls whom he balled were ready to swear in court that they could feel that cockhead of his as a separate living entity inside their squirming pussie and that the mushroom-like head of his organ had a way of rasping along the innermost crannies and touching recesses which they didn't themselves knew they possessed.
The house was filling up now, and the visiting white beauties became aware that they were just about the only ones of their race in the nightclub.
Dick Tunbold had already noticed this facet. As he took his trombone out of his case, he muttered to Chuck Bordon, the saxophone player and a six-foot-two behemoth of a man, coal black and nearly bald in spite of the fact that he was only twenty-eight years old, "Say Chuck baby, get a looksee at all that sweet white poontang up at the front table. I bet the little bitches have come slumming."
"Yeah, man," Chuck Bordon breathed, his eyes glittering with admiration as he boldly stared at the table where Genevieve Douglas sat with her five companions. "That's eating pussy, that is. Man oh Man what I wouldn't give to have one of those little white bitches do me a blow job right now before I had a set."
"Not me, Chuckie," the trombone star cackled, tugging at his Van Dyke beard. "When I poke a snatch, I poke it in private, not out here on the stage in front of soul brothers. All I got to say is that those little white chickies there better be real nice and careful and remember they's ladies, or they'll be in trouble. We gotta soul crowd tonight, you can see that for yourself."
"I sure can. Man, it's getting packed! Don't these little dumb bunnies know that tonight's not a sharing night? We ain't got all that far integrated yet."
"They better believe it," Dick agreed as he lifted his trombone and tootled a few practice notes. "One thing I feel I'm in the groove tonight. That white pussy gets me all hot and bothered, so you'll hear some real riffs when we get to St. Louis Blues."
Genevieve Douglas was staring at me trombone player, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and cupping her chin in her hands. He was particularly interesting to her. There was a certain sensual, animal quality to him which, though she couldn't have expressed it quite that way, had begun to find its mark even under her white skin. It wasn't really unusual because Dick Tunbold was one of the best cocksmiths on the South Side if not in the entire Windy City. Already one of the waiters had brought him a hatful of mashnotes from some of the young Negro girls at the back of the club, all dying to see him after the show, all with the same idea in mind: getting themselves right royally screwed by that big thick gristly bone of his. The girls who had been privileged to be fucked by this gifted Negro trombonist always wanted seconds.
Dick felt that people ought to share the wealth and that a good thing ought to be passed around. He was a one-night-stand man himself, always had been. Of course, there were exceptions every so often. Take that Margaret Dade, that sweet quadroon bitch from Thirty-seventh Street and Wentworth, who'd come down to see him last month with a couple of boy friends. He knew pretty well that she'd been shagging with them, but she'd listened to his music, and bribed the owner of the club to get her an introduction back stage. Half an hour later she'd come out to her two boy friends and told them to take off and get lost, she was going to make it with Dick. And boy had she ever made it with his dick, all right! Margaret was just about the hottest piece of pussy he had ever shagged, and she loved to work on him with her lips and tongue after he had given it to her so she could get him quickly back to form and give it to her again. She was out of town this week, so tonight he was fancyfree and feeling hot and tingly all over and seeing those six white chicks staring at him was giving him the hots for fair.
CHAPTER SIX
The seven-piece combo was tuning up now, and the waiters were scurrying round with dinner trays as well as drink orders. The elderly white-haired Negro waiter who had taken Genevieve's order now set down his tray on a stand near them and began to serve. Genevieve was miffed because he set down the plate for Dorothy Tompkins first, when he ought to have known that she was the leader of this party. She frowned as Dorothy, ingenuous creature that she was, began enthusiastically to cut her fried chicken and sample it.
The waiter chuckled as he now set Genevieve's plate down before her. '"Scuse me, M'am, but dat ain't de way to eat ouah fried chicken, nohow it ain't. You kin use your fingers, everybody does."
Dorothy Tompkins blushed and then giggled, "Why I believe I will," she said as she took up a drumstick and began to gnaw on it. "Mmm, it's mighty good!"
"Thank you," M'am. I'll tell de chef, dat I will."
"Dorothy," Genevieve icily observed, "A well-bred lady doesn't use her fingers, no matter what the boors around here may do. You use your knife and fork just as I'm going to. Just because we're in a strange place doesn't mean we have to give up showing that we were educated to do the right thing."
The white-haired Negro, who was now serving Julia Vickery, shot Genevieve a look of disgust. It was just as well she didn't see it, or she would have bawled him out for his lack of respect.
"It's lovely music, isn't it?" Peggy Davidson turned her head so quickly that her lovely black ponytail danced in the air. "I'm glad we came, Genevieve, I truly am."
"Oh, I do agree," Markie Eulles, Peggy's cousin from Atlanta, drawled in an affectatious Southern accent. "It's really authentic blues. Just like down South. Of course, I really don't approve of what you Northerners are doing up here with those awful niggers, letting them take over so much of the city. Where I come from, we keep them in their place and they know what it is, for true."
This remark unfortunately for Margie, was distinctly overheard by the Negro waiter. His jovial smile gave way to a glance of anger, and no sooner had he finished serving all six of the gins than he hurried over to the back of the night club where the head waiter in his tuxedo was affably greeting regular patrons and keeping a wary eye on his waiters to see that everyone was being served before the show began. There would be some singing and a couple of sexy dance acts by two very talented Negro teams. One was a man and a woman, the other paired two handsome octaroons who were actually sisters, but from the way they danced on stage, you would think they were dykes. As a matter-of-fact, this was one reason why he had engaged them for the show, because there were plenty of gay girls in the audience. And Paula and Eulalia Jones, as it happened would occasionally make a date with one of the hot-pussied lady customers for a secret session after hours ... because the two sisters were dykes after all.
"Mistah Combs suh," the white-haired waiter respectfully muttered, "kin I talk to you a minute?"
"Sure, Brutus. What's the problem? Those ofay chicks giving you a hard time?" He chuckled and winked. "Tell you the truth, Brutus boy, they're making me hard too. What I wouldn't give to just take one of them into my private office, lock the door and show her what jelly roll is like."
"I knows what you mean, Mistah Combs," the waiter cackled agreement, bobbing his head. "Only trouble is, some of those ofay gals is real nasty. There's one there, she says she's from the South, says we don't keep niggers in their place here in Chicago. I don't like to hear that sort of talk, not when a white gal comes to our place on a soul night and starts speaking her trash for other folks to hear. Might be some trouble."
"No, I don't like that either, Brutus. But one girl, the redhead, I told you the trouble she gave me. Wanted six menus, looked at me as if I was trash and she was used to eating at the Waldorf-Astoria every night of the week and twice on Sunday. Well, just keep an eye on them, Brutus, that's about all you can do. I'll have Jack do a turn at the tables near you so he can keep an eye on them."
The club manager referred to Jack Dorky, a heavily set young Negro in his late twenties, who was the official bouncer of the Club du Sable. His brawny fists had broken up many an altercation, but he could also be counted to hedge off trouble in case any of these slumming whites got a little too loud and noisy about white superiority.
"Of course, Brutus," the manager went on, "You've got to make allowances. Now I've never seen any of these ofay chicks before, so like as not they just took into their pretty heads to pay us a visit and go slumming because they were tired of their own white fun. So we gotta be nice to them. It's business after all, and they got plenty of dough. You see the clothes they're wearing."
"Yassuh, Mistah Combs, I sure does. Hee hee, I'd sure like to take dem duds off a couple of those cute chicks, I would."
"Well, don't try it, Brutus. This may be Chicago, but all you'd need is to lay your hand on one of those bitches and she'd scream rape and you know what'd happen then. Just grin and bear it, if they keep giving you trouble. And I'll talk to Jack to stay around the area so we don't have no problems. Now get back to your station."
Lemuel Combs's fears were, however, unfounded, because the six young women found the food delicious and the music exciting. After a couple of dance sets and some instrumentals, the musicians struck up a fanfare to introduce the first of the dancing couples, a tall, slender young Negro man and a beautiful mulatress in a sequined evening gown. To an old timer, they were faintly reminiscent of the great dancing team of Veloz and Yolanda who had made entertainment history in Chicago about thirty years ago. They had the same grace, the same dreamy romantic teamwork, they were very much in love with each other ... which was quite natural because they were married and still on their first year of fucking fun.
"My, they're awfully good," Dorothy Tompkins whispered to Genevieve. "Don't you think so?"
"Not bad for niggers," Genevieve whispered back. Then she glanced up and saw the heavyset young bouncer staring at her. She tossed her head insolently and turned back to Dorothy: "We better be a little careful about what we say, we might offend these people," she explained in a stage whisper.
And she glanced back at the bouncer and gave him a hard contemptuous look.
Jack Dorky knew the type. He knew it because when he'd been fifteen and lived in Natchez, he'd been an apprentice to a white blacksmith. The blacksmith, old Mr. Fulmer, got most of his work from the fancy rich white ladies who had their riding horses shod, and Mr. Fulmer also repaired carriages and landaus. And one afternoon, a buxom rich matron had come along on a chestnut mare which had thrown a shoe, and old Mr. Fulmer had been out, so he'd had to shoe the mare.
His lips tightened as he remembered. That white bitch, throwing her pussy and titties around, free and easy as you please, giving him the hots for her, and knowing all the time what she was doing and that he didn't dare even look at her because she'd yell rape and then he'd be strung up from a lamp post or lynched and burned. Well, he knew the type all right. And she knew what she was doing, too, because after he had put on the shoe and she'd been stooping down to give him a gander at her big bubbies, white and soft and juicy, she'd whispered to him with a teasing smile, "I bet you wish you could poke me, don't you, black boy?"
And he'd had to shake his head and say, "Oh no'm, not the least little bit, a black boy like me doesn't mess with no white gal never nohow," and he'd had to cringe for fear of his life, and she just giggled and laughed at him, and finally got on her horse and rode away, still laughing. God, what he wouldn't have given to take her in the back there and thrown her down on a pile of hay and ripped her riding breeches and her blouse off her and got his hands on those big juicy titties and made her scream for mercy when he put his bone into her!
Yes, it looked like to him that this redhead who was lording it over her girl friends was just the same sort of nasty teasing pricktricking bitch as that Mrs. Young down in Natchez.
Now came the dancing act of the two sisters. They were octoroons with oval faces, light chocolate-satiny skins of their mixed blood, magnificent figures, and both young. Eulalia was twenty-four, and her sister twenty-six. Eulalia had been married just once and for six months to a sailor, but they decided to call it quits when he came back from a tour of duty in the Pacific where he'd suddenly been stationed. Because by then she'd found out that she liked pussy better than she did cock, and she liked it best of all from her own sister. Her sister was the one who dressed like the man in the act, and Eulalia shivered and closed her eyes when they began to dance, so close that their loins brushed together, and her sister took the man's lead and was whispering in her ear, "Baby, why don't we shake the scene after the show and go back to our room and love it up? I haven't had an all night session with my own little cutie-pie in more than I can remember. You know you want it, I bet your tights are wet right now just thinking about it."
It was a suggestive dance, which drew hoarse cheers and bawdy shouts of encouragement from the enthusiastic crowd. Genevieve grimaced: "It's disgusting! You see, Dorothy, they're both women, only one's playing a man, it reminds me somewhat of the Richard Strauss opera, Der Rosenkavalier. That's where when the curtain goes up you see the Marchioness in bed with her lover, only the way the composer wrote the music, two women have to sing it and be in bed together. You know what that is, don't you, Dorothy?"
Dorothy blushed and giggled and lowered her eyes. Genevieve sighed with inward distaste. It was very flattering to her ego to have Dorothy always in attendence upon her, thinking how wonderful she was, but there were times when this stupid little child ought to be taken by the shoulders and shaken until her teeth rattled. Imagine not knowing about Lesbians!
Now, to end the show, the musicians took the spotlight, and Dick Tunbold got up and began to play a trombone solo. He advanced on the stage till he was right at the edge of the footlights, looking down at the table where Genevieve and her friends sat. His dark eyes rested on Genevieve, and he appraised her intently. Boy, he was thinking, I'd give a week's pay for just half an hour with that sweet-tittied bitch, I sure would.
Genevieve considered him, her eyes wide and insolently fixed on his face. He had a wiry, lean athletic body. And he wasn't too dark-skinned considering he was a nigger. He certainly could play that trombone. It made her quiver all over, and she usually didn't care for this kind of music. Her style was really the opera and the symphony where she could show off her dresses and talk about her trips and be the center of attention. It amused her to think that this uncouth nigger who just happened to be a little clever with the trombone, was playing right to her, as if he were serenading her. Back in medieval times, a suitor used to vie for his lay's favors by writing a sonnet to her, or composing a tune or being a troubadour and stringing his lute while he serenaded her. The idea made her quiver with a voluptuous enervation. What she didn't know was that her healthy and vigorous young body was demanding sexual relief, and she had lost her chance to have it with Henry Wilson last Friday night.
Remembering how she had flouted Henry Wilson, she reddened with anger. He'd actually dared to insult her. Then he called her a prickteaser, too. Well, what if she was? Could she help it if she was desirable and lovely and that every man who saw her wanted to make love to her? Of course she couldn't. Maybe it was a good thing she had broken off the engagement with Henry, because he would try all the harder to get back into her good graces. And maybe she would take him back. After all, he was good-looking, he came from a good family and he had plenty of money. She could do worse. But there wasn't any hurry about it now. She was amusing herself making eyes at Dick Tunbold, smiling a little as he swung the trombone her way and leaned down to smile at her with his eyes and to add an extra riffle of his flashing fingers on the keys of the trombone to let her know that he was playing just for her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The first show was over. Three of the musicians remained on the bandstand to provide jitterbug music for those who wanted to dance. Julia Vickery sighed and shook her head: "That's really foot-tapping music, Genevieve," she remarked. "Too bad we don't have some escorts to dance with us."
"That's easily arranged," Genevieve Douglas drawled. She looked around and beckoned to their white-haired waiter.
"Yassum. Something I can do for you?"
"You can indeed, waiter. Who was that fellow playing the trombone just now?"
'Hee hee! I see you knows good music when you hears it, M'am. Dat wuz Dick Tunbold hisself."
"I wonder if you could get him to come over to our table. Maybe he'd like to dance with me," Genevieve Douglas drawled, glancing around at her five companions to see what they thought of her bravado.
Dorothy Tompkins gasped. But Margie Eulles, the Atlanta belle, sniffed and arched her eyebrows disapprovingly: "Well, I never! Do you mean, Genevieve Douglas, you'd actually dance with a nigger?"
"Why not? We came here to have some fun, didn't we? You heard Julia say she'd like to dance. Well, so would I. There's no earthly reason why I shouldn't dance with a jazz musician, is there? After all, he certainly is not going to try to rape me here in the nightclub," Genevieve Douglas sarcastically declared.
"Just the same," Margie Eulles exclaimed, "there's no sense encouraging trash like that to come into contact with decent white girls. Land sakes, I do declare, you people up here in Chicago scandalize me, you really do."
"You don't have to dance with him if you don't want to, Margie. I'm paying the bill for this little party, and as the hostess, I think I've a right to cater to my own wishes once in a while," Genevieve countered.
Dick Tunbold had been out in the wings accepting a glass of beer from one of the waiters who had also passed him another note from one of his female admirers in the club. The waiter who had served the six girls now bustled up with a broad wink. "Mistah Dick, you just gotta come meet some fans ob youahs."
"I've got lots of fans here tonight, so who do you mean in particular?" the trombonist asked.
"I think you'll be mighty surprised when you hears who it is, Mistah Dick. You remembah dat table with all de white chicks up front?"
"I sure do! Six of the nices pieces of ofay pussy I've squinted at since I started playing gigs at the du Sable. You don't mean to tell me they want to see me?"
"Dat uppity redhead says she does. Fact is, she wants to dance with you, Mistah Dick."
"Well, now!" the bearded trombonist snickered, winking at his buddy Chuck Bordon, the saxophone player of the combo. "What do you think of them apples?"
"Man, ain't you de lucky prick," Chuck Bordon shook his head enviously. "I'd sure give plenty to be in your shoes, man."
"Well, they got six ofay chicks over there, and just one says she wants to dance with me. Like I see it, Chuck, no reason at all why you can't come along and maybe talk one of them other cuties into getting out on the floor and shaking a hip. You man enough?"
"Hot dog! The man asks me if I'm man enough," Chuck Bordon groaned. "I got me a hard-on in my pants right this minute just thinking about those ofays. Let's see what they look like up real close, huh?"
In a few minutes Dick Tunbold and Chuck Bordon had made their way to the front table occupied by Genevieve Douglas and her five companions. Dick inclined his head in mock respect to the red-haired heiress, and said, "Howdeedo, honey. Your waiter say you got a hankering to dance with me. I never yet did turn down no invitation like that. And I brought my friend along, Chuck Bordon. He plays the sax, you know. He says he'd like to meet you gals, too."
"Didn't I tell you they would get uppity?" Margie Eulles said in a stage whisper which both Negroes heard. They exchanged a significant glance, but pretended not to have heard that racist remark.
"Of course, he's welcome too," Genevieve Douglas said with her sweetest smile. My, this Dick Tonbold was a long drink of water. Tall and lanky, with plenty of vitality to him, she could tell that just from the way he had played the trombone. She began to feel a secret sensual pleasure at the thought that she could make this black man lust for her. That would teach Henry Wilson once and for all. It would be a sweet revenge on him. "Dorothy, dear," she called. "Yes, Genevieve?"
"Why don't you dance with Chuck here while I have Dick as my partner," she proposed.
Young Dorothy Tompkins, who revered the red-haired aristocrat, hesitated a moment and blushed. But Chuck Bordon decided things for himself in his immitably aggressive way. He took Dorothy Tompkins by the hand and said, "Come along, little honey. You and me, we's gwine get better acquainted. Now let's see how good you can frug."
Dick Tunbold clapped a hand over his mouth to hold back the impulse to burst out laughing. What his buddy had just said sounded suspiciously like "fuck," and there was no doubt that both of them would like to do just that instead of dance with these cute ofay chicks.
He took Genevieve in his arms, much to Margie Eulles' disgust-operuy written on her lovely, petulant face-and the two couples moved out past the table onto a little clearing which was reserved for the dancers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Genevieve Douglas purposely arched her voluptuous body as close to Dick Tunbold's as she could. He chuckled, knowing more about her than she could realize. This was just another one of those slumming ofay teasers, showing off in front of her friends. If you had to come right down to it, he would much rather do battle against a girl like that Margie Eulles, who was an out and out nigger hater. At least you knew where you stood with a girl like that. But this red-haired piece was something else again. She thought hers was special. And she was right; the way his prick was aching told him hers was very special.
"You play that trombone wonderfully, Mr. Tunbold," she told him in a soft, honeyed tone.
"What's this Mr. Tunbold all of a sudden, honeychile?" he chuckled. "You were calling me Dick back at the table when we were talking about dancing. What's the matter, don't I dance good enough for a white chick like you?"
"You dance beautifully. Just the way you play. You're really a very exciting man ... Well, then, Dick, if you want it that way."
His arms tightened around her. Boy, what a shape she had! Nice, tasty, firm young flesh all over-although he didn't dare feel her up here on the dance floor. Or probably anywhere else either. Yes, he knew her type. She would lead him on, and then when it got serious, yell 'rape.' Just like all those other white gals down South who secretly wanted to get shagged and didn't have the guts to admit it to themselves, and then had to cover up their own horniness by accusing a nigger of doing it to them. It was just too bad the score couldn't be evened once in a while, he thought.
Genevieve Douglas found it amusing to observe his reaction to her. She was convinced that he was hot for what she had between her legs and all her other charms. Just like any other man. It didn't matter what color skin a man had as long as he thought he had a chance to put his big, ugly thing in between your legs. She told herself that she was going to go just as far as she could with Dick Tunbold. Because he wouldn't dare do a thing to her. He'd dare to do even less than Henry Wilson had done.
"So you like the way I toodle the trombone, huh, baby?"
"Why don't you call me Genevieve, Dick?"
"That's too much of a mouthful. Why don't I call you Jenny?"
"Because I don't like it. It's an awful nickname. It suggests a maid. And I can assure you I'm not that," she said haughtily.
"No, I can see that pretty well. You're too snazzily dolled up to be somebody's maid. Anyway, to get back to my trombone, so you liked the way I played it. Me and the boys are gonna have a little gig all to ourselves after we do our last show. How would you and your girlfriends like to come along to our place, lap up some muscatel and listen to some real soul music?"
"I think it might be fun. But I don't like muscatel."
"Well, Duchess," he said sarcastically, though he was smiling when he said it, "you can always pop for champagne if you've a mind to. Me and the boys, we've drunk that stuff once in a while, believe it or not. Is it a date, then?"
"Sure." She put her cheek up against his chest and closed her eyes. He had an animal vigor to him which was really surprising. The way he held her was shocking Margie Eulles, she was quite certain. It amused her to shock Margie. In fact, she wanted to shock all of her girlfriends just to show how bold and daring she could be. And then when it came time to put Dick Tunbold in his place, he would be a very unhappy trombonist. That was good, that was.
The only trouble was that Dick Tunbold was thinking along the same lines, aimed in his own direction. He had already conceived a little scheme. Getting haughty, snotty Genevieve Douglas and her girlfriends up to his place was going to be the way that would lead to their crossroads; and once they got down the road he had in mind, there would be no turning back.
CHAPTER NINE
Genevieve Douglas walked back to her table, and she knew that all eyes were on her. Margie Eulles gasped: "How could you cuddle up so close to that awful nigger? All he is is a paid entertainer, and that would be bad enough if he were white. But he's a nigger, Genevieve! I almost fainted when I saw you so close to him."
"Did you now," the red-haired beauty arrogantly retorted, because she didn't like Margie's snottiness the least little bit. "Well, for your information, Dick has just invited me and all the rest of you, if you've got guts enough, to come up to his place and listen to some real music. The boys are going to play what they call a gig all for themselves. That's the best kind of music there is, you know."
"I wouldn't be caught dead going to a nigger's place," Margie sniffed.
"I sort of think it might be fun," Brenda Abrams spoke up. Margie Eulles looked at her: "You can't mean that, Brenda!"
"But I do, Margie. Look, this is the twentieth century, and whether we like it or not, we brought them over here as slaves and now they're free and we've got to accept them and give them an equal chance. And I think that a Negro jazz musician who has been successful, or he wouldn't be playing in public, can be even more interesting than some of these terribly boring college intellectuals with all their silly ideas about making this country safe against violence and all that nonsense."
"You-you talk like a radical, like a Red!" Margie gasped.
"I'm not a radical. If you want to know something, I'm having trouble at home just because I happen to be Jewish and I love a guy who's on the other side of the fence. But that doesn't stop me from loving him because he's worth loving. And I think that if Genevieve has got an invitation from that talented group that played so wonderfully just now, we'd be silly to turn it down just because their skin happens to be black."
"Hear, hear!" Genevieve Douglas laughed. "Well, Dorothy, what about you? And you, Julia and Peggy?"
"
Peggy Davidson, who was Margie's cousin, and who also loved Genevieve a lot, thought that Margie's remarks had been in rather bad taste. That was why, though her cousin was her household guest, Peggy promptly spoke up and said, "I think it would be lots of fun, too!"
"If you're going, I'd like to go," Dorothy Tompkins giggled, casting a sheepish glance at her adored friend Genevieve. And Julia Vickery, glanced round the table. She was incapable of making decisions for herself, and usually went along with the majority. Besides, since she liked Genevieve very much, and all the others except Margie seemed to be going along with the idea, she wasn't going to be a spoilsport. "I'll go, sure, Genevieve."
"Attagirl!" the redhead enthusiastically applauded her. "Well, Margie, I guess we'll have to send you home in a taxi then."
"Well, I like that!" the Southern belle looked indignant. Then she turned to her cousin Peggy and exclaimed snippishly, "Don't forget, I'm your guest here in Chicago. I wouldn't treat you like that down where I come from, you can bet on that."
"Oh, Margie, if we're all going, what difference does it make?" Peggy broke out. "They aren't going to be offensive. I know you don't like the way black people have more freedom up here, but that's the way it is. Just make up your mind to forget about it and just listen to the music. It'll be a new experience."
Peggy Davidson couldn't know how right she was. It was going to be a new experience for every one of them. All six of these delectable white beauties, who had youth and charm and money and family behind them, were going to find out what integration really was!
* * *
Dick Tunbold had sauntered over to the table up front before going back on stage for the next set. Genevieve had told him that she and her friends had agreed to accept his invitation. He had chuckled, nodded to all of them, and he had also noticed that Margie gave him a cold stare and then looked away. "Great! Me and the boys will pick you girls up. I got me a nice old Buick which rides pretty good. Just as soon as we finish the last set and change into our street clothes, I'll come by and get you."
Genevieve had no way of knowing that his nonchalant phrase, "I'll get you," meant exactly and physically and literally that! She sent Mar gie Eulles a superior and condescending as well as pitying little smile, and then turned to regard the lanky Negro trombonist with a beaming smile as if they had been old friends: "That's perfectly lovely, and we're all very grateful for this special treat, Dick."
"See you, then. Nice to meet you all," he nodded towards the others and then walked up onto the stage and took his place with the rest of the combo.
"I think it's disgusting!" Margie Eulles fumed. "The way you simpered over that ugly nigger, just because he can play a trombone and dared to ask you for a date, makes me wonder what happened to your common sense, Genevieve Douglas!"
"Look, Margie," Genevieve snapped, for she was tired of having her sayso questioned, especially in front of her sycophants Dorothy and Peggy and Julia. With Brenda, she realized that she was dealing with a rather independent-minded girl, but there had never been any real friction between them. Actually, Brenda was glad to be out with this crowd, even though she personally though they were all drips and snobs, because it helped her think things out and gave her the illusion of freedom away from her domineering parents who were insisting that she marry within her own faith. Genevieve went on: "It's just as if we were going to another nightclub, that's all. I certainly don't hope you think I intend to sleep with him or something like that, Margie Eulles!"
"Humph!" Margie sniffed. "The way you're carrying on right there out on the dance floor and then practically drooling all over him just now when he came to the table, it wouldn't surprise me any if you actually wanted to do something like that."
"Why, you-" Genevieve stopped just in the nick of time. She drew a deep breath, and then smilingly finished, "You can think whatever you like, Margie, but the rest of us are going along as good sports, and even if you don't like the idea, you'd better come along and keep your mouth shut, then. Besides, don't you think these other friends of mine will be around to make sure that I don't commit a social blunder such as you've just proposed? And anyhow, you can speak for yourself. Everybody in this town knows who I am, and they're going to treat me with respect, whether they're niggers or Indians, so there!"
"Good for you," Dorothy Tompkins squealed, staring worshippingly at her red-haired friend.
CHAPTER TEN
Peggy's lovely but bigoted cousin, Margie Eulles, had realized that she was about the only one of the six who had vetoed the suggestion to go hear Dick Tunbold's jazz group at his place. Her face was flaming with anger over Genevieve's catty rebuke which everybody else had heard. "All right," she tartly declared. "Since Peggy's going, and I'm her house guest, I'll go just because it's proper etiquette. But I want it on record that I don't like the idea one little bit, and that's all I want to say on the subject."
"Can we count on that, dear?" the aristocratic redhead drawled, and Margie clenched her fists and glared at Genevieve.
But by then the set was over, the audience was applauding enthusiastically, and then the lights went up and the musicians left the stage, and Genevieve ordered a round of ginger ale for herself and her friends. The elderly waiter Brutus grumblingly brought the drinks, with his own private opinion about this table of uppity ofays who had hogged one of the best places in the nightclub, and spent comparatively very little money, though it was obvious from their clothes that they were rich bitches. However, Genevieve, realizing somewhat late that she had offended a good many of the black patrons as well as the hired help by her earlier disdain, dropped a five-dollar bill before Brutus with a lordly gesture and said, "Here's a tip for you, my man. Thank you for the service."
Brutus scraped and bowed, swiftly pocketing the bill but it didn't change his opinion of these upstarts the least little bit. He just wished he could get his hands on them and make them come down off their high horses. He wished a group of black studs would take these girls off somewhere and shag and whop ass on them real good, and what he wouldn't give to be along when the job was being done! It was a pity, in a way, that he couldn't have been invited to the gig at Dick Tunbold's place, because that was precisely what was going to happen. But then, not all of us are granted the realization of our dreams by capricious fate.
Genevieve and her friends remained at their table up front until Dick had dressed in his street clothes and sauntered up to their table. With him were the six other members of the combo, with the saxophone player Chuck Bordon standing next to Dick and grinning down at the six white beauties. Margie Eulles shivered as Chuck's eyes rested on her. His massive build and his nearly bald head made her experience the traditional Southern-woman squeamishness about his proximity to her, and the fact that he was a good deal younger than his bald head would have led her to believe from a distance didn't ease her feelings whatsoever.
"Well, now, ladies," Dick acted as master of ceremonies, "All ready to go? First, let me tip you on who us guys is. I think you've already met the guy who warbles so sweet and hot on the sax. Chuckie Bordon."
Dorothy Tompkins blushed. She had danced with the saxophone player earlier, and she had been secretly fascinated by his football-player like build. Also, his eyes had been very bold while he held her in his arms, and she had felt for a moment that he was actually stripping away her panties and bra and looking at all she had to offer a man. Unlike Margie Eulles, however, and timid though she was, and an ingenuous devotee in the camp of Genevieve Douglas, the physical sensation that had stirred within her virginal being at the knowledge that this black man had had the hots for her hadn't offended her. Margie would have thrown a conniption fit, but Dorothy had felt tingly all over, and even now, when Chuck looked at her again, she lowered her eyes and turned a fiery red. He turned quickly and winked at Dick, as much as if to say, "You ain't the only stud that gets these little gals panties wet, you ain't."
"Well, our drummer is big Art Jackson," Dick Tunbold continued, gesturing to the musician so named. Art Jackson was as tall as Chuck Bordon, but very lean with a wispy moustache and a straggly Van Dyke beard which he was trying to cultivate and very thick sideburns. He was a Negro of about thirty-four and had been twice divorced, because his restlessness had led him to throw up one job after another and shirk the responsibility and routine of a stable life. He was also an eminent cocksmith, and he got his own share of mash notes from the young Negro girls who attended the Club du Sable. He waved a hand in salutation and grinned at the girls. Margie Eulles's face remained cold and stubborn. He marked her down privately as a cold and uppity racist bitch who didn't even know what was going on around her.
"And here's our real good guitar player, Fred Bunson," Dick Tunbold continued, as he clapped a squat, bespectacled 40-year-old Negro wearing smoked glasses on the back and pushed him forward to introduce him to the girls. Fred Bunson jauntily lifted his hand in greeting, mumbling, "Howdy, ladies, glad to meet up with you, I'm sure."
Once again Margie Eulles remained unmoved by this ceremonial. Dick Tunbold went on: "Next we got Manny Tandey on vibes. Take a bow, Manny."
The afore mentioned was a lanky, pockmarked Negro of thirty-one, with a nourishing moustache and thick sideburns, and the cauliflower ears and pug nose of a professional boxer. He had been a club fighter for about four years in St. Louis and Detroit with music as a sideline, but his bad luck in the ring had led him to concentrate on the vibes with much better financial success. He, too, was a bachelor and at the moment shying away from a teenaged mulatress who didn't care if he gave her a baby or not, because she wanted it bad. The problem was that she had a cantakerous old aunt who hated his guts, so meeting Suzy was a difficult proposition, and he didn't want her coming up to his place because his landlady had a big, gabby mouth on her a mile long.
"Then we got Earl Gorman. He's our real good bass fiddler, the guy that sparks the whole combo and gives out the rhythm," Tunbold continued, pushing Earl forward. The latter was of medium height, also wore smoked glasses, had a heavy beard and moustache, was thirty-eight, just separated from his gold-digging younger wife whom he had caught sleeping with a cute beauty parlor operator on whom he himself had had fucking desires. The discovery that his wife was a dyke had made him mad at the world, but more so to discover that her replacement-for he had aspirations in that direction towards Naomi Burr, the owner of the salon-had just about shaken his faith in all women. He just confided to Dick Tunbold before the evening began that he was going to go out and get himself some pussy and he didn't care much whom it belonged to, as long as it was all women and no queers. He would have his pick to choose from, indeed, from among the six haughty, white "slummers" who had come to the Club du Sable this evening.
"And then, we can't forget to give a big hand to Kansas City Lennie Masters, who takes the mike and does some singing now and then, but mostly plays the piano real good," said Dick Tunbold.
The pianist turned out to be an elegantly dressed young Negro of about twenty-six, slim as a dancer, with a sensitive face and light color that suggested that he had white forebearers some generations back. He had been in Kansas City and played his first gig there, hence the nickname.
"Now what do you say we drive over to my place," Dick Tunbold intervened, "and have yourselves some real soul music. Chuckie, I'll take some of the ladies in my hopped-up Buick; you can take the rest in your old Rambler station wagon."
"Fine!" Genevieve said as she rose. "I'll go with you, Dick, if it's all right with you!"
"Is it ever, baby," Dick muttered, giving her a long slow look that made the redhead experience a titillating ripple of sensuality up and down her spine. But it was the kind of sensation which only a born prickteaser could get. Before the night was over, Genevieve Douglas would learn the difference between a wave of excitement over colcocking a man, and the hot savage slash of subjugation as a rampant man's stiff, determined prick traversed the hitherto unprofaned volutes of her virgin cunthole!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The two cars stopped before an old three-story red brick building midway down the block of Union near 42nd Street, and the six girls got out and waited on the curb while the musicians got their instruments and joined them. The bass fiddle presented the only problem, but it rode in the back of the station wagon. The pianist, of course, just brought himself; his instrument remained at the Club du Sable. But the instrument he had brought with him-the one between his legs-was in fine fettle, thanks to the stimulation it had received from sitting beside some of the prettiest white chicks he had ever seen.
"We got the top floor to ourselves, Genevieve," Dick Tunbold explained. "Whenever we're playing in the Windy City, we come here and take over the floor so we can have jam sessions. The old landlady, Ma Sheba, lets us have that space for practically nuttin'. You see, she owns the building, and she uses this part of the second floor for a storm room for her goodies. She bottles pickles and preserves and sells them to soul folks. Got a nice little cannery couple blocks from here, but she keeps a big supply on hand for all the neighbors and the folks that knows her and comes around to buy at special prices."
"How interesting!" Genevieve Douglas drawled. She sniffed with disdain at the squahd neighborhood. This was practically a slum area, and she began to regret for a moment her bravado in accepting the dare of the Negro jazz musician. Still, she thought to herself, the presence of her five friends and the way the musicians thus far had treated all of them with respect should create no trouble. She had the arrogant selfassurance that comes with youth, too much money and background, and too great an opinion of oneself. She was to find that her ideas would be radically changed.
Chuck Bordon had already singled out the piece of pussy he wanted to operate on, none other than Dorothy Tompkins. He moved beside her as they entered the dim lobby of the old building, and muttered, "Lemme see you gits up these stairs, honeychile, it's a long climb." He took her elbow and Dorothy blushed furiously, but was too embarrassed to jerk it away. His size and his animal magnetism had begun to make a profound if as yet unrealized impression on the honey-haired young woman.
The other musicians had already formed their own private ideas, though as yet this was all hypothesis. If one could have read their minds at the moment they were climbing up the three flights of winding and narrow stairs, one would have observed that Dick Tunbold had already selected Genevieve Douglas as his private dish of poontang; Chuck had of course chosen Dorothy; Art Jackson just wanted one little go at Margie Eulles; the guitar player, Fred Bunson had his eye on Julia Vickery; the lanky Manny Tandey would have given a great deal to be able to screw Brenda Abrams; and Earl Gorman had the hots already for lovely Peggy Davidson. There were thus far of course six girls and seven men, which left Lennie Masters unaccounted for. But Lennie wasn't fussy; in his mind there was the thought that if just one of these girls could be left alone with him in a locked room for an hour with no holds barred, he would gladly forfeit a week's pay of earnings from the combo.
They reached the third floor landing at last, and Dick Tunbold produced the key, turned it in the lock and opened the door. Then he flicked on the light switch. The apartment was dingy and musty, indicating that it hadn't been used too recently. But there were thick rugs, though old and torn, on the living-room floor, a couple of dilapidated armchairs, a broken-down wide old divan whose cushions were in bad need of cleaning, a table and lamp beside it. The shades had been drawn, and they were discolored and dirty. It was altogether not the most appetizing place for a rendezvous, and Margie Eulles wrinkled her nose in disgust as she stepped into the room. "A little fumigation wouldn't hurt," she had the tactlessness to observe, and Art Jackson frowned at her and put a finger to his wispy moustache. If she had been alone with him, he would have cracked her across the mouth for a snotty remark like that. He glanced up at Dick Tunbold, and saw Dick winking at him. A slow understanding smile crept over his lips. Well, well, well. So Dick had some ideas about poontang, did he? Boy, was he ever in the mood! He'd like to take this little Margie here and tie her hands up to a hook in the closet, make her stand on tiptoe, pull her skirts up and shove her pants down and squeeze and pinch her ass until she was almost pissing with fright. Then a good spanking, while he told her what he was going to do to her afterwards, and then just let her stay there in the closet with the door locked for maybe half an hour and think it all over, and by the time he unlocked it again, she'd be ready to do just about everything, including crawling on the floor and licking his toes.
He, like all the other musicians, had known what it was to be snubbed because his skin was black. He had also been born down South, and actually not far from where haughty and bigoted Margie Eulles had first seen the light of day. He had also seen a fourteen-year-old boy lynched for just looking at a white woman, who had run shrieking to the sheriff and complained that the little nigger was practically raping her with his eyes. He didn't want to think about that. Every time he did, it made him hate all white folks' guts. But for right now, even though this was going to be a social affair and fun and entertainment, he was quite happy to concentrate all his animosity towards the injustice which whites had committed against blacks for centuries in the persons of Margie Eulles; she thus became the embodiment of the racial hatred which had been roused in him through experience and his own denigration. It was just as well for her peace of mind that she didn't know what he was thinking, because she would have run with all her might down the street to get safely out of this neighborhood. But fate has a way of playing tricks on people who least expect them, and fate was working up a few that had Margie's name on them.
There were actually two apartments on the third floor, but the other one was occupied by a common-law couple, a white man and a handsome mulatress, who also happened to be jazz musicians and were traveling at the moment, playing to a nightclub in Milwaukee and from there they would go to St. Paul. The rest of the third-floor apartment which the musicians used as their hangout when they were in town at the Club du Sable consisted of two big bedrooms, a kitchen, a little dinette, a bathroom and a couple of big roomy closets. It was a sort of place that about a generation ago you could have rented in Chicago for about $90 a month. Even though the neighborhood had deteriorated and was dreadfully run down, a place like this would run for at least $250. Ma Sheba usually got $175 for it when she rented to soul folks. Lately, there hadn't been any big families that could afford the tab, so she had let Dick rent it out with the understanding that he would help push her pickles and preserves and also refer people who wanted to play policy her way. In addition to her other activities, big buxom Ma Sheba was a runner for a policy operation on the South Side of Chicago. And the store room downstairs was an excellent front for hiding the numbers paraphenalia. That was where her real dough came from, not the pickles and preserves, though she made a nice little living from that on-the-up-and-up activity.
"Look here, Chuckie," Dick Tunbold called, "why don't you put the lights on in the kitchen and see what we got in the frig?" then, turning to the young women, he called, "How about some beer or Cokes? We got the place loaded."
"I'd like a Coke," Dorothy Tompkins timidly spoke up. Margie Eulles looked at her, her upper lip curling with a sneer. She was almost afraid to breath this polluted air. She looked at the broken-down divan, and she wrinkled her nose again. Art Jackson was studying her closely from the side. His lips curled in a sneer also, but it wasn't directed at the divan; it was directed at Margie Eulles herself. She little knew how close she was to getting her face slapped right then and there. It would be as if he were to come into her home on an invitation and make disparaging comments about her furniture and stuff. These white girls were just coming around to show off that they were slumming, that was all. And he resented it.
Chuck Bordon went into the kitchen and came back with two Coke bottles in each of his big ham-like hands. His fingers were massive and thickly knuckled, but he could warble on the sax and do as tricky a job of fingering the keys as anybody in the business. All Dick felt the combo needed was one lucky break, and they'd be making records and in the big money. Right now there was a small firm on the South Side, dickering with them for three long-playing records, but the trouble was the firm didn't want to pay anything and wanted them to do it more or less on speculation. That was out. A musician was worthy of his hire just like a laborer, was Dick's belief.
Chuck passed out the Cokes to Peggy, Dorothy, Brenda and Genevieve. Art Jackson went back into the kitchen to bring out some beer for the guys, while Dick invited the young women to sit down on the divan and the armchairs. "Only trouble you got with the divan, gals, is that you can't scrunch around too much, 'cause the springs are busted. Otherwise it's real comfortable."
Margie sat on the right-hand side of the divan, deciding at the last moment that she preferred it to the armchairs, whose seats were dusty and dirty. Peggy sat at her left, and she kept glaring at Peggy and whispering, "You see what you got us into. I'm holding you responsible, just don't forget that!"
Peggy was rapidly coming to the conclusion that her cousin from the South was a pain in the neck; and had Peggy been less of a lady, she might have referred to an intimate lower region as being affected by the discomfort Margie's overbearing attitude and fault-finding nature caused.
Dick took his trombone, Chuck got his saxophone out, Fred Bunson tuned up his guitar, and big Art Jackson unlimbered his snare drum and began to twiddle his sticks on it for effect. Manny's vibes, like Lennie's piano, were back at the club, to be sure, but Earl Gorman was standing in a comer opposite the divan and to Margie's right, plucking the strings of the bass fiddle.
Genevieve looked around her group. The only one that seemed to be annoyed was Margie, and she didn't give a tinker's damn for Peggy's cousin. That wasn't because she had any greater compassion for people; quite the contrary, for her snobbery and insolence and selfishness were by far at the head of the list if one were to make a tabulation of the virtues and defects of these six beauties. The point was simply that she wanted to be the leader of any group in which she was present, and Margie's attitude was in conflict with her own. It was as if Margie were trying to take over. She shot the Southern belle a hostile glance, but Margie didn't see it. She was staring out at the shades over the big bay window, noticing how dusty and dirty they were.
And the sound of the improvisations which began to rise now from the musicians' instruments didn't even mollify her.
"We might as well have ourselves a little dancing, if you ladies feel like it." Dick Tunbold put down his trombone and stared at Genevieve. She arched herself unconsciously, preening her magnificent titties in his direction. She knew very well the effect she was having on him, and she was doing it on purpose. The more she thought about her date with Henry Wilson, the more she was going to prove that she was well out of his class and could go anywhere and in any stratum of society and excite a man. The trouble was she had picked the wrong man to experiment on. Dick Tunbold didn't hold with prickteasers.
"That'd be fun," she said softly, and Margie Eulles gasped out loud again at this audacity and shamelessness. She folded her arms over her bosom and stared stonily ahead of her. Genevieve got up from the divan and walked out into the center of the room. "Who's going to be my partner," she imperiously demanded. Lennie and Manny were the only two who didn't have instruments, so they were the obvious choices. Manny didn't strike her with any particular enthusiasm because of his pockmarks and his cauliflower ears and pug nose. But Lennie did. First of all, he wasn't coal-black, but had intelligent and alert features. And he was very well dressed, better than the others. "I'll take you," she pointed at Lennie.
She had just made another blunder, because Manny was all too conscious of the fact that he had had smallpox when he was boy, and he had been trying ever since to make up in the bed department for his lack of looks. The fact that he had done so was proved by the insatiable Susie, who was wild for his prick and couldn't get enough of it and kept getting in the way of his other engagements.
"It'll be a pleasure, Genevieve," Lennie Masters said politely, holding his arms to her. Genevieve floated into them, and gave Margie Eulles a triumphant smirk. That drew an audible "Ohh!" from the Southern beauty.
So that the couple could dance, the other musicians played a peppy waltz, Lehar's "Gold and Silver," but done with a modern upbeat. Dorothy Tompkins watched her idol moving about in Lennie Masters's arms, and gathered courage. She got up from the divan and walked over to Manny and sweetly inquired, "Would you like to dance with me?"
Manny glanced at her and smiled. Boy, this was a real chick! "I sure would," he said gruffly and took her in his arms. He pressed her tightly to him, and Dorothy Tompkins blushed. Her body had never been this close to a man's before, and it was beginning to take hold of her; this entire aura which had started to be a "slumming party," was having its pronounced effect because Dorothy Tompkins had been obliged to lead a cloistered life and she was extremely naive when it came to bare facts.
Genevieve was trying to flirt with Lennie. "So they call you Kansas City Lennie, do they?" she said brightly.
"That's right, Genevieve. That's because I played my first jazz there. Actually, I was born in Houston."
"How interesting!" she purred. "You're a very smooth dancer, Lennie. And you're so light-colored, too. You must have had some white parents way back, didn't you?"
Lennie's face hardened. His grandmother had been a white woman, but it was something he didn't particularly want to think about. Some of his friends belonged to the active black movement and were trying to get him to join up, but their hang-up was that they wanted to see all the whites shoved into ghettos just like theirs, and have a taste of it for a change. Lennie didn't quite go along with that extremism, but he was trying as hard as he could to forget his white ancestry. "I suppose so," he said calmly. "Is this your home town, baby?"
"Yes it is. Have you got a girl, Lennie?"
"A couple every now and then," he said nonchalantly.
"My, my, I'd better watch my step, I'm in the arms of an expert," Genevieve taunted, and she arched herself so that her bosom just brushed his chest. Lennie flushed and bit his lips. Boy, was this girl a cockteaser for fair! He didn't want any part of that. She was the sort of white gal that stirred up trouble wherever she went when there were his kind of folks around. So he said nothing.
"You're not very talkative," Genevieve complained.
"Well, that depends on what you talk about. Now if you were to talk about jazz, I guess I could be real informative," he said casually and tried to force a smile which he didn't feel.
She held on to him more tightly, and she looked into his eyes and gave him one of those come-hither smiles of hers, the exact kind which had made Henry Wilson nearly blow his top. "I bet there's lots you could teach me, Lennie. You're a very good-looking Negro."
"Thanks," he said curtly. The way he glanced at her and the tone of his one-word reply ought to have warned her that she was treading on dangerous ground. But Genevieve Douglas was blindly unconscious to the feelings of anyone else. And so she plunged onward into the quagmire: "Of course it has to be because you have white blood in you. Otherwise you'd look very dark like those other fellows. And not nearly so handsome."
This was far too much for Lennie Masters. His arms dropped to his sides, he stuck out his jaw truculently, and he snarled, "Goddamnit, lady, quit patronizing us poor folks. Sure we know we're niggers, but you don't have to talk down to us as if you were sorry for us, and you don't have to try to find out whether we've got white blood in us, because we're not awfully proud of it all the time. Not when we meet up with teasers like you."
"Ohhh!" Genevieve Douglas gasped, recoiling at the malignant hatred in his eyes.
"You see?" Margie Eulles triumphantly crowed as she rose on the divan, "I told you it was a mistake to come here. These niggers just don't know their place up here in the North. We keep them in line the way they ought to be down South where I come from."
The other men stopped playing. And a constrained and troubling silence fell on the living room. The stage was set for retaliation, reprisal and restitution!
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Negro musicians were standing motionless and taut, their eyes fixed on the center of the drab living room where Genevieve and Lennie Masters confronted each other. Dorothy Tompkins, who had been dancing with Manny Tandey, had disengaged herself from his grasp, and her eyes were big as saucers as she watched the two.
"I mean, I've had it up to here," the light-brown jazz pianist snarled, gesturing with his right hand to his chin. "You privileged ofays walk in here, sniff your pretty noses in the air, and start thinking how we poor ignorant black boys don't know how to do our housekeeping and probably would ruin a decent flat if we had one. Then you get sexy and you see that maybe I've got brown skin instead of black, so right away that dirty, little prudish mind of yours starts thinking some white woman got fucked by a nigger hundreds of years ago so that today my skin is the way it is. Only you're running scared, baby! You wouldn't have the guts yourself to lay a jigaboo, because that's the way you think about us soul people, always in the dirtiest, lousiest way! You're going to apologize to all of us, and then for my money, you can go back to your nice, rich Gold Coast and have lots of stories to tell your dear little friends about how you actually dared to come slumming down in the nigger ghetto!"
Genevieve Douglas had listened to this with progressively horrified, then indignant, then infuriated expression, her lovely face changing like a chameleon, as he warmed to his attack.
"How dare you!" she said in a voice choked with concentrated rage. "Humiliating me like that in front of my friends! I was never so insulted in all my life, I'll have you know! And I wasn't slumming. I was just interested, because you were good-looking and decent and intelligent. Only I find I was mistaken. You're just a nigger, a common, low, dirty nigger!"
"Genevieve, you mustn't!" Dorothy Tompkins breathed, a hand at her mouth in consternation.
The pianist turned to Dick Tunbold: "Well, man, you need any more proof these broads got a lesson coming to them?"
Dick Tunbold chuckled and shook his head. "Not me, man. Only I got dibs on Jenny there. You'll get your crack at her, but I'm first."
"What are you talking about? Come on, girls, we're leaving this filthy place!" Genevieve Douglas angrily stamped her foot, making her magnificent titties jiggle in all their superb, firm, virginal resilience.
"If you ask me," Margie Eulles sneered, "we ought never to have come in the first place." She rose abruptly from her end of the divan, but at that moment Art Jackson, who probably had a particular score to settle with the Southern belle, seized her by the elbows from behind and muttered hoarsely, "You ain't gwine nowhere, sister. Now you just stand right here nice and still, or I'll give you something to yipe about!"
"Take your dirty hands off me, nigger!" Margie cried almost hysterically, writhing like a fury, as she felt herself odiously sullied by the Negro's hands on her flesh, and kicking and squirming she lacked backwards, getting him in the shin. Art Jackson uttered a howl of pain, but he didn't relinquish Margie's elbows. Instead, he spun her around, drew back his hand and delivered a ferocious smack across her cheek. Not expecting such reprisal, Peggy's lovely cousin uttered a scream and fell backwards unceremoniously on her bottom in the middle of the floor.
"Get the gals!" Jackson hissed. "They're all going to get a lesson they'll never forget! Earl, Manny, get the ropes! You, Dick, git some rags or something we can use for gags. It's pretty quiet around Ma Sheba's place tonight, but you never can tell."
Frantic cries of terror broke from the other girls. Brenda Abrams, however, tried to turn the tide in the face of this ugly menace. "Now wait a minute, fellows," she said in a clear, untrembling voice, a lovely cool contralto, "not all of us feel the way Genevieve or Margie over there do. Why do you have to be angry with us because of that?"
Art Jackson stared at her angrily. "Because you're white, you filthy bitch, that's why! Because if you pal around with bitches like those, you got no mercy coming to ya!"
Swiftly, the other Negroes had gone to the armchairs, lifted up the seat cushions, and pulled out lengths of cord. In a trice, Margie Eulles found herself with her ankles tied and her wrists behind her back, while Earl shoved a gag into her mouth and then wound a cloth around it and knotted it at the back of her head. Genevieve tried to run to the door, screaming for help, but Dick Tunbold laughingly overtook her, clamped a hand over her mouth, his other hand cupping one of her titties through her dress, and dragged her back. "No, you don't, baby, you're mine," he told her. "Help me with her, Manny."
The pockmarked Negro needed no second invitation. He quickly seized Genevieve's wrists, forced them behind her back, and tied them tightly, then squatted down and ran a cord around her calves and knotted it. Meanwhile Dick was cramming a dirty handkerchief in Genevieve's mouth, and when she wouldn't open her lips to receive it, he simply pinched her nose shut between thumb and forefinger, till at last she had to breath, and then she was gagged and helpless.
Dorothy Tompkins huddled on one edge of the divan, sobbing as if her heart would break, her face held in her hands, "Please, please, don't hurt me, I didn't do anything, I didn't say anything!" she blubbered.
Peggy Davidson tried to struggle, kicking out and using her fingernails like claws, but Chuck Bordon, the behemoth, laughed uproariously and then, moving behind her, drew back his heavy right hand and applied a tremendous spank on her bottom, which sent her sprawling unceremoniously on her belly with a shriek of pain and indignation. In a trice, he had squatted down on the small of her back, drawn her wrists behind her back and tied them, and then moved himself around to face her bottom, grabbed one of her kicking legs, then the other, held them tightly together with his left hand, while he looped a cord around her ankles and made a slip knot. Her skirts fell back, and his eyes gleamed at the vision of quivering, flexing young thighs sheathed in smoke-colored stockings.
Julia Vickery was hysterically backing into a comer of the living room, while Earl and Fred Bunson made for her, and quickly tied her wrists and ankles, stuck a gag into her mouth, and then a cloth over it.
Brenda Abrams courageously stood her ground. Inwardly, she was trembling, and praying that she wouldn't be hurt, because she was so in love with Ben Lorway and wanted to save her cherry for him, and she was practical enough and realistic enough to understand that all of them, yes, all of them, were going to get fucked by the Negroes, and there wasn't going to be any help, nothing to save her. For once, she was sorry she had gone out with Genevieve, even if it had been to escape her gloomy thoughts over the way her parents had refused to think of letting her marry agoy.
This left only Dorothy Tompkins still sobbing and huddled up in a ball at the end of the broken-down divan.
"How 'bout this little crybaby?" Art Jackson growled as he jerked his thumb at the sobbing young woman. Dick Tunbold grinned crookedly: "Might as well start with her, as we're going to save that Southern racist, Margie, for the very last. And Jenny gets it next to last."
"How we going to work all this?" Fred Bunson excitedly asked, his voice hoarse with lust, and his prick already prodding out the fly of his trousers. "I mean, jeez, we've got six bitches here, and they's seven of us. We gonna have a gang shag on every one of 'em?"
"We'll just make do, Fred boy," Dick clapped him on the back. "But for right now, if you guys want to have a gang shag on cute little Dotty there, it's okay with me."
All of the young women had been gagged, except, of course, Dorothy Tompkins. In the silence which fell now, broken only by the muffled groans emanating through the gags, and the scuffling of bodies as the bound, helpless victims lay on the floor and tried to free themselves, the hoarse breathing of the seven men became a kind of symphonic prelude to rut. Dorothy Tompkins was slowly and inevitably made aware that all attention was concentrated on her. Slowly, she lifted her tearstained face, and then her eyes bulged as she saw Fred and Art Jackson coming towards the divan, grinning like fiends, their glittering eyes appraising her nubile charms.
"Oh no-oh, what have you done to my friends, Genevieve, oh my poor darling Genevieve-you wicked, nasty brutes, you'll go to jail for this, you watch and see! You better turn us all loose, or you'll be awfully sorry!"
"You know, man," Art Jackson drawled to Fred Bunson, "seems like I remember back in the old days they used to whack ass on a girl who opened her mouth too much. It's still a good idea, in my book."
"In mine, too," Fred chuckled.
"Well, let's start Dotty off with a little bare butt spanking. What do you say to that?"
"I'm all for it. You want to do it, or shall I?"
"Toss you for it!" Fred Bunson produced a quarter out of his pants pocket, spun it in the air. Art Jackson called "Heads!" and heads it was. Fred Bunson pocketed his quarter with a disgusted look. "I'll take her over my lap. At least I'll get my kicks that way."
"Now wait a minute. I won the toss," Art growled. "She goes over my lap and I whale her butt. You can hold her hands or her legs if you want to, but that's all."
"Quit arguing, you guys," Dick Tunbold laughed. "We got all night and lots of time. We can change around all we want. You can whack her tail next, Fred, but Art won the toss so he gets to do it his way."
"What are you going to do-please don't hurt me-oh, Mother, Mother, don't let them hurt me-oh my god-no-no-NOOO!! STOP IT!! DON'T TAKE OFF MY CLOTHEIS! EEE AYRRRHHH!!!!"
Fred and Art had seized her and lifted her to her feet. Fred had ripped off her pretty frock, exposing a pale, peach-painted silk slip, and that also fell as it was ripped away. Dorothy Tompkins twisted and wriggled and screamed for mercy, as she was reduced to pink nylon bra and matching panties, a white elastic-satin garterbelt whose tabs snugged the tops of her smokecolored nylons and dainty black leather pumps. The other Negroes uttered a collective grunt of lustful admiration at the revelation of Dorothy's delicious charms in this unusual deshabille. Apart from Dick Tunbold and Chuck Bordon, none of them had ever been with a white woman before or seen her so reduced to the intimacy of the boudoir.
Perhaps there might have been some restraining note if levelheaded Brenda Abrams had been allowed to speak, to express her belief that people were equal and that there should be no misunderstanding just because one or two of her companions had opened their mouths and put their foot into them. But Brenda was helplessly gagged and tied, and now Dorothy's scantily clad and voluptuous young body proved to be the straw that broke the back of restraint. From now on, Negroid lust would be unslaked and uninhibited!
Dorothy was particularly lovely in this attire of panties and bra, garterbelt and hose and pumps. Her long, thick pageboy fell in shimmering, pale, honey-colored luster to her shoulders, her rounded, heart-shaped face was exquisitely defenseless, utterly feminine. Her dark blue eyes were enormous and filled with tears, and her chin was trembling, as were her full, ripe lips. Her soft pink skin was exquisitely exciting to these dark-skinned men. Her muscles flexed deliciously, setting off the wonderfully high-set curves of her calves and the long, sleek thighs. Those apple-like titties rose and fell with violent agitation against the tight, filmy, white nylon bra, and the saucy, dark coral buds of her nipples prodded against the cups. At the crotch of her panties, one could see the dark blonde full muff of pussyfur which shielded the pink, dainty lips of her virgin twat. There was no doubt that Dorothy was a virgin; and her aunt would not have let her lose her cherry even to a qualified and well-to-do young bachelor.
She screamed when she saw all the men staring at her, greedily. She fought them, but it didn't do much good. Art and Fred let her struggle all she wanted to for a while, because it inflamed them to see her scantily clad body wriggling and twisting, setting into relief the jouncy contours of her voluptuous virgin ass and titties, her thigh muscles flexing and spasming and making the fine, carnation-tinted skin twitch and shiver in her terror.
But finally Art Jackson seized her by the wrists, seated himself on the broken-down divan and flung her across his lap, extending her body entirely along the upholstery, while Fred Bunson squatted down before the divan and grabbed her wrists and held them tightly in his big black hand, leering into her face and muttering, "Now then, honey baby, you're going to get something to cry about, you wait and see!"
"NO!! DON'T YOU DARE!! OH, HELP ME! DON'T DO IT TO ME!! GENEVIEVE, FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T LET THEM DO THIS TO ME, MAKE THEM STOP!!" Dorothy screamed, kicking her legs up and down wildly while Art Jackson stared greedily at the jouncy, rounded and enticing cheeks of her nylon-snugged backside. Putting his left palm at the small of her back, he now inserted his fingers inside the waistband of the nylon sheath.
Dorothy went mad with shame and horror; she yanked at her wrists with all her might, she twisted her face around, she tried to roll off Art Jackson's lap, she kicked her legs up and down, and she shrieked at the top of her voice, "NO YOU SHAN'T!!! DON'T YOU DARE TAKE MY PANTIES DOWN, YOU FILTHY BLACK NIGGER, YOU!!! YOU'LL GO TO JAIL, THEY'LL BURN YOU IN THE CHAIR, DON'T YOU DARE DO THAT TO ME!!! OH, GENEVIEVE, GENEVIEVE, MAKE HIM STOP TAKING MY PANTIES DOWN!!" Dick Tunbold and Chuck Bordon guffawed. "Boy, if that ain't a prissy piece of white ass," Chuck Bordon said to the trombonist. "I bet she's never shown her tail off to nobody, let alone us niggers. Go on, Art, peel her down and whale her cute little ofay ass for her good!"
"Right," Art Jackson grunted, his eyes glittering with lust. He tugged the nylon sheath down with a single jerk, and exposed Dorothy Tompkins' bottom and upper thighs, in all their virginal pure roundures. Then he called out, "She's sure gonna kick like a mule, so one of you guys better come over to the other side of this here couch and grab her ankles, so I can get me some swinging room on her bare ass!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brenda Abrams, who looked the most intellectual and serious of all the girls with her glasses, lying on the floor with her wrists bound behind her back and her ankles corded, her mouth gagged, stared apprehensively at the tableau on the old broken-down divan. Dorothy Tompkins lay over Art Jackson's lap, with Earl Gorman squatting down to his left and grabbing hold of Dorothy's wrists and staring greedily into her tearstained contorted face, while Fred Bunson squatted on the other side holding her ankles and thus delivering her naked bottom and upper thighs to the juvenile chastisement which Art Jackson intended to mete out.
His left hand pressing down hard on the small of the honey-haired girl's back, Art lifted his right hand slowly. Dorothy's dark blue eyes were fixed on it, and widened with incredulous horror and shame at the thought that her most intimate person was naked before the eyes of seven rutting Negroes. "OHHH NOOO!! PLEASE DON'T SPANK ME!! OH PULL MY PANTIES UP FOR GOD'S SAKE. I'VE NEVER BEEN NAKED IN FRONT OF MEN BEFORE IN ALL MY LIFE!! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING, I DIDN'T, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!!!" she shrieked.
Smack! Art Jackson's hand descended with a noisy crisp intonation on the jouncy, saucily curved right bottomsummit. The flesh seemed to flatten, then spring up again in all its youthful resilience. A bright crimson splotch registered the imprint of the Negro's hand on the pink and white flesh. More in shame and anguish than in pain, Dorothy had thrown back her head and uttered a wild scream, making frantic efforts to twist and wriggle herself off her assailant's lap.
"Boy, she got a nice cute tight firm juicy little ass, this yere Dottie has," Art Jackson announced to his excited cronies. "You boys hold her good now, or you won't get one of the jellyroll. You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to spank her bare butt till she jumps it up in the air and you boys can all see the pussy, that's what!"
Suiting the action to the word, he raised his right hand again and brought it down solidly on the left buttock, again on the upper curve where it was plumpest. Dorothy Tompkins jerked and twisted, seeming to shake her hips from side to side as if to disperse the fiery sting of that noisy spank. An equally bright outline of his palm sprang up at once on the smooth flawless skin. The muscles of her bottom contracted violently, closing the shadowy groove between her impudently rounded, upstanding compact nether hillocks. There was a strident wordless cry, and again Dorothy Tompkins turned her face back to her executioner.
"My, she's real nervous, ain't she?" Earl hoarsely panted as he took firmer hold of her wrists and approached his leering face near the tearstained visage of the agonized and shamed honey-haired virgin. "It's gonna get your little ass real hot, hon'ey, but we'll get you hot in front when that's over."
Brenda Abrams shuddered and closed her eyes. She knew now that there was no turning back the tide of relentless racial hatred. She knew that it had taken only this one display of white flesh to cause a holocaust and a conflagration. She knew now with a despondent certainty that she was going to be fucked, not only by every one of those big Negroes, and that it would be useless to resist and to fight because she would only be hurt. Oh my God, she said to herself, Ben won't want me after this, he just won't. Oh why did I let myself be talked into coming to this stupid affair just because Genevieve wanted me to?
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Warming to his task, his eyes glittering with lust as they studied the luscious naked behind squirming and twisting before him, Art Johnson raised his right hand and applied four harsh, clamorous slaps to the plumpest curves of those lovely hindquarters. Two to the right summit, two to the left. At each, the flesh seemed to flatten again, then spring up with the elasticity of Jello. Dorothy Tompkins yanked at her wrists, jerked at her ankles as she tried to kick, swerved her hips to the right as though to throw herself off the divan, and her head flung back, her eyes staring at the ceiling as her mouth gaped in a piteous wailing plea; "OWWW!!! OH, YOU'RE HURTING ME, YOU'RE HURTING ME AWFULLY!! OWW OOOUUUUU!! PLEASE DON'T, OH PLEASE DON'T SPANK ME ANY MORE, I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!!"
"She oughta sing with the band," Dick Tunbold called. He was standing by the bay window across the room, his right hand slyly massaging his crotch, which was bulging with lust. Genevieve Douglas, panting and squirming in the armchair to which she had been thrust after being bound and gagged, stared at him with real fear in her eyes. At last it was sinking in. At last she was realizing that all her haughtiness and breeding and wealth and position in life wasn't going to help her at all when it came time to pay the reckoning. She had used her mouth once too often-and what she didn't yet know was that she was going to have to learn how to use it again in a way she never dreamed would be asked of her by any man!
As Art Jackson's big black hand now gently pressed against the base of Dorothy's naked right buttock, the young girl shuddered, tried to cringe, and all the other men could see the workings of her muscles. "Oh don't, don't," she babbled tearfully. "Please don't do it to me like this, please pull my panties up, oh it's awful, nobody ever saw me like this before, and I didn't do anything, I didn't do anything to deserve this! Oh why are you taking it out on me?"
"No reason," Art Jackson cynically retorted as he now transferred his hand to the other buttock and began to squeeze and pinch the already crimsoned warm naked skin, to poor Dorothy's frantic discomfiture. "You're just built to be bare-butt whacked, that's what, honey-baby. You surely wiggle that cute kinetta when you feel my big black hand on your tail, you sure do. Let's make you dance some more for the boys. Maybe they'll play some music later on, huh?"
Obscene guffaws greeted this sally, as now Art Jackson raised his hand and brought it down sharply on the base of Dorothy's right buttock, then without respite, applied an even more stinging and noisier whack on the outer edge of her left bottomcheek just above the summit. "EEEEE!!! OWWW!! OH STOP, STOP IT, I CAN'T STAND IT, IT HURTS SO!!" she wailed, lunging convulsively against her captor's grasp.
Smack-Smack-Smack. Thrice more his hand descended, but each of these blows crashed down over both buttocks, bridging the gap between those jouncy round hillocks of what had once been carnation-sheened flesh and was now an angry scarlet. Dorothy's thighs and calves jerked and squirmed, and she yanked wildly at her wrists, while again turning back her face to entreat mercy. Her hips swerved convulsively, and he put his left hand on her bare right side just above the hip and pulled her back closer to him. In so doing her stomach rubbed against his swollen prick thrusting violently against his fly. It was intimation of what was to follow!
Once again his hand rose, hovered in the air even as she watched him, as with a desperate scream, she tried to lunge forward this time. The blow took her just above the base of the right buttock, towards the groove between those luscious cheeks, stunning her with the bruising shock. Then her head again flung back, her eyes bulging and blinded with tears, as her lovely full red lips opened in a hoarse shout of "AHHHRRR!! OH, DON'T, DON'T, NOT ANY MORE, FOR GOD'S SAKE, NOT ANY MORE!!"
"Shucks," Earl grunted disgustedly, "she ain't had hardly a warm-up, she ain't. Make the little bitch red as a tomato down there over that cute little heinie of hers! She's gettin' my dong worked up, I can tell you that, Art boy!"
Three more furious slaps rang out as Art Jackson at once complied. These were distributed impartially over the entire bottom, the first to the right summit, the second to the left, and the third pinching together the pouting inner edges of those nether hemispheres at shadowy creasage. Dorothy's naked inflamed bottom shook and contracted, all her gluteal muscles standing out under the furiously reddened skin, while long tremors assailed her thighs and calves. She had kicked off her pumps in the struggle under the first hard spanks, and now tears ran down her face as she tried to claw with fingernails the man who was holding her. He only laughed and twisted her wrist till she screamed in pain again, and rubbed his cheek against hers and snarled, "You like to scratch, huh, you cute little ofay bitch? I'll let you scratch all you want, and I'll scratch back with my dong up your cherry, baby, you wait and see!"
Art Jackson now shifted the weeping victim over his lap again, pulling her closer to him, and prolonging the preparation for the resumption of the spanking, because it was whetting his carnal appetite to feel his bulging prick rub against the abdomen and pussyfur of the frantic young honey-haired sufferer.
This time he crooked his left arm tightly around her side, and his fingers crept under her so that they pressed hard against her waist, deliriously rubbing the warm palpitating naked flesh. "Hold her tight, you guys, if you want any pussy," he warned. And the two men holding her wrists and ankles redoubled their efforts to keep her in position. Dorothy's bottom, meanwhile, was describing the unmistakable choreography of fustigation: the cheeks began to open and then clench spasmodically, long rippling tremors racing through them and following along her thighs and calves. She tried with all her might by means of muscular contractions to shield the most private spot of all: her virgin cunt. The thick dark blonde curls of her muff had thus far hidden the pink delicately voluted lips of the vulva, that sweet fig of fuckery which the Negroes now coveted, but Art Jackson intended to make her show everything she had. During this respite, he now leaned forward and with his right thumb and forefinger deftly unhooked the bandeau of her bra in a way that showed he had had expert practice in many a bedroom-as indeed he had, but not before with a girl whose skin was white and soft and sweet.
"Oh, don't strip me, don't strip me naked, oh my God!" Dorothy screamed. She made another frantic effort to drag her wrists free, to arch her body, but his left arm cruelly pinned her as in a vise and dragged her back against him. Now his right hand grabbed hold of her nylon panties and yanked them down to the hollows of her dimpled knees, so that they would act as a fetter and further restrain her kickings.
Finally, he unhooked the garterbelt, and then undid the tabs from the stockingtops, flung away the white sheath, and now Dorothy Tompkins was stark naked except for her sagging smoke-colored nylon hose. Earl, who was holding her wrists, transferred them to his right hand, so that he could slip his left under her and squeeze and fondle one of the apple-round firm sweet titties and pinch the dark coral tittie bud.
"TAKE YOUR FILTHY HAND AWAY, YOU FILTHY NIGGER!!! HOW DARE YOU DO A THING LIKE THAT TO ME! OH SPANK ME THEN, BUT LET ME GO!! OH MY GOD, GENEVIEVE, GENEVIEVE, HELP ME, DON'T LET THESE AWFUL NIGGERS DO THIS TO ME!!!" Dorothy screamed. She tried to press her bosom down hard against the surface of the divan, but Earl had captured one of those dusky nipplebuds between his thumb and forefinger and was cruelly pinching it. Her head flung back, her eyes lifting to the ceiling, exorbitant, mad with suffering and shame. Her mouth gaped in a wordless, hoarse shriek of agony, as she dimly sensed, ingenuous virgin that she was, the doom of all her maidenheads!
Now Art Jackson was ready again, and he distracted the frantic girl from further concerning herself over the liberty which Earl was taking with her titties by bringing down his hard right hand solidly on the base of her right buttock, and then even as she jerked and started in surprise and before she could cry out with the pain of that burning slap, visiting the other cheek in exactly the same place with an even harder smack.
"AIIIII!! EEEEEOOOWWW!!! OH MY BOTTOM, MY POOR BOTTOM, DON'T SPANK ME ANY MORE, YOU'RE KILLING ME!!"
Dorothy Tompkins's naked hips lurched and twisted, jerked and squirmed feverishly as she tried to evade the merciless fustigation. Art Jackson's lips were curled back to bare his teeth in a rictus of sadistic rut, his eyes were pinpoints of lust, his nostrils flared and shrank, and hoarse quickened breathing escaped him. The pungent odor of the Negro male, a mingling of sweat and muskiness and the seminal smell of coital readiness, filled poor Dorothy's nostrils. Suddenly she seemed to leap her hips up in the air off his lap with a wild and prolonged shriek, and both men holding her wrists and ankles had to exert all their strength to keep her from throwing herself off the couch: Art Jackson had just slid his right hand between their bodies and with his forefinger had prodded the soft twitching lips of her virgin cunt.
"Take your dirty finger away from me there, you filthy nigger, you dirty bastard, stop it!" Dorothy Tompkins shrieked.
"So you'd rather get spanked than frigged, huh, little Missy? Okay, always glad to oblige a lady!" Art Jackson hoarsely chuckled.
He released his hold round her waist, and now his left hand slid under her body and his forefinger replaced the other as his right hand drew out from under her, rose in the air and came down ferociously, once, twice, and a third time, all on the ripest curve of her right bottomcheek.
"EEEOWWW OUUUUU!!! OH GOD, MY POOR BOTTOM, OH STOP IT, WHAT MUST I DO TO HAVE YOU STOP, WHAT MUST I DO TO HAVE YOU STOP!!!" Dorothy Tompkins shrieked, her voice breaking with the strain and the agony. Her bottom jerked and jumped, but Art Jackson's left forefinger followed her furry muff in the wriggling spasms of her naked loins, and as her posterior seemed to lift off his lap at that last furious spank, he protruded the tip of his forefinger between the lips of her fig-like vulva until he came up against a membrane which pronounced her virgin to men.
"She's cherry all right, you guys, and is she squirmy between those cute little randy legs of hers!" he announced thickly. The other four negroes had approached the divan and were standing leaning forward, panting with desire to see this luscious naked white girl forcibly held down, obscenely fingered, and brutally spanked. For now Dorothy's poor bottom was swollen, and the crimson had turned a dark and ominous scarlet, spreading from the chinkbone to the very base of her posterior.
"You guys hear her say something important just now?" Art Jackson demanded as he looked around his greedy, grinning audience.
"Seem like to me she just did ask if there wasn't nuttin' she couldn't do to 'commodate us black boys if we'd stop whacking her bare butt," Manny Tandey sniggered, nudging Dick Tunbold in the ribs. "Ain't that the way you heerd it, Dick?"
"I rightly did, I rightly did," the trombonist solemnly declared. "Ask her nice and gentle, Art, just what she plans she can do for us if you let her off any more whacking."
"You heard the man, and he's the leader of the band," Art Jackson growled. With his right thumb and forefinger, he pinched the sensitive anal crease between those flaming bottomglobes, and poor Dorothy Tompkins arched her hips up frenziedly, then flattened herself, then shook herself from side to side, shrieking, "OH DON'T TOUCH ME THERE, OH NO, PLEASE DON'T, NO MORE, NO MORE!!!"
"Guess you didn't hear the question. I'd better repeat it." Art Jackson raised his hand and brought it down twice on her left buttock at the base.
"EEEOWWW!! AHRRR!!! OH DON'T SPANK ME ANYMORE, YES, YES, I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT ME TO, ONLY STOP IT, STOP IT, I'M DYING, I'M DYING!!!"
"I guess she got the message this time. And we got an answer didn't we, you guys?" Art looked up at his grinning cronies.
"Ask her if she's gonna shag?" Manny hoarsely panted.
"Wait, I got a better idea," the trombonist interposed. "You know what would make a white uppity ofay bitch like that one and all the others really burn, it would be to give us all a blow job. They think we're animals. Okay, we're gonna make them act like the same. Art, make Dottie say she'll blow us off, otherwise we'll land a belt on her bare ass right now and land it hard."
"You heard the man, honey child," Art Jackson drawled as his big right hand fondled and squeezed and patted the flaming, swollen, naked bottomcheeks of the hysterically weeping naked young girl who was stretched out across his lap and held down at wrists and ankles by the other two lubriciously roused Negroes. "Either you blow us all, or I'm gonna take the skin off your ass and tan it and make a tobacco pouch out of it, you hear?" Then, to punctuate his obscene remark, he applied two more ferocious spanks at the base of her right buttock.
"OHHH OUUUUU!!! I'LL DO ANYTHING, ANYTHING, JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO, BUT FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T HIT MY BOTTOM ANY MORE, I'M DYING, I'M DYING!!" Dorothy Tompkins screamed.
Then bowing her head, she burst into violent uncontrollable sobs, tears flowing down her cheeks, capitulating, conquered, ready to do the will of these seven jazz musicians.
"If she's cherry, she sure as shit don't know what a blow-job is, man." Lennie Masters disgustedly snapped. "You better tell her what you want her to do.
"Hey, that's a fact, man," Art Jackson chuckled. "Hey, Earl, lift her head up by the hair so she can pay attention when I'm talking to her. Listen, you little ofay bitch, you just said you're gonna do it. Okay, here's what you're gonna do. We're gonna pull our pricks out, and you're gonna take them in your mouth and suck them all down, ah seven of us. You hear?"
Genevieve Douglas and Margie Eulles uttered wild moaning cries, stifled by their gags. Margie most of all was aghast, for she was from the South and she had been the one who had most offended these Negro musicians by her racist remarks and behavior.
Slowly Dorothy Tompkins's tearglazed bulging eyes seemed to widen even more. Earl's fingers, thick and black, were twisted in her honey-colored hair, and now he twisted her face back painfully towards Art so that she might answer her executioner:
"Oh-oh no-I couldn't do a thing like that-I-I've never been with a man-oh please, you don't know what you're asking-it-its filthy I'd get sick and die. Oh I can't. I'll do anything, but oh not that, oh please God not that!"
"Suit yourself, baby. I can keep this up all night. Pull her head down, Earl," Art directed. And now, keeping his left forefinger still prodding her soft cunt, he again raised his right hand and delivered a barrage of ten furious swats, alternating on those crimson, inflammed and shuddering bare bottom globes, absolutely deaf to the wild, heartrending screams and incoherent babbling pleas which poured from Dorothy Tompkins's twisted lips.
When he stopped, it was to lean forward and growl, "Are you ready to talk up now, or do you want a couple more like that? My hand's getting woreout, so I think I'll use my belt for the next round."
"AHHHH NOOOOOO!!!! I'LL DO IT, I'LL DO ANYTHING IN THE WORLD, BUT FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T SPANK ME, PLEASE DON'T SPANK ME. I'M RAW, I'M DYING, I'LL DO IT, BUT STOP, STOP, HAVE MERCY, OH PLEASE HAVE MERCY!!!" Dorothy shrieked.
The first of the "slumming" ofays had surrendered to black power!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Margie Eulles uttered a wild cry of horror which the gag muffled when she discovered what those awful niggers were going to make poor little Dorothy Tompkins do. In her own struggles against her captors, the light-brown-haired Southern beauty had had her frock torn off one shoulder, so that her slip was showing, and she saw that some of the men were glancing at her and rolling their eyes and smacking their lips and she went cold all over with loathing and nausea. Yes, she'd come to live with Peggy this summer and she'd hoped that maybe she would have the chance to do some sexing up with some real nice boys but she had never dreamed that it would be with niggers! And she was furious with Peggy for having trapped her into a situation like this.
Beautiful Brenda Abrams told herself that she'd just have to remain calm and not get hysterical and not panic. Fighting these men would be worse than useless; that huge creature who played the saxophone could knock her out with just one swing of his big fist. If they-if they wanted her, she would just have to submit, that was all there was to it. Of course she would try to reason with them and plead with them that she herself believed in equality for everybody, but she knew it was hopeless. They were ah animals now, and poor Dorothy was naked and weeping over Art Jackson's lap while those two other men held her wrists and ankles. She sent a silent prayer to Ben Lorway, knowing that it would take a miracle to bring him and others to help her in this old forgotten building deep in the heart of Chicago's South Side.
"All right, boys," Art Jackson triumphantly announced, "you just heard what little Dottie said. She's going to French us real good. Aren't you, baby doll?" Slyly he raised his right hand and brought it down with a loud smack on the girl's right upper thigh, where the flesh was still a pure carnation sheen. Dorothy Tompkins's naked body jerked and arched up in the air, then flattened, but not till all the excited Negroes had seen the thick fleece of dark blonde curls covering her virgin cunt. "YES!! OH YES!! I SAID I WOULD, FOR GOD'S SAKE PLEASE DON'T SPANK ME ANYMORE, I'M IN SUCH PAIN, OH PLEASE!!"
"You know," Dick Tunbold now remarked, there's just so much one guy can do when it comes to poking pussy. Now here we got us six nice l'll gals, and me, I'd sure like to take good care of every one of them. I don't want none of them to go away from here feelin' anybody's had preference shown to them, hee hee hee! No, sir, I sure don't. So we better figger keeping them here for a nice long weekend, and then we could just settle down and relax and do all the poking and playing around we want. That means you guys got to chip in for eats and drinking stuff, get me?"
"Hey, now," Manny Tandey frowned worriedly, "that's real kidnapping, that is. Don't you think that if we keep them here til Sunday night, say, the police wouldn't be looking for us black boys?"
"Maybe so," the trombonist shrugged, "but I'll bet you a buck nobody knows where these little white chicks are hiding right now. Art, you ask little Dottie if she told her folks where she was going."
"You heard the man, Dottie," Art Jackson sniggered. He put his right thumb and forefinger to the blazing, swollen base of the honey-haired virgin's right buttock and applied a sadistic little pinch.
"Owweeeoowww!! No, no, I just told my aunt I was going out with Genevieve, and she knows Genevieve and it was all right, but oh please don't hurt me anymore, oh please!"
"You see, Manny?" Dick Tunbold turned to the pockmarked Negro. "Don't be such a worrywart. We'll find out from all these little ofay chicks if anybody knows where they went tonight. And nobody's going to find us in Ma Sheba's place, that's for sure. So now, boys, let's talk about fun for a change. You all want to lineup for a blow job on Dottie? If you shoot your wad, all of you, then you can't do nothin' much about these other little sweet pieces of poontang til you build it up again."
"I'd rather put my dong to a little twat," Chuck Bordon growled. Dorothy Tompkins, still sobbing hysterically, held stretched over Art Jackson's lap by her two guards, turned her tearstained, contorted face towards the behemoth, and she began to whimper and tear. Standing there with his legs straddled, his hands on his hips, his huge prick thrusting violently against the fly of his trousers, he was enough to scare any virgin out of a full year's growth.
"I think each of us guys ought to do what he wants to do, and just make sure this sweet little bitch is nice and 'commodating," Art Jackson pronounced.
"Or you know what we could do," Lennie Masters spoke up, "each of us could take a broad and have some fun with her, and of course one guy would have to wait his turn, but we'd all be having some cuddling at the same time and with a different piece of cunt."
"We're going to play this by ear, you guys," Big Tunbold decided. "Right now, we got Dottie all ready to be sweet and nice and obliging. She'll do just about anything we want her to because you can see how red her cute little heinie is. All I know is I got me Jenny reserved when poking time comes around." He shot the tethered and gagged redhead a vindictive look which made her shudder.
"Now you're not saving that juicy piece of ass all for yourself, Dick," Chuck Bordon growled. "I don't like her guts either, nor that gal from the South that thinks we ought to be kept in our place." This with a jerk of his thumb towards Margie Eulles. "They're all going to get the same treatment. Us guys are going to fuck and brown them and make them blow us all we want before we turn them loose, and that's it."
"Suits me fine, Chuckie," Dick Tunbold laughed as he held up a hand and shook his head to indicate that he had absolutely no argument. "I just don't want us soul brothers fighting over white pussy, that's all. There's sure enough to go around, sure enough snatch to keep us all humping for a month of Sundays. Let's get with it, Art, and work Dottie over. My dong's about ready to bust. And anyhow, if all these other bitches see what their little friend is going to get from us, they'll get the message real nice and fast."
"No argument there, Dickie boy," Art Jackson called. "All right then. Here's how we're going to do this. Two of us guys is going to hold Dottie down on her back on the couch here, and then we're going to feed her prick. Those of you guys who want to screw instead, that's your affair. Me, I like to see this cute little ofay with a big black lollipop between those soft red lips she's got."
"I'd rather have it between the red lips of her snatch, if you ask me," Fred Bunson guffawed, as he now unzipped his fly and let his swollen penis jut out in readiness for the orgy.
"Just let me get up from here, and you guys hold her and get her started," Art declared. He made a gesture, and the two men holding Dorothy's wrists and ankles suddenly lifted her in the air. The terror of falling and the shame of being stretched out like that in the air, stark naked except for her sagging stockings, made the honey-haired victim shriek and sob disconsolately. The two Negroes, amused at this diversion, turned poor Dorothy over in the air, as they trundled her between them, and her panting little round apple-firm titties and her furry cunt were lewdly exposed to the glittering eyes of the jazz musicians. Art Jackson sidled out and away from the divan, and the two men then laid Dorothy down on her back, each of them taking his position at the end of the broken-down divan and keeping hold of her wrists and ankles so that she was tightly stretched out.
Art Jackson was first in line, and he had al ready unzipped his fly and drawn out a lean, oblong-tipped prick, the lips of which were contracting violently with the torrential lava damned up in his huge hairy gnarled balls.
Hands on his hips, he moved towards the horrified, weeping, naked blonde, till his prickhead brushed her satiny cheek, so wet with tears.
"AAUGH!! TAKE THAT FILTHY THING AWAY! I CAN'T, OH NO, I CAN'T, I'D RATHER DIE THAN DO THAT!!" poor Dorothy screamed in a shrill voice and began to thrash about. The agony of her swollen, thoroughly spanked bottom had made her capitulate, anything to stop that dreadful burning, bruising spanking. But now that she saw so vividly what was expected of the, she shrank back against the divan with bulging eyes, nauseated and almost sick with loathing.
"Hold her real tight," Art Jackson angrily directed. Then he jerked his belt out of the loops, slashed in through the air, and then slowly raised it above poor Dorothy's squirming naked body.
"NOOOOO.M! PLEASE DON'T HIT ME WITH THAT!!! OHHHH PLEASE, PLEASE-EEEEEOWWOOOOOOUUUU!!!! STOP IT, STOP IT, OH MY GOD, NOT ON MY B-BBREASTS, I'M DYING, I'M DYING!!"
The black leather belt had slashed down through the air and smacked with an obscene and vicious sound those two firm round satiny titties, biting home over the tender nipples, flattening them down into the sensitive aureola. Dorothy Tompkins arched up madly from the divan, her body describing an arc, her belly and cunt foremost, as her head twisted wildly from side to side, and she jerked frenziedly at her wrists and ankles. It was all the two strong Negroes could do to keep her in position. Across those lovely carnation-sheened loveglobes, the bright red streak of the belt's kiss blazed.
"There's lots more where that one came from, Dottie," Art Jackson advised, swinging the belt tantalizingly back and forth in the air. The glazed, exorbitantly dark blue eyes fixed on it and Dorothy Tompkins began to whimper, almost insane with terror and pain: "Ohh-n-no-please-you mustn't hit a girl there-oh my God-help me-Auntie Cora, don't let them do it-oh I can't:-I don't want to-it hurts-please don't, no more-oh nooooo!!!" Her voice rose to a piercing scream as she saw the belt now lifted in the air, hover a moment and sweep down over her, wrapping itself right over her belly, hiding the dainty, wide shallow nook of her dimpled bellybutton in the soft satiny goblet of flesh. Once again her body arched and lunged and twisted and weaved, and her head rolled from side to side.
The other captives were hypnotized by this sadistic scene. Margie Eulles had become very pale, her eyes were staring, and her titties rose and fell violently in a turbulent emotion. Julia Vickery, on the other hand, closed her eyes and her lips were moving in prayer. Genevieve Douglas was straining madly at her bonds, trying to get free.
Brenda Abrams, too, was praying, praying that Ben Lorway could hear mental telepathy and come to rescue him. She'd elope with him tonight if he only would! She wouldn't care whether her parents made a fuss about it or not because he was a Gentile!
"The next one's gonna be right on your hairy little snatch, Dottie gal," Art Jackson gloatingly promised," and you'll go on getting licks til you start blowing me, baby!"
With this, he raised the belt and descended it again, this time stepping off to one side and directing the tip of the belt with a diabolical accuracy. The tip bit right home into the soft plump of Dorothy Tompkins's virgin cunthole.
"AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!! EEEEAAAARRRHYOOOOUUUU!!!! NOT THERE, OH PLESE NOT THERE, I'M GOING TO DIE, OH STOP IT, STOP IT, OH, AUNTIE CORA, HELP ME, HELP ME!!!" Dorothy's sweet voice reached incredible colaratura soprano pitch as her body threshed madly to and fro. She tried to twist herself from this side to that, her head rose, her eyes staring, her mouth gaping in that frenzied shriek of inhuman suffering.
"'pears like to me she got a tender snatch, that little ofay baby," Manny Tandey hoarsely commented. "Give her a couple more licks there, Art man, it'll do the trick!"
"Oh no, not any more-I'll do it-I'll do it-but you've got to be-you've got to be patient with-with me-I've never in my life-oh, Auntie Cora, oh I wish you were here to save me!" poor Dorothy naively wailed.
The tall bearded Negro moved towards his prey, doubling the black leather belt, and holding it up for the tortured young girl to see. He arched his loins obscenely forward, proffering his swollen, throbbing prick. "Start sucking, then, white girl, or I'll whip the floss off your tender little twat," he warned. "Lift up your head, and get to work!"
The two Negroes holding Dorothy's wrists and ankles leaned forward to get a better view of the proceedings. The other four musicians crowded around the divan, blocking the view of the other helpless, bound and gagged young women, who knew now with awful certainty that their turn would follow Dorothy's.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Earl Gorman and Fred Bunson, who were holding poor Dorothy's wrists and ankles, respectively, had a bird's eye view of the proceedings. Squatting as they were at each end of the divan, and dragging her limbs out to maximum, fhey had her magnificent young carnation-satiny body helplessly pinned down. And their eyes could feast on the exciting nakedness of this their first victim of blacklust.
Dorothy Tompkins's lovely apple-round bubbies shudderingly rose and fell, and her eyes were bulging as she stared tensely at Art Jackson's proffered prick. Her eyes saw also the uplifted, doubled belt which had already dealt her such burning pain. Her throat cords stood out violently and her Adam's apple shifted as a fit of nausea seized her at the thought of what she would have to do in order to escape more whipping. She closed her eyes and whimpered, "Oh please, don't make me do such an awful thing, I'm a good girl, I'm a good girl!"
"That's the best kind," Art Jackson quipped. And down came the belt again, bouncing off Dorothy's right tittie just above the nipple.
"EEEYEEEAAARRRHHHH!! Ohh, please!!! I will, I will, just give me time, oh my God, you're killing me, oh not on my breast, oh please not on my breast!!"
Her body bounded and arched. Stretched out tightly as she was by the grasp of the two grinning men who held her, her lovely nakedness executed the violent contortions. Her hips jerked from side to side, and then her belly arched up, as if she were trying to present it for the belt. They could even see at such close range the delicate pink lips of her cunt, shielded by the silky curls of dark blonde love hair. And the soft mossy tufts of her armpit hair was dank with agony sweat. Globules of the same compound glistened on her belly, along her sides-so tightly drawn that they could see the ribcage-and at her temples. She threshed and writhed, her head twisting from side to side.
"I ain't gonna talk to you much longer, Dottie," Art Jackson said in a husky voice. "If you don't start doing it right now, I'm gonna smack your cunt, so help me! You want to know what it feels like?" and with this, he lifted the double belt and brought it down against her left inner thigh, near the groin, right near that plump soft fig of her virgin cunthole.
"OHHHOWWWEEEEAAARRRHHH!!! OH MY GOD, I WILL, YES I WILL, OH DON'T HIT ME ANYMORE WITH THAT DREADFUL BELT, PLEASE!!! OH PLEASE DON'T! I WILL, I TOLD YOU I WILL!!!" Dorothy Tompkins shrieked as again her body arched and twisted and flexed and jerked. Earl and Fred leaned forward to feast their eyes on the twisting contours of that lovely pink-and-white nudity. The frenzied squirming of her thighs had ruffled the hairs of her cunt, and now one could plainly see the delicate pink twitching lips of that virgin crevice.
"This is your last chance, baby," Art Jackson growled. "Next time, it goes right smack-dab into your twat!" And, to illustrate his meaning, he let the doubled belt dangle down against her, till its black gleaming surface grazed the exquisite nook of Dorothy's maiden love-canal.
"NOOOO!! PLEEASE!! NOT THERE! NOT THERE!!" she shrieked.
"Then lift your head up and do it, Dottie," Art Jackson snarled. He made a gesture to Earl Gorman who, while gripping the sobbing naked blonde's slim wrists with one hand, twisted the fingers of his other hand into her tumbled honey-gold hair and yanked up savagely, lifting Dorothy's contorted and agonized face towards the scepter of phallic rut which her assailant wielded.
"Open your mouth and suck it, bitch," Earl Gorman huskily panted, digging his dirty fingernails into the slim wrists, and giving Dorothy's tangled curls another cruel yank, "Go on down on that big black lollipop of Art's, 'cause you got a lot of suckin' to do before the night's done."
Again Dorothy Tompkins conquered her revulsion all she could; whimpering, squirming her ferociously burning naked bottom, her belt-splotched soft round little titties rising and falling erratically, the muscles in her jaws flexing violently at the abhorrent task set before her, 'she at last opened her lips and gingerly touched the tip of Art Jackson's meatus.
"Goddam! If that don't feel terrific, go on ahead, take some more," he moaned. He stepped forward, hands on hips, his right palm pressed hard against the doubled belt to have it in readiness if Dorothy again proved recalcitrant. In that movement, an inch of stiff throbbing hot cock was forced between her mouth, gagging the unfortunate girl, who immediately jerked her face to one side and screamed, "Oh it's awful, oh, Auntie Cora, Auntie Cora, save me, save me, I don't want to do it, I can't, I'm going to vomit, I'm going to die!"
"You know what I told you, you stuck up little snot," he snarled disappointedly. The double belt swept back into his right hand, it rose up and then descended like a plummet right between Dorothy's surging, tractioned thighs. There was a soft whack as the leather bit against the plump mound of her furry virgin cunthole. And once again her body described a living arc as she fairly bounded from the divan, her eyes starting out of their sockets, her mouth agape, her wrists and ankles wrenching against the hold of her captors, and an inhuman, prolonged shriek burst from her lungs: "Ouuuueeeeaaaahhhhhrrrrohhhnnnoooo please!!!!!!"
"Bet Ma Sheba sure heard that yipe," Chuck Bordon sniggered. He, Dick, Lennie and Manny had crowded around the divan to watch the ordeal of the first of the six white young martyrs who would pay for the racial slurs which both Genevieve Douglas and Margie Eulles had cast upon their lineage.
Mad with pain, face twisting from side to side, tears bathing her cheeks, her titties heaving wildly, her muscles jerking and belly and thighs and calves, Dorothy Tompkins at last regained some degree of control, and this time, when she saw the belt again upraised, she twisted her face towards Art Jackson's bulging prick-and closed her mouth over the entire meatus!
"You see what a little education does for a stupid ofay, you guys?" Art Jackson thickly demanded. His chest was heaving, and his jaw was taut with the sexual tension bubbling within him. "That's the way, little honeygal, just keep sucking now, real nice and easy. That's the girl-see how quick you learned it? Like you've been doing it all your sweet young life! Now use that tongue-USE IT, I SAID!!" for Dorothy had momentarily halted, and her bulging eyes indicated the shadow of nausea and despair and loathing at the fetid, strongly acrid taste of that obscene scepter which had lodged itself for the first time in her virgin mouth. And thus her first maidenhead was forfeited to blacklust!
His thundered-out warning, however, made her whimper with terror, and she at once renewed her efforts. Her eyes were desperately closed, her body was shivering as with fever, and now her tonguetip crept warily forward to brush the puckering lips of Art Jackson's prick, feeling their tremoring which was the sign that he had boiling lust-lava stirred up and would soon release it as tribute to her carnal homage.
"Hot damn!" Fred Bunson hoarsely muttered, licking his thick lips and fixing the satiny inner thighs and the furry mount of the lovely young captive with a greedy stare, "Don't make that little Missy faint with all you got, Art, 'cause I got twice as much stored up in my big balls and it's all for her!"
"Me too," Earl Gorman groaned. Having clamped both of Dorothy's wrists in one big hand he had the other hand free now and used it to squeeze and fondle her adorable apple-round satiny titties, on whose soft pink-and-white flesh the angry kisses of the black leather belt had already left darkening striata. Dorothy whimpered and sobbed and squirmed under this lecherous fondling, but now her eyes were open and stared with a kind of feverish and abject terror at the massive, gnarled, dark-veined shaft before her, the shaft whose plumhead was filling her mouth to capacity. The thick black shaggy pubic fleece and the heavy testicles loomed before her, and her stomach began to spasm in abhorrent retching, but Art Jackson pantingly warned, "If you stop now, I'm gonna give you a shave with this belt, right down between your cute little legs, Dottie! I'm gonna whisk all the peach fuzz off your cunt with my belt if you dare let go now! You gotta take it all! Now work your tongue faster, round and round the head of my cock-yeah-oh yeah baby-now get ready-HERE IT COMES!!"
Suddenly with a bellowing shout, he stiffened, and his jerking prick exploded inside the young girl's mouth. Dorothy coughed and choked, her eyes almost popping out of their sockets at the furious and copious jet which almost strangled her with its thickness and abundance. But Earl Gorman twisted his fingers in her hair and snarled, "Swallow it down, or Art'll whip your pussy raw, you little bitch!"
Half fainting, her body violently jerking and shuddering in the throes of supreme revulsion, the unfortunate young blonde girl managed to do the impossible. At last Art Jackson pulled his somewhat limpened prick out of her panting mouth, whereupon she twisted her face to the back of the divan and burst into hysterical tears. The two men holding her relaxed their grip, for it was obvious that her resistance was utterly crushed as well as her spirit. Now there remained only the lingering and sadistic pillaging of her naked young body. While she lay there, hopelessly sobbing, Art Jackson reached down and yanked the sagging nylon stockings from her lovely legs, then with a salacious guffaw used them to wipe his greasied cock, and chortled; "Okay, Earl, Fred, you guys is next. Then you others get your turn. This is what I call a real feast of ofay poontang!"
It was the beginning. But before the end, unspeakable shame and degradation as well as incredible erotic awakening were destined to take place!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Earl Gorman and Fred Bunson had straightened, groaning from the aching muscles they had sustained while squatting down at each end of the divan and holding onto Dorothy's wrists and ankles while she had been stretched over Art Jackson's lap undergoing a prolonged and atrociously painful spanking. Each of them had now opened his fly and let his bulging prick thrust out in frantic need of appeasement, and now Art Jackson, who had had his pleasure, volunteered to do as much for them. Seating himself at the right end of the divan, he took hold of Dorothy's ankles and dug his fingers against them, saying, "All right, Chuck, I seen you give Dottie here the once-over back in the club, you just sit down on the other end and hold her wrists so Fred and Earl can let her do a good blow job on them. Then you can be next. The poontang is free, although you've got to earn your right in line. Ain't that right, Dick?"
"Sure is!" the trombonist cackled, smacking his thigh with hilarity. He turned to look at Genevieve Douglas, bound and gagged, and he raised his hand at her: "Hi there, baby! Don't you fret none, it ain't as if we forgot about you. No sir, not hardly. You're going to be saved for dessert, as you might say."
The elegant young redhead closed her eyes. She had been trying uselessly to break free of the cords which tied her wrists and ankles, or at least to slip out the gag which they had improvised. But she couldn't. And watching Dorothy there on the old broken-down divan, getting spanked and then having to take that f-filthy thing in her mouth had made the haughty young patrician almost ill as she thought to herself that they were probably going to try to make her do a disgusting thing like that too.
Chuck Bordon sat down on the divan, which gave a warning creak. "Look out there, Chuckie," Manny Tandey shouted, "it's already busted up so don't you smash it no more with that big ass of yours."
"Hell, man," the Negro behemoth sniggered as he grasped poor Dorothy's wrists in his big black fingers and looked greedily down at her tearstained, contorted face, "I don't need no busted couch nohow to be real cozy with Dottie here. I can do it on the floor just as good, or sitting down on the crapper and having her ride over me. She's built just right. She ain't much on tits, but just look at that nice fat little pussy and man, oh man, what a juicy solid little ass she's got!"
"Oh please, oh let me go now, haven't you done enough to me?" poor Dorothy Tompkins whimpered.
Her eyes blinked through the flood of tears and she saw in the misty haze the looming figure of Earl Gorman. He reached down, entwined fingers of his right hand in her disheveled hair, and proffered her his bulging prick. "Do it nice and slow, honey," he instructed in a thick, shuddering voice. "Take all you can take, and don't you spit it out none, or I'll whup your ass some more and I can do it jist as hard as Art can!"
A retching spasm made Dorothy's naked car nation-satiny body jerk and convulse as she lay stretched out on the old divan. Earl Gorman put his other hand on one of her apple-round titties and viciously squeezed it, his thick lips curved in a lecherous and sadistic smile: "Come on, baby," he urged softly, "have a nice long suck on Daddy's lollipop. It's a nice big black licorice one, jist the flavor white gals go for. Try it 'n you'll see!"
"OH LET GO OF ME THERE, OH PLEASE, YOU'RE HURTING MY B-BBREAST SO BAD!! STOP IT, I WILL, I WILL, OH PLEASE DON'T HURT ME SO!!!" Dorothy Tompkins screamed.
She twisted her face, opened her mouth, and closed it over the bulging meatus of Earl Gorman's throbbing prick. He let out a grunt of delight: "Dat's de sweetest mouf I ever had wrapped round my dong, boys! Don't you wish you wuz right here in my shoes now?"
"Hell, Dick," Manny Tandey protested in a whining, excited voice, "Why the fuck do we have to line up like this just for Dottie, when we got five other broads all ready over there waiting for attention. Huh?"
"Because we wanna string it out, that's why," the trombonist arbitrarily retorted. "Hell, man, you talk as if fuckin' 'n blowin' wuz going out of style now. Hell, man, we got all weekend with these cute ofay cunts. The more they wait, the more they're going to feel like peein' in their pants, and the more fun for us, get me?"
Manny shrugged disconsolately, glancing back at beautiful Brenda Abrams, who blushed and lowered her eyes under his intense and avid stare.
Earl Gorman groaned and rolled his eyes be hind his smoked glasses. In her terror, and also in her naive belief that the more swiftly she performed this nauseating and loathsome task, the sooner her martyrdom would be ended, Dorothy Tompkins had begun to suck with feverish rapidity. The lascivious moist slurping sounds intensified the mounting rut of all the other Negroes. "Not so fast, gal," Earl Gorman panted. "Relax, make it last a nice long time, Dottie gal! Use your tongue over my whang, hear?" He still had his fingers twisted in her hair, and now he tightened them, and gave them a little jerk, and Dorothy squealed and gurgled, her eyes rolling in frantic dread, as she forced herself to make a wider O with her trembling red lips and to flick her dainty pink tongue against the bulging head of that black spear. His other hand still fondled one of her titties, playfully plucking the dark coral bud of her nipple out from its coral halo, and Dorothy winced and whimpered, squirming and arching herself a little to ease the maddening torment of her furiously spanked bottom and also to propitiate the bearded Negro by showing her abject submission to his will.
His excitement betrayed him, and suddenly without warning, he uttered a roar and his body jerked convulsively as his thick viscous sperm burst into Dorothy's mouth. Taken by surprise, the unfortunate young blonde choked and coughed and retched, twisting her face away. "Goddamit, you little tricky bitch," he snarled, yanking at her hair and forcing her face back towards him, "I said drink it down, look what you lost on the Goddam couch! I got a good mind to whup your ass some more and your tits too, just to teach you!"
"Augh-mff-ughhh-oh-I couldn't-couldn't h-h-help it, please, I couldn't, I swear I couldn't!" Dorothy feebly panted as she fought for breath, her eyes huge with fear. "I-I almost suffocated-please don't be mad at me-I couldn't help it-"
Earl Gorman looked triumphantly around at his cronies: "See, you guys? Ain't it nice for a change to hear a little ofay cunt be nice and humble to her big black Daddy? Sure does my heart and my cock, too, a world of good to hear her talk like that. That's what I call real integration, haw haw haw!" So saying, he seized Dorothy's cascading pageboy curls in both black hands, and wiped his cock clean on the shimmering, honey-gold mantle while the unfortunate girl closed her eyes and her body shuddered convulsively. She had been thoroughly subjugated, and all she prayed for was the end of this atrocious martyrdom.
Next came Fred Bunson. With hardly a moment's respite, he obliged the lovely young blonde sufferer to open her mouth and accept his aching prick, but he too had held back his spunk so long that the ecstatic joy of feeling a white girl's mouth on his sexual organ and the prospect of having all those other five white captives similarly service him made him cry out and drench Dorothy's mouth to overflowing with his copious jet.
Then he replaced Chuck Bordon, who stood up, his organ already bobbing out of his fly, his face screwed up in a rictus of intolerable rut. "Jist you 'n me now, Dottie baby," the huge Negro jazz musician crooned.
"Ohhh-oouuuuffff-aggghhh-oh let me rest a little-I-I'm sick-oh please-let me go to the t-t-toilet for just a minute-please!" Dorothy faintly gasped. Her Adam's apple was jerking about compulsively, and her body was trembling as with ague in her captor's grasp.
"Okay, jist for a minute, now," Bordon warned. "But you got to pay the price for favors in a soul neighborhood, baby."
"Wh-what do you-what do you mean?" Dorothy whimpered.
Chuck Bordon bent down till his grinning sweaty face was inches from the terrified girl's: "I mean you gotta pop your cherry, sweetie," he purred sadistically.
"I-I don't know what you m-m-mean," the lovely blonde quavered.
"I mean, Dottie, that I'm going to put my dong into your little hairy snatch, after you work me up to it with those two little red lips you've got, see?"
"OHHH NOOOOM! OH MY GOD, DON'T-R-R-RUIN ME, OH NO, OH PLEASE NO!" Dorothy Tompkins shrieked, and she made gigantic efforts to jerk her wrists and ankles free from the grasp of the two men who were holding her down and grinning salaciously at the struggles of her voluptuous young naked body on the brokendown divan.
"Suit yourself, baby. No toilet then. Open that mouth and get ready to take cock," Chuck Bordon demanded.
Once again he pressed his prick forward till it hovered an inch or two from the shrinking, pitifully trembling lips of the unfortunate young girl. She twisted her face to one side and screamed out, "OH I CAN'T, I CAN'T ANY MORE, I CAN'T, I CAN'T!!"
"Manny, hand me that belt Art was using," Chuck Bordon angrily demanded.
"Oh, no, don't whip me! Please don't whip me any more! Please don't! Oh won't you have mercy on me, I'm so sick, oh please have mercy!" Dorothy hysterically wept.
"Better make up your mind fast, Dottie! I'm going to belt your titties and your cunt till you say yes, or you can talk nice and lady-like and you can go to the toilet first. But come hell or high water you're gonna give," Chuck Bordon declared.
The unfortunate girl capitulated. The two men holding her, let her rise and then each taking her wrist, led her out of the living room down the hallway to the bathroom. But to add to the ignominious and demeaning ordeal of the lovely young blonde, they stationed themselves alongside her, and she was obliged to sit down on the toilet, naked as she was, and relieve herself in plain view. Then, lifted up by the wrists, she suffered the further mortification of having Earl Gorman grab a wad of toilet tissue and rub her moist pussy to the uproarious laughter of Fred Bunson who approved this gesture of complete domination over their white victim.
She was led back to the divan, stumbling, head down, sobbing as if her heart could break, and once more stretched out on her back, her wrists and ankles clutched by her two captors.
Then Chuck Bordon, reaching down and pinching her earlobes between both thumbs and forefingers, directed his bulging cock towards her shrinking lips, and the unfortunate Dorothy Tompkins closed her eyes and meekly accepted the huge mushroom-like head of his massive lance. But after she had sucked it only four or five times, he jerked back and then, without warning, flung himself down on the couch over her, ordering, "All right, Earl, Fred, hold this little bitch so she don't get loose! I'm going to pop her cherry!"
"OHHHHH NOOOOO!!! DON'T DO IT TO ME!! OH MY GOD, OH AUNTIE CORA, AUNTIE CORA, AUNTIE CORA, SAVE ME, OH PLEASE DON'T DO IT TO MEYOU'RE TEARING ME TO PIECES!! TAKE IT OUT OF ME! OH GOD-OH MY GOD-I'M GOING TO DIE-AIIIIEEEEOWWWOUUU!!!!!!" With all her might, she arched and twisted and lunged, trying to evade disaster, but Chuck Bordon had now grasped her naked hips with his huge hands, and viciously driving his prickhead against the tender lips of her moist vulva, thrust home past the membrane of her maidenhead in a single savage lunge. He perforated her to the very hilt, as she shrieked relentlessly, her face twisting from side to side, her head rising from the divan, her eyes supremely dilated.
Then he began to fuck her, heedless of her shrieks and pleas and babble, incoherent supplications. And then at last he shot his bubbling gism deep into her martyred cunt, and at the feel of that violent drench, Dorothy fainted.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The five other white captives had witnessed the brutal defloration of beautiful blonde Dorothy Tompkins with varying emotions. Sensitive, bespectacled Brenda Abrams had not been able to keep her eyes from the vicious scene. And irrelevantly, into her mind there had come the image of Ben Lorway and herself ... just so carnally embracing, casting aside all racial and religious credos in the culmination of their passion for each other. And now she was agonized, not out of fear or shame out of losing her virginity, but that it would not be granted to the man she loved.
Margie Eulles, who of all six of these white beauties had the most prejudicial reason to loathe and fear the Negro, stared with congealed face, panting against her gag, straining wildly against her bonds, sweat oozing down the valley of her titties, in the soft, pearly down of her armpits, staining her temples and the roots of her hair with the shame-and-horror sweat. A sick nausea pervaded her belly, and the muscles of her loins and buttocks contracted spasmodically with abhorrence.
Peggy Davidson, the vivaciously pretty brunette was the only one of the six who hadn't been a virgin till this moment. Her reaction was one of fascinated curiosity mingled with terror, for the brutal might of Chuck Bordon and his utter lack of mercy for poor little Dorothy terrified her. All the same, she was aghast to find that her pussy was twitching as it had the third time she had gone to bed with Joe Daskins, the program director at that Eastern ocean resort who had been the first and only man to take cherry and to initiate her into the priapic joys of life.
Sandy-haired Julia Vickery was whimpering at the sight. Timid by nature-the inevitable result of life with her tyrannical father so that she actually resembled her abjectly servile mother in many ways-the threat of brutal flesh-lust was anathema to her; it would not have mattered either, had these rapists been white: the thought of being forced by a strange man was absolutely unthinkable to her.
And finally Genevieve Douglas, the leader of this sextet, viewed the rape of Dorothy Tompkins with mingled disbelief and fright; to the very last moment, she had not dreamed that these niggers would dare to lay a finger on a white girl. Now she was terrified for herself, for even the long years of snobbery under which she had lived had been rudely dispersed by the awful knowledge that she had offended these men and that they were going to exact dreadful, cruel and painful retribution from her.
The sobbing blonde was dragged to her feet and back into the bathroom, where Chuck Bordon himself licentiously wet-towelled her bleeding pussy, and ran a basinful of cold water, ordering her to dip her face into it to revive her. The unfortunate naked girl whimperingly implored the huge Negro to let her go, saying she would get money from her aunt to pay ah the men if they would only spare her any more.
"Hell, baby, we makes ah the bread we needs.
What we don't get is nice little white poontang comin' to visit us, like you might say. Nossuh Dottie, baby, you's the guest of honor at our little shindig. Now come on back and meet the rest of the boys."
And when the shouting girl dragged back, Chuck Bordon turned on her with an implication and viciously slapped her across the face, then across one of those pert, apple-round titties, till with a shriek of pain she then surrendered to the abysmal degradation yet in store for her.
Once again stretched on her back on the broken-down divan, Dorothy Tompkins was compelled to French pockmarked Manny Tandey. And then it came the turn of Dick Tunbold. He, like Lennie Masters, deferred it, remarking that "Lennie and me are saving our spunk for little Jenny's twat and mouth and bunghole."
And a cry of horror, stifled by her gag, burst from the choke of the haughty redhead.
Dorothy Tompkins was now blindfolded, her wrists tied behind her, her ankles as well, and Earl Gorman picked her up in his arms as if she had been a sack of potatoes and trundled her off to one of the two bedrooms. Laying her down on the big double bed with its rumpled cover, he bent down and put one of her nipples into his mouth and sucked it, while he patted her belly and then fondled the lips of her virgin, inflammed vulva. "See you in a little while, Dottie," he promised with a vicious guffaw. Then he went out of the room and turned the key in the lock. He had inspected her bonds to make sure she couldn't break free of them and get out of the window; but even if she had, it would have been a three-story drop.
"Who's next, boys," Dick Tunbold glanced around at the five cringing and terrified captives awaiting their turns.
"Let's give it to that snooty babe in the blue dress," Lennie Masters decried, pointing at Julia Vickery. She lay on the floor in the comer on her side, her blue cotton skirt hiked above her charcoal-brown-nylon stocking top, showing an exciting inch of pale pink skin.
Julia Vickery, at twenty-two, had an insipid face, but her body was mouthwatering to the extreme. She was about five feet five inches in height, with magnificent round, closely set cantaloupe-like titties, a slim waist which veered into spaciously round but firm and beautifully proportioned hips and bottom cheeks, long graceful and almost slender thighs, sleek calves and dainty ankles. Her sandy hair was coiffured in a coronet braid on the top of her head like a crown. It would be an ironic symbol that for a little time, at any rate, she would be the queen of this gang of seven Negro studs, and it would also be true that no queen even in history would ever have received a warmer tribute from her subjects!
Her eyes were a vapid blue-gray, her nose dainty and straight, her mouth rather small and almost thin, and she didn't use too much makeup. But if one found Julia's rather pallid and not overly lovely face uninspiring, one had only to put a hood over it and examine her body in detail to get a ferocious hard-on.
"She'll do fine," Dick Tunbold agreed as he strode over to the terrified beauty, reached down and dragged her up by her bound wrists. A wild scream of terror was choked off by the gag as the helpless blonde twisted and fought uselessly, tied as she was. "Man, look at those big bombers she's got, real milers," Dick Tunbold jested as he put his left hand on the scruff of Julia's neck and cupped one of the heaving firm round loveglobes through her dress. Her head fell back, her eyes revulsing, and suddenly her bladder no longer had control. Amid the hooting jeers of the other Negroes, a telltale stain appeared at Julia Vickery's crotch.
"She's so hot to get it she's peein'," Chuck Bordon laughed as he came forward to help Dick drag the half-conscious victim towards the divan.
He took a jackknife and carefully cut Julia's wristbonds, while Chuck Bordon swiftly dragged them behind the young woman's back. Sticking now, Dick Tunbold lifted the blue cotton dress and slip, exposing Julia's shapely long thighs and calves and the glint of smooth pale pink flesh at the top of the stockingtops, while the loins and bottom were snugged in a pink-satin pantiegirdle. The crotch was soaked, and her stockings were wet from her uncontrollable accident. She had begun to cry hysterically.
In a few moments, the two Negroes had ripped off her dress and slip, and were leading her, each man holding her wrists, towards the divan. Julia shrieked and cried out through her gag, trying to hold back, pitifully twisting and jerking at her captors, grasp, and in vain. A moment later, she was flung down on the divan, and Art Jackson held her wrists at one end while Manny Tandey seized her ankles. Dick Tunbold now ripped off her brassiere, and a chorused gasp of lascivious admiration arose from all of them. Her titties were magnificent. They needed no bra for their support, nor was there the slightest sag.
The aurolae were small and narrow, and orangeish-coral-hued, with crinkly voluptuous buds in their centers. Her bellybutton was deep and very narrow. As they stretched her, now half-naked, her wonderful bubbies rose and fell in violent turbulence, and her head twisted from side to side, her staring eyes seeking help that was not there.
But when Dick Tunbold began to unfasten the pantiegirdle by starting with the stocking tabs, the insipidly pretty victim thrashed and twisted and writhed and jerked with a frenzy of despair, so much so that her two captors had to redouble their efforts to hold her down. Impatient with this, Dick took his jackknife again and cut the sheath in two, then yanked it out and threw it to the floor. Julia Vickery was naked now except for pumps and hose. Her deliriously dimpled knees gave way to long, elegantly curving thighs, and her hips and loins were like a perfect Grecian amphbra, but her cunt was quite prominent and fleshy, and it was thickly fleeced with dark brown pussyhairs which completely covered the quivering lips.
Now Dick Tunbold unknotted the cloth around her mouth and pulled out the gag, and Julia found voice at once in hysterically hoarse plaints. "OH DEAR GOD, DON'T DO IT TO ME, I'LL PAY YOU, I'LL DO ANYTHING, I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT, BUT DON'T DO IT TO ME!!!"
"Manny, it looks like you've got a real hard-on, man," Dick said sympathetically as he stared at the pockmarked musician. "Here's your little present. Go to it, man. We'll teach this one to suck later, but for now she's fucking meat."
Manny Tandey needed no second invitation. With a hoarse cry of delight, he approached the divan, his prick already in bulging eruption, and, scuffing off his shoe, mounted over the unfortunate young woman.
"Ohhh! Ahrrrahhh! Noooo!!! For God's sake, don't do it to me, oh, please don't!!!"
Julia's hips and loins described the wildest possible gyrations as she sobbed to prevent the menacing black paw of her rapist from entering her furry crotch. But Mannie, gripping her by her bare hips, steadied himself and thrust himself forward so that the tip of his whang engaged the fleshy lips of Julia's vulva. A wild, piercing scream attested to his victory; with a grunt, he drove himself deep to the balls in a single lunge.
"Hey, this bitch ain't no cherry," he announced, with a salacious wink and grin. "She's been fucked before. Well, baby, not as good as old Manny is going to do it to you now. Get set for a good ride, and shake your ass, sister!"
So saying, reaching his hands under her to dig his dirty fingernails into the tender flesh of her round full resilient bottomcheeks, the pockmarked Negro began to fuck her with violent and rapid lunges, while Julia screamed and twisted and arched, tears running down her cheeks, her wrists feverishly yanking against her captor's hold.
But after the initial force and rasping savagery of the Negro's penetration, Julia Vickery experienced a sudden treacherous and unexpected sensation ... A throbbing, warm glow began at the depths of her womb, and as he continued to ram it into her, her eyes rolled back and her lips began to tremble and her nostrils to dilate and shrink. Her magnificent bubbies rose and fell violently now, in even swifter tempo than before; and the nipples were darker and stiffer, telltale proof that Julia Vickery was experiencing a wakening of lascivious yearnings, the same kind that had made her seek a love affair with that Eastern resort director.
Understanding this even in his primitive rut, Manny slipped his right forefinger into the tight crease between Julia's velvety bottomcheeks. An instant later, the young woman raised her head, "EEEIEEEIAWWW!!! Take your finger out, you dirty filthy nigger beast! Oh stop it! Stop it! You're hurting me!!"
For he had crammed his forefinger to the hilt inside her rectum and was wiggling it about while he continued to plow her cunt with violent thrusts.
But the glorious sensation of having this glorious naked white girl under him, his finger in her asshole, his prick lunging back and forth inside her tight and squirming cunt, proved too much for Manny Tandey. After a few minutes, he suddenly stiffened, uttered a cry, and shot his bubbling drench deep into her womb.
After she had been sponged out, Dick Tunbold directed Fred Bunson to take Manny's place. And before they called a halt to the proceedings for drinks all around and an interlude to discuss the future fate of their other victims, the naked young woman was fucked not only by Fred Bunson but by Earl Gorman and the massive Chuck Bordon as well. Under the last-named rapist's vigorous ploughing with his massive prong, Julia Vickery unwillingly tasted the soaring rhapsodic delights of gushing come, to her own dying shame as catcalls and jeers proclaimed the victory of a Negro male over a hated white woman!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After Julia Vickery had been fucked by Manny Tandey, the sandy-haired blonde lay almost fainting on the broken-down divan. By dint of slapping her face and her titties, pinching her thighs, and throwing cold water into her face, the unfortunate victim was revived; but when she opened her eyes and saw her seven captors crowding around her and bending over and leering at her, she uttered a wild scream, flung herself from the couch and tried to run. She got only one or two steps before they flung her back down and this time, to teach her a lesson, Chuck Bordon, the massive saxophonist, dragged her across his lap and pinned both her wrists in his huge left hand. "Pull off her stockings, boys," he ordered, "I want this bitch all bare so I can see what I'm doing on her!"
His big right hand roamed slowly over the pale-pink sheened rondures of her naked bottom, and Julia Vickery shrieked again in mortification and shame to feel her sacrosanct flesh thus sullied. Lennie Masters sat on the edge of the divan just beyond her head, and with thumbs and forefingers grasped the coronet braid of her sandy blonde hair to lift up her agonized face. Then, shifting agilely to his knees, he presented her with his long, sinewy prick and growled: "You're gonna get fantailed, Julia baby, till you make me come in your mouth. Chuckie, lambaste her juicy ass good and hard until she makes me give it all up, hear?"
"I'm with you all the way, man," the saxophone player quipped.
Julia's gray-blue eyes were glassy and exorbitant with revulsion and terror as she saw that oblong-tipped prong bob and sway an inch or two away from her panting, shrinking lips.
"Oh no, don't make me do that-oh my God, please, kill me, I'd rather die!" she wailed.
At that moment, Chuck Bordon raised his hand and brought it down with a resounding sonorous Crack on the ripest curve of her right bottomglobe. Julia's bare legs kicked up in the air, waved back and forth, while she tried to hoist her bottom and then to swerve off the couch. But Earl Gorman promptly knelt down on the floor just below the divan, put both palms against her naked side and forced her back, and then kept pressing against her so as to force her to remain in position over Chuck Bordon's lap.
His swollen prick was rubbing her bare abdomen, and poor Julia was well aware of this salacious friction as she writhed and squirmed, trying desperately to escape.
A second blow followed, equally noisy, and the other buttock was vividly imprinted with the angry bright pink splotch of his massive hand. A scream escaped her, and she looked back fearfully at the grinning saxophonist.
"You better start suckin', baby," he drawled, "because otherwise you're gonna have the sorest ass in Chicago." Two more hard swats, each to the base of the right cheek, were applied as he finished that comment. Once again Julia Vickery kicked her feet back and forth in the air, lurched and twisted, but Earl Gorman's help as well as Chuck Bordon's cruel vise-like grip on her wrist with his sinewy left hand, prevented her from evading the bruising and stinging shock of the spanking.
Grinding her teeth, eyes closed, nostrils flaring and shrinking, the sandy-haired beauty tried her best to hold out, preferring pain rather than the revolting capitulation. Meanwhile Lennie Masters continued to kneel, his fingers keeping a tight hold of that thick coronet braid which was her emblem of queenliness among this savage gathering, forcing her contorted and tearstained face up towards his looming prick.
"Any time, baby," he chuckled thickly. "Chuck loves to whack ass, and I can hold out a long time. I'm saving my real juice for Margie over there. But you see, baby, when a guy gets hot and bothered, it's always good to let down a little overflow, because that way a guy can fuck till the cows come home his second trip around." With this, he looked up and glared over at the shuddering Southern Beauty, who shrank in abhorrence from the malevolent look in his eyes. The flesh of her thighs was crawling and her breasts were rising and falling rapidly. The violent and primitive sexual aura which enveloped this room had effected all the captives, just as it had their assailants.
Five more hard spanks, all concentrated over the exact middle of Julia's naked behind and pinching the inner, pouting edges of her resilent buttocks, drew shrieks and tears and sobs from the unhappy victim, who could not maintain her resolve to be stoic under that powerfully pummeling black hand. The fiery red imprints on her pale pink flesh attested to the vigorous Chuck Bordon's retaliatory spanking. But she still could not bring herself to put her mouth to that lewd black symbol of manhood which Lennie Masters continued to offer her.
The man holding Julia's ankles now ingeniously thought of a diversion to help break down her resistance; clamping his left hand against both slim, chiseled limbs, he began to scratch the soles of her bare feet with his jagged fingernails, and Julia sobbed and groaned aloud and glanced back over her shoulder at this new infliction of martyrdom. Never in her wildest dreams had she suspected that she would be the prey and plaything of seven virile Negroes. Lennie Masters continued to yank at her hair and to draw whimpering cries from the sobbing naked young woman, but she still could not force herself to the nauseating task he demanded of her.
Chuck Bordon spat on his right hand, then rubbed the spittle all over Julia'a already reddened naked rump. Then lifting his hand, he brought it down with all his might on the base of her right buttock, and instantly followed with one on the other globe at the same place.
"Eeeyahhrrrrowww!!!! Oh stop it, oh you're hurting me so, oh please stop!" Julia screamed. She tried to kick her legs, but they were pinioned. She tried to twist her face back to appeal to her executioner, but Lennie Master's fingers punished her tender scalp for that maneuver. Tears blinding her, sobbing hysterically, she squirmed and twisted, but she found no comfort over the solid lap of the Negro behemoth. His left hand continued to clamp on her slim wrists, and now again his right hand rose and descended, once, twice, thrice, and then a fourth time without stopping, all again landing on the inner edges of both buttocks, flattening them together and hiding the furtive, ambery-shadowy crease which separated them.
It was too much for poor Julia. "OHHH STOP, STOP, I'LL DO ANYTHING, ONLY STOP SPANKING ME LIKE THAT!!! I CAN'T STAND IT, OH MY POOR SEAT, OH MY GOD, I CAN'T STAND IT!!!"
"Then start sucking, bitch," Lennie growled. He yanked at her hair again and forced her face right against his cock; her panting lips at once seized hold of the meatus, and she began awkwardly and amateurishly to suck with noisy loud slurps, rapidly and frantically, thinking only now of her tortured flesh and praying to end that agony.
"That's it, bitch, only take it easy," Lennie ironically observed. "I don't want to go off too soon."
But of course Julia wanted him to do just that, because as he winked at Chuck Bordon, the latter resumed the spanking. Now at regular intervals, about fifteen seconds apart, Chuck's mighty hand fell like a plummet on first the right and then the left buttock, progressing from the tops of Julia Vickery's hips to the base of her behind and up again. Her shrieks and cries were muffled by the turgid organ between her lips, and her eyes were revulsing, and her body was jerking and squirming, bathed in agony-sweat, as she sought desperately to end her suffering.
But it was at least thirty hard spanks before she succeeded in making Lennie Masters suddenly stiffen, his eyes rolling to the whites, attain his orgasm. Then his copious drench, for which she had not been prepared, nearly strangled her, as she coughed and sputtered and gagged.
She was taken to the bathroom by Fred Bunson and Jennie Masters, and there revived with more cold water, while the two men fondled and squeezed her bottom and titties. Then, after tying her wrists and ankles and blindfolding her, they carried her into the bedroom where poor Dorothy Tompkins already lay, sobbing and whimpering in the aftermath of her own tragic and brutal rape.
As the Negroes locked the door and returned to the living room, Dorothy whispered faintly, "Oh-oh, who-who is that?"
"It-it's me, J-Julia," the sandyhaired blonde naked victim sobbed dolefully.
"Oh, it was just dreadful what they did to me! They sp-sp-spanked me so hard-and then they h-had me and then I had to-had to-had to do it in my-in my mouth-oh I want to die!"
"I know, I know, Julia," poor Dorothy tried to soothe her companion in misery and misfortune, "it was an awful mistake going along with Genevieve! I'm sorry I ever did. Oh what will my Aunt Cora think when I don't get home tonight? She-she'll tan my hide!"
If their situation had not been so tragic, both girls might have laughed in retrospect over this ingenuous comment, for certainly the least harm that could now befall Dorothy Tompkins would be a spanking from her aunt. But she was not fated to return to that vigilant spinster this evening. Her fresh, provocative young beauty had inflamed her captors far too much for that!
"Well now," Art Jackson said, fingering his mustache and looking at the four remaining white captives on the floor and in the armchairs, "we've got four bitches left, four nice pieces of ofay cunt. 'Course we're not gonna treat Margie and Jenny there to the fun till the last, that's right, ain't it Dick?"
"That's right. How about that little brunette cutie? She's a doll!"
"Me, I sorta go for that four-eyed broad over there," Art Jackson yanked his thumb in Brenda Abrams's direction, and the beautiful Jewess cringed and shuddered, rolling her eyes imploringly and wanting to speak, to plead with them, to tell them that she had never felt any racial prejudice or religious either, for that matter, and that all she wanted was to save herself for her husband-to-be, Ben Lorway.
"Let's take the brunette," Dick Tunbold now proposed. Earl Gorman and Manny Tandey advanced towards Peggy Davidson, who screamed through her gag, and then tried to wriggle like a snake along the floor. But, tied as were her wrists and ankles, she had little chance of evasion, and in a moment she found herself on her feet, her wrists being untied and her dress and slip ripped off, leaving her in the scanty and very provocative deshabille of a white nylon bra and matching pantie set, with garterbelt holding up her gunmetal-gray nylon hose, and the dainty thong sandles with their pert high heels.
Peggy was absolutely mouthwatering to the lust-roused Negroes.
Peggy looked younger than her twenty-two years, her jet black hair falling in a pert ponytail with a silver barrette at the middle of the sheaf. Like Julia, she had magnificent round, closely spaced bubbies, and an even more pronouncedly ample, meaty bottom. However, the cheeks of her behind were more upstanding, and the furrow between them widened from the middle to call salacious attention to both her virgin clefts. Peggy had magnificently warm white creamy skin, and her filmy white bra and panties transparently revealed the luscious wide brownish-coral aurolae of her bubbies, and the crinkly, ripe tidbits of her nipples at their peaks. Her bellybutton was wide and shallow, and against the crotch of her panties, all the men could see the extraordinarily thick and crisp triangular patch of cunthair over her mount of Venus.
The moment had come for Peggy Davidson. Flung down on the couch after her wrists and ankles had been untied, she found herself extended with her arms beyond her head and her knee joints aching from the stretch of her legs as Earl Gorman gripped her ankles and Fred Bunson held her wrists at either end of the divan. Art Jackson decided that he was going to be first with Peggy, and ripped off her bra and spent a long moment fondling and smacking, pushing together and then pinching and mauling her creamy titties, till she was weeping with shame and discomfort.
Her cousin Margie watched, panting and trembling, bathed in sweat. At last Art Jackson ripped away Peggy's panties, and the young beauty closed her eyes and tightened herself as she felt her secret treasures on display to the leering gaze of these seven primal black males.
"Hell, this little bitch needs a haircut," Art Jackson quipped. He probed a stubby forefinger back and forth along the thick fleece, and Peggy tightened her thighs all she could, and turned her face to the back of the divan. Then he began to rub through the hair to find the plump dainty lips of her pink cunthole, and introduced his finger upwards till he discovered that no barrier prevented it.
"She ain't cherry one little bit, see how far I got my finger," he announced to all of them.
Peggy's face turned red, and Margie Eulles, from her place at the other end of the living room, uttered a stifled gasp which the gag silenced. She hadn't dreamed that her dear cousin Peggy was that kind of girl. Well, Margie thought viciously in her self-pitying anguish, it served Peggy right for insisting that she come along here. Maybe Peggy would find out now what it was to be treated by these black beasts.
But a glance at Brenda Abrams and then back at Genevieve Douglas reminded Margie that it wasn't far off until her own turn came nigh, and again her heart started to pound wildly and her temples to throb with the certain and inevitable and flesh-crawling anguish of what they would very well do to her because of her antipathy towards them.
"So you went and lost your cherry before you came here, didja, baby?" Art Jackson lewdly interrogated the squirming and unhappy brunette. Peggy ground her teeth together to keep from answering, but his expert finger was finding the secret recesses of her tender cunt, and now it brushed the clitoris, and Peggy couldn't help squirming and jerking her bare hips in the most lascivious way.
"Ah ha! You guys, I found the key right here. Peggy's little button. Press the doorbell, and she practically rips the door off its hinges to say hello," he libidinously announced. A slow wave of burning red shame covered Peggy's lovely face. Her titties were heaving wildly now, and Art Jackson went back to sucking their nipples, pinching and cupping the round hard mounds of loveflesh, and then flicking them with his tongue, concentrating on the nipples until Peggy's nipples stiffened and darkened. Her hips began to indulge in an unconscious rotary movement, the proof that the penetration of his thick finger was beginning to waken certain not unpleasant emotions ... the kind she had known when she had used a candle to break her own cherry and then fucked herself! But it had been practically two months since she had had her last candle-fucking, and now she found to her distress and horror that she was beginning to want sexual contact ... even though it meant with these horrid and cruel Negroes.
"You sure are touchy down at the Y," Art Jackson again joked, now finding the stiffened clitoris an easy target for his prodding finger. He began to roll it back and forth, to push it down into the protective cowl of pink tender pussyflesh, until Peggy began to squirm and arch, her head turning from side to side restlessly, and now her eyes opened, glazed and widely dilated as the emotional and physical stresses of her rape were borne in upon her.
"Seeing how it's like that, Peggy baby," he continued, as he now drew his finger slightly back to the rims of her vulva and began to tickle every cranny round and round, drawing inarticulate little whimpers and sobs and gasps from the naked young brunette, "there's no reason why you can't really take a lot of fucking. I'm going to start you off, and then maybe some of the other guys will want to try you for size. Get that twat of yours ready, Peggy, here comes my prick!"
With this, he hunched himself over her and into her saddle. His turgid ramrod found the gateway at once, and pressed between the lips of her inner entry. Peggy caught her breath and tilted back her head until the throat cords tauted and flexed visibly against that creamy column.
The two men holding her wrists and ankles tightened their grip so that she wouldn't escape her due. But Art Jackson was in no hurry. Lingeringly, he forced another inch of prick inside her cunt, and Peggy gasped aloud this time: "Oooohhhuuuu!!"
"Getting to you, is it, baby? I thought it would. You've got a real nice squirmy hot tight box. I'm gonna put your fire out, you watch, Peggy baby," he boasted.
His prick slid back now to the very brink of her twitching vulva. Adroitly and sadistically, the mustached Negro musician kept her in atrocious and titillatory suspense by moving his embedded cock just an inch or so forward and back, remaining just within the brink of her love temple. The sensitization, and her nipples became flints of tumescence, her hips beginning to rotate in an inexorable movement which proved her wakening to the stimulation of this fucking.
Then suddenly and without warning, Art Jackson dug himself to the hairs in a single massive thrust. Peggy uttered a cry, lifted her head up, and stared at him, then fell back, panting and groaning, her face twisting from side to side. Her naked titties, whose nipples were slick with his sucking saliva, rose and fell turbulently now. He felt the tight contractions of her wombwalls, kissing his captive prick which distended the tight young channel of her twat. He lingered thus, ecstatic over the nipping and clenching which her vaginal wall imparted to his ramrod. Then slowly he drew back to the brink, hovered himself immobile there a moment, while she arched and groaned and gasped under him, awaiting the terrible thrust ... and then suddenly crammed into her to his balls.
Peggy Davidson's senses began to swim. She no longer had control of them. Her nipples arched from their swelling under his sucking and kissing and his fondling. Now his thumbs and forefingers were plucking at those darkening and turgid tidbits. Now his mouth came down on one of those marvelous love-melons, as he laid his cheek against her left tittie, inhaling the sweat and perfume and warm white flesh of her naked bosom.
He drew back again, tickling her clitoris in his rasping retreat; feeling her quake under him, he shoved back savagely to the balls, and now his mouth crushed down over hers to silence her sobbing groan.
His fingers slipped under her behind, and squeezed the inflamed cheeks till Peggy groaned and sobbed. Then, his tongue furrowing deep between her lips, Art Jackson began to fuck the helpless young brunette.
"Let go of her now, she's getting hot," he instructed Fred and Earl.
They watched, only too glad to obey, for now they could concentrate on their own rut which the sight of Peggy Davison's violation enormously whetted.
Slowly he worked inside her cunt, drawing against her will involuntary spasms, sobbing gasps, whimpering little sighs, and the most enervated jerkings of her naked body. Her fists were clenched, pressed down hard against the old, dirty and torn upholstery of the divan. Her heels scuffed it, and her toes curled and clawed, as Art Jackson worked within her cunt, back and forth slowly and relentlessly, his fingers squeezing her burning bottom, till the pain merged with the exquisitely perverse sensation of this fucking.
Then suddenly he began to move back and forth rapidly, grunting and panting, "Now I'm going to give it to you, Peggy, now I'm going to fill your twat with all my spunk," and suddenly, slipping his left forefinger against her dainty plump asshole-rosette, he pryed past the lips and beyond the ring of sphincter muscles, wriggling his finger deep inside her bowels.
Peggy screamed aloud and arched herself like a bow. With a last savage thrust, he exploded inside of her, and Peggy involuntarily flung her arms and legs around him, calling out in her distracted enervation, "Oh Ralph, Ralph, love me!"
"Well would you look at that," Manny Tandey gasped out with stupefaction. His prick had already rehardened from the sight and sound of this ravishment. "She wants it bad, the little bitch does. Flood her down, make a quart come out of her ears and nose, Art boy," he encouraged Peggy's rapist.
But Art Jackson had come to the end of his tether and slowly drew out, limpened noticeably, his face sagging with the sexual relief after that tense flurry of conflict.
Earl Gorman now replaced Art Jackson over Peggy, who was given no respite whatsoever. All Earl did was to take a dirty handkerchief and sponge her dripping cunt, and then thrust himself with a single cramming lunge to the very hairs. But he didn't work with the science of Art Jackson; his were violent and quick and rapid diggings, which soon purged him of his seminal reserve, and he felt Peggy's cunt liquefy at the viscous jet which he poured into her.
And Peggy Davidson in turn was tied and bound and blindfolded, taken into the same bedroom as Julia and Dorothy, and left on the same huge bed to bemoan her fate and to wonder what next awaited her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Now only three of the white captives who had gone nightclub "slumming" remained to face the black lust of their seven abductors ... Brenda Abrams, Genevieve Douglas, and Margie Eulles, who had watched her cousin Peggy spanked and fucked and now could have no further doubts as to what would be her destiny when at last she was delivered up to those she had so venemously maligned because of their race and color.
Brenda Abrams knew that it was now her turn. She had heard them repeatedly say that Genevieve and Margie would be saved until the very last. She rolled herself into a sitting position, and faced them courageously as they came for her. Manny Tandey and Lennie Masters, stooping to hoist her up by her elbows and to stand her on her feet. Then they tore the gag away, and she cleared her throat and said as calmly as she could manage under such dire circumstances: "Look, fellows, I'm not asking for any favors. But I think you know I didn't say a word against you and I'm not that kind anyway. I'm from a minority group myself. I'm Jewish, and my folks won't let me marry the guy I want because he happens to be a Christian. If you have to have me, won't you-won't you-" and here her voice did break a little-"t-take me into another room and-and do it to me-just like it was between a guy and his-his girl? I promise I won't fight or struggle-just give me that decent break, please."
"Whaddya think, Dick?" Manny Tandey looked towards Dick Tunbold, the leader. "She sounds like a pretty good bitch. Want to give her a break?"
"Why not? But she's gotta prove she's not just putting on," was the trombonist's reply. "Okay, Brenda baby, here's what you're gonna do then. You're gonna pick one of us guys, take off all his clothes, kneel down and kiss his cock, and ask him to take you into the bedroom and fuck the hell out of you. Understand? Otherwise, we'll tie you down on that couch there and we'll give it to you one after the other. I'm not saying you're not gonna get it from us all anyhow, because you've really got a classy shape on you. And you've got brains too. I like to screw a girl with brains, because she feels it better. Not like that goddam racist cunt there," he shot a look of implacable hatred towards the cowering Margie Eulles. "Well, you gonna do it or not?"
"All-all right," Brenda weakly assented. Her legs were trembling violently, and it was only with an effort that she was able to stand there courageously with her arms at her side, her shoulders straight, her head up, and her eyes fixed on Dick Tunbold's smirking face.
"Let's see if you just talk big, ofay cunt, or if you live up to what your yap says you do," he told her. "Choose any of us guys. We could all give you a good hustle and poke, you can bet your life on that."
Brenda trembled, took a deep breath, and then stared levelly at Lennie Masters. "I-I'll take you," she said with just a break in the steadiness of her voice to indicate the emotional duress under which she had to make this choice.
But Dick Tunbold shook his head with a leer: "Oh no you don't, baby. I know why you picked Lennie, he's the looker of the bunch. And he's the closest to white we've got in this little combo. Oh no, not after that nice spiel of yours. You're gonna pick the biggest and the ugliest. You take Chuck Bordon there."
"Hey, that's no fair, he already rogered a broad," Fred Bunson spoke up angrily.
"All right, Fred, just to show you that we're all equal in a democracy, she'll take you," Dick Tunbold decided for Brenda. And thus, the doom of her maiden cherry was pronounced.
"You heard me," Dick insisted, "you go up there now and start peeling Fred raw. Then you ask him real nice and humble after you get down on your knees and kiss his cock lovingly, to take you into the bedroom and shag you. You hear?"
Brenda Abrams nodded. Tears began to glimmer in her eyes, as she took a long shuddering breath and walked slowly up to Fred Bunson.
In many ways, Brenda Abrams at twenty was the most beautiful of the seven, and she was certainly the most intelligent and fair minded. Not that it would save her now. She was tarred with the same brush as her companions, in their eyes. On the other hand, her brave and direct plea for privacy and the promise of non-resistance had made something of an impression on even cynical Dick Tunbold. But in the long run, her physical loveliness would overpower whatever sentiment they had towards mercy and leniency.
Brenda had worn this evening a summer suit, of attractive white linen with coat and skirt, forming a kind of handsomely tailored one-piece ensemble. Her voluptuous legs were sheathed in charcoal-brown nylons, of the finest denier, and they did full justice to the lusciousness of her contours.
Moreover, the harlequin glasses which she wore added a certain provocative nuance of sophistry, which the Negroes translated as being a "hep cunt." This also was unfortunate for Brenda, because she was a true virgin, looking upon fucking as the luxury granted wedded couples for the purpose of self-sharing and procreation ... and when she thought of fucking at all, which was not too often, it was of Ben Lorway's prick.
Brenda's dark brown hair in its thick bun at the back of her head also gave her a note of queenliness, though not like Julia Vickery. But even against the gracefuUy fitted linen suit, no one could mistake the almost primitive appeal of her lush young body. Those succulent titties spaced well apart and like hard young gourds of firm enticing flesh, the graceful waist which gave way to ripe hips and then lusciously ardent curvaceous thighs and rounded firm calves.
Her olive skin, so warm and smooth and satiny, completed this suggestiveness: she looked like an oriental houri.
"Come on, baby, do your stuff," Fred Bunson drawled, licking his lips with anticipation.
"Hey, that's a real good pairing you did there, Dick," Art Jackson chuckled. "Foureyes fucking foureyes. Fred's got glasses, so has that cute little piece of white cunt. Make them keep their glasses on while they do it."
"Please-" Brenda faltered as she turned towards Dick Tunbold. "you-you said that if I did what you-wnat you told me to, you-you'd let me go into a bedroom and have some-have some privacy. Please."
"Okay, okay, only let's see some action instead of all this palaver," the trombonist impatiently commanded. "You better start on Fred, or we're sure gonna start on you, baby."
And the tight little circle of six Negroes closed around Brenda and Fred Bunson.
Fred's prick was limp and dangling out of his trousers fly, though at the sight of Brenda approaching him, it began to twitch and harden with renewed energy. He was squat and bespectacled with smoke glasses, with sparse hair which he had tried unsuccessfully to flatten down and make sleek with creams and lotions such as for years had been sold to the Negro market. He had a fat chin, his lips were fleshy, his nose broad and bulbous.
Brenda took a look at the men circled around her, and then, with a prayer to Ben Lorway that if he ever found out about this, he would understand, she began her maidenly martyrdom.
First she removed his tie, and then his shirt. Then, after a pause, she drew off his undershirt. Stepping close to him, the magnificent gourds of her titties arched out, tightening, against the thin linen suit coat, and Fred Bunson muttered "Hot damn!" and put his hands on Brenda's juicy backside, squeezing the ripe firm full cheeks with gloating anticipation.
"Please, won't you w-wait until we get into the bedroom?" Brenda murmured, so softly that only he could hear.
"Hey, you guys," he appalled her by shouting out with a snigger and a wink, "you know what this bitch just said? She says she can't wait, and she wants me to feel her big ass and give it to her hard when we get into the bedroom. Hurry up and get me peeled down then, Brenda baby, because I want to give it to you as much as you want to get it, hee hee hee!"
Now slite drew off his undershirt, and shivered. The fierce masculinity of a naked man was being impressed upon her for the first time. Ben was so different, so gentle yet virile. But this man was squat and hairy, with a bulging belly, large almost womanish paps. And from his sweaty hairy body there exuded the strong racial musk of the black.
"You done pretty good so far, Brenda," Dick Tunbold applauded. "Now let's see you get down to basics. Get those pants and his shorts off, so we can all see what sort of a dong he's got forya."
But here Fred Bunson interposed his own sadistic little note of ritual. "Stuff my cock back in my pants, so you can get me all nice and ready, jist as if you ain't never seen my prick before, baby," he commanded.
Brenda had slim long aristocratic-looking fingers. They trembled now noticeably as they took hold of the Negro's stiffened meatus and gently pressed his organ back through his fly. She shuddered, closed her eyes a moment, as obscene remarks floated all around her: "Bet she ain't cherry-naw, see the way she took hold of Fred's cock? Nice and careful, like she knows what it's for!"
Now she unbuckled his belt, bending slightly so that her magnificent heavy titties surged against her blouse and the suit coat. Then she drew the zipper, and then, taking hold of the tops of his trousers, tugged them down. She had to kneel down to do this, and the sight of this humble beauty before the obscenely grinning Fred Bunson made Margie Eulles whimper with mounting terror and revulsion. Every moment of Brenda's martyrdom marked a milestone closer to her own!
Now it could be seen that his jockey shorts contained an enormous bulge. All this preparational ceremony together with the victim's beauty had roused the guitar player to prodigious lust. Brenda knelt there facing that testimonial to his manhood, and bit her lips as she knew that her virginity had not long to survive.
"Go ahead, whatcha waitin' for?" Manny Tandey excitedly exclaimed. "Let's see Fred's meat, Brenda baby. You gotta pull it yourself, you know, lead Fred by the dong into the bedroom."
"Yeah, that's a helluva cute idea," Dick Timbold laughingly approved. "You gotta kiss it first, and ask Fred to shag you, and then you gotta get up and take hold of his dong and lead him where you wanna go to get it, baby."
Brenda's warm olive cheeks turned crimson with shame for the first time. They were playing with her like a cat with a mouse, and courageous though she was and resolved as she was to yield submissively and avoid physical brutality and pain, she nonetheless was agonized in her sensitive psyche by this obscene pronunciamento.
Nonetheless, heroically, taking another deep breath, she dragged down Fred's jockey shorts, and now he stood in just shoes and socks, his penis violently turgid, the thick broad plumhead set off from the gristly taunt shaft by a wide circumcisional ring.
"His cock look okay to you, Brenda baby? Is it kosher?" Chuck Bordon cruelly jibed, and Brenda's blushes deepened.
"Help him step out of his pants and shorts, Brenda," Dick Tunbold now commanded.
The bespectacled guitar player chuckled lewdly as he lifted first one hairy, fat leg, then the other, so that Brenda might drag off the garments. She straightened on her knees, facing his prick. Again her eyes closed for a moment, and her lips moved as in prayer. But it was a supplication to her Gentile lover, Ben Lorway, pleading with him to forgive this sacrifice of the treasure she had saved for him alone.
"Go on and kiss it, baby, show respect," Fred Bunson panted. His eyes glittered and narrowed, and his hands cupped Brenda's cheeks to bring her forward towards his turgid prong.
Conquering her revulsion, the courageous young woman pressed her lips on the tip of his prick, and stammered, "Please, Mr. B-B-Bunson, take me into the bedroom and-and make love to me."
"Well, well, that's real fancy, Fred!" Manny Tandey cackled. "That's a new name for it, ain't it? But she's gotta strip tease for us right now, Dick, before she goes off with Fred. Damn shame you won't let us watch what's going on. I'd sure like to see Fred stick his big black meat into that squirmy little twat!"
"Well, that's the least she can do. All right, Brenda, get up and start peeling," Dick Tunbold ordered.
Tremblingly, Brenda Abrams rose. She saw herself hemmed in by the circle of Negroes. Slowly she took off her suit coat, then unfastened her skirt and let it slither to her lovely feet. Then came her blouse, which she rapidly unbuttoned and let fall to the floor. She didn't wear a slip, because of the warm weather, but they saw her luzurious hips and bottom and upper thighs encased in a pink satin pantiegirdle, whose tabs held snugly to the tops of her nylon hose. The matching bra exposed the beginning of the valley between her magnificent jutting tittiegourds. They could see the vague outline of the dusky coral aurolae and the full ripe succulent nipples straining at the cusps.
"Let's see those tits," Dick Tunbold now demanded.
Brenda reached behind her, closed her eyes and unsteadily unhooked the sheath. She heard a growl of lust from the watching men as it fluttered to the floor, and she shuddered and the instinct to cover her titties surged through her, and she lifted her hand, then bravely left them clenched at her sides. Proudly, like Suzanna with the elders, she faced her black judges.
"Jeez, what juicy big bombers this Jewish baby's got," Earl Gorman panted, "I'd like to put my prick between them and ride her down and shoot right into her mouth!"
Brenda winced at this vicious obscenity, but Dick Tunbold now recalled her to reality. "All right, let's see the rest of what you've got, baby. Let's see what good old Fred is going to screw."
Brenda Abrams had to draw another deep breath to sustain herself. Her courage was beginning to wane. Yet stoically she unhooked the stocking tabs, then unfastened the zipper and finally dragged the pantiegirdle down past her bottom. The warm olivesheened flesh tremored and palpitated, and the gluteal muscles contract ed in an instinctive reflex of modesty as she felt her bottom naked to these men ... and her cunt as well. The dark brown curls of her pussyhair ran along the crease leading to her asshole, and its thick fleece hid the plump soft twitching lips of her virgin pussy.
Brenda faced him. Her eyes considered his leering face, and then in a trembling voice which she strove to keep steady, she said, "Please, Mr. Bunson, will-will you please take me into the bedroom and-and have me."
"Come on, you sweet cunt, the answer is yes!" the delighted guitar player exclaimed as he seized Brenda by the wrist and dragged her out of the living room, stumbling behind him amid the uproarious and obscene catcalls and laughter of his Negro cronies.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fred Bunson dragged the naked dark-brownhaired Jewess into the second bedroom, and slammed the door, to the accompaniment of groans of disappointment from his lewdly exhorting companions.
The window shades were drawn, the room was dingy, the bed was an old one on casters with an iron railing at head and foot, but wide. The cover was dusty and faded white. It was a far cry, Brenda Abrams thought, from the hoped-for nuptials she had hoped to celebrate with her beloved Ben Lorway.
"Get into that bed, baby, and spread those juicy legs, I wanna dive to the bottom of your cunt and come up on the other side for air," the guitar player hoarsely told her.
"Y-yes, Mr. Bunson, all I ask is that-that-you don't give me a bbaby," Brenda faltered.
"You mean use a rubber? Sheeet! I never use those when I shag a bitch," he sneered. "Anyhow, you're built for babies, and it won't do you no harm at all if you get one. But you ain't gonna till you get in that bed. Now hurry it up before I whop ass on you, the way we did on your other gal friends!"
Brenda tremblingly clambored onto the bed. Her back was towards Fred Bunson, and he couldn't resist the provocative jut of her round firm olive-satiny buttocks, so he drew back his right hand and applied a ferocious smack which drew a cry of pain from the startled naked girl who stumbled forward and sprawled on her belly amid his uproarious laughter.
He kicked off his shoes and in his socks mounted beside her. Then before she could turn over, he seized her by the elbows and krutally twisted her round onto her back and got over her. There would be no tenderness in this mating; it was no more than savage, relentless rape.
"Please-please, Mr. Bunson, be gentle with me," Brenda faltered, tears clouding her beautiful dilated eyes. "I-I won't fight. I promise. I've never-I've never done it before. Please be kind to me. I promise you I'll try my best to satisfy you, but don't hurt me."
"Just shut your mouth and open those legs," he snarled, "that's all I want outta you, bitch."
Grabbing her by the shoulders, his dirty nails digging hard into her tender flesh, his fleshy mouth came down to silence and stifle Brenda's last anguished pleas as a virgin. She felt his hard prick probbing at the furry tufts of her cuntcurls, and she shuddered and the flesh of her inner thighs crawled with aversion. And yet, submissively, knowing that discretion was the better part of valor, she opened her legs to permit his entry. Then she gritted her teeth as she felt him thrust against the tender lips of her cunt through the dense fur of her dark-brownhaired bush, and, finding the secret entry to her pussy-paradise, pry the dips apart and enter up against the barrier.
"Ohhh!" she gasped, her knees rising slightly up, digging her bare hills into the dirty cover of the bed. "Oh please, it-it's awfully sensitive please take it easy-you see I'm not putting up a fight-owww-ARRRHHHEEEO WWW!!! Oh please, Mr. Bunson, I can't stand it, you're tearing me dreadfully, I can't stand it, please stop, please give me a minute to rest, oh God, oh Mama, Mama, help me-Arrrhhheeeoowwww!!
Pitilessly, disregarding her heartrendingly courageous plea, Fred Bunson, intoxicated by the sweet smell of her body, the firm satiny warm flesh, the luscious goblets of her titties, and the furry niche of her plump-lipped pussy, had ruthlessly thrust home against the barrier to bliss. Shattering it with a single mighty lunge, he delved to the depths of her cunthole, and began to work back and forth without heeding her agonized cries and sobs and tears over the lacerating friction which his rampaging pego caused in that hitherto unprofaned citadel.
"Put your arms around me, kiss me back, bitch," he growled as he wallowed her body's cavern of carnal gratification. The bed creaked with his vigorous buckings and lungings, and Brenda groaned as she wanly put her mouth to his and enlocked him with her trembling arms.
"Open your mouth and lemme stick my tongue in," he demanded, and Brenda once again obeyed. His hairy chest was scraping the tender gourds of her titties, irritating her sensitive nipples till they darkened with the afflux of blood to their tender cores. She felt his pubic hairs grind against hers, and the throbbing pain of her bitter unvirgined hurt was momentously conveyed to her.
His tongue drove deeply, exploring her mouth walls, her gums, finding her tongue and rasping it in an amorous duel in which there was nothing but hostility and selfish rut. Meanwhile, his flabby buttocks jerked and contracted as with violent digs he forced himself back and forth inside Brenda Abrams's churning cunthole.
Tears flowed down her cheeks, and her moans and gasps were stifled by his kisses and his Frenching. The pain was excruciating, for he rasped pitilessly and vigorously back and forth over the shattered site of what had been her virginal defense. Her body arched and squirmed under him, and he thought that it was in passion, and he grunted greedily, "I told you I'd make you give it all down, you cute little ofay piece of cukemeat! Wrap those legs over my ass and let's go to town, Brenda baby!"
To stimulate her to this obscene cooperation, Fred Bunson kept his left hand thrust into her thick bun of dark brown hair, while his right forefinger explored the sinuous crease between her upstandingly rounded succulent naked bottomglobes. He found the dainty plump anal rosette, and pressed home the tip of his finger, to Brenda's consternated and sobbing horror: "OHHH, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T DO THAT TO ME!! EEEOWWWOUUUU!! OH PLEASE STOP THAT, YOU'RE HURTING ME, YOUR NAIL IS SCRAPING ME THERE-OH GOD-MAMA, DADDY, HELP ME, OH IT HURTS, OH PLEASE STOP IT!!!"
But even an angel would not have won mercy from Fred Bunson now, immersed as he was in his triumphant rut over this magnificent young naked virgin. Perhaps intuitively and unknowingly, by violating her so brutally after her pledge of passive acquiescence, Fred Bunson was avenging centuries of violation of his own people under the tyrannical plantation owners, who took their concubines as they chose without concern for ties of blood and marriage and affection and who looked upon the blacks only as animals fit to be the lowliest of slaves to service every whim.
Brenda's bottom squirmed and arched, and with all her might she contracted her bottom muscles to try to expel his digging finger. But in retaliation, Fred Bunson reveled in humbling and degrading this aristocratic, intellectual young girl, and her sobbing and groaning and her restless, agonized squirming under him only convinced him of his own dynamic mastery of her body. Cruelly his finger twisted back and forth in the depths of her rectum, up to a knuckle inside her tender quaking asshole, while his prick kept up its steady and relentless digging until at last he could bear no more. With a roaring bellow of lust, digging his tongue deep between her panting lips, he drenched Brenda Abrams's womb with his bubbling spunk.
"Boy, was that ever a good fuck," he panted as he drew his limpened, bloodstained cock out of her ravaged cavern. She lay, an arm over her tearstained, contorted face, her magnificent titties swelling and sinking agitatedly, and the cover of the bed was stained with the red blood of her lost maidenhead.
"You better get to the crapper and clean yourself up, cunt" he said brutally as he sauntered to the bathroom, took a washcloth, dipped it in the basin and sponged his own blood-smeared organ. Then he walked stolidly out of the room, leaving Brenda weeping on the bed, her romance and all the illusion of love shattered, even the thought of Ben Lorway far distant now after that merciless violation....
The stage was now set for the martyrdom of the two last captives, Genevieve Douglas and Margie Eulles.
"You know what I'd like to string Jenny and Margie face to face, up by their wrists, buffnaked, and whup ass until they rub their cunts off just like a couple of dykes. Then we'll all gang shag 'em. What do you say to that?"
Enthusiastic approval burst at once from his cronies.
At the door of the living room which led to the narrow hallway and the other rooms in turn, there was a heavy metal rod, once used for heavy velvet drapes when Ma Sheba had occasionally used this apartment for some of her "gentlemen friends" and their ladies. Ma also had a finger in the pie of prostitution, though currently she had abandoned that because the cops were a little tight on that particular vice in Chicago. Dick Tunbold walked over to the doorway, reached up and tested the rod. It was heavily set at both ends, much more solid than a curtain rod would have been. "This'll do fine," he pronounced. "Bring those two cunts!"
Earl Gorman, Manny Tandey and Art Jackson and Chuck Bordon at once went to fetch Genevieve and Margie, raising them to their feet, untying their wrists and ankles. Each girl was held by two of her Negro captors, and Margie screamed and protested abjectly when the gag was tugged out of her mouth: "Oh no! For God's sake, don't do it to me! I'll give you anything, I've got money, I can get it for you, just don't do it to me! I don't want you to, oh please don't do it!"
Lennie Masters drew back his right hand and slapped her across the mouth: "You dirty little Southern tramp," he sneered, "why don't you act like that sexy Brenda and take your medicine the way she did. You think you can go on shooting off your mouth about us soul folks and then when it comes time to pay the score, sneak out? Oh no, baby, you're gonna get the works!"
"Strip them down naked, naked as the day they were born," Dick Tunbold hoarsely ordered.
Now the screams and struggles of the two helpless girls filled the room as their captors ripped off their dresses and slips, tore off their bras and panties, and their garterbelts as well, stooped to shove off their pumps and drag off their nylon hose. And Margie and Genevieve were naked as Eve.
They were naked now, and the men gasped with lustful desire at the sight of those two voluptuous young bodies. Genevieve Douglas kicked and twisted, but Manny Tandey squatted down and wrapped his arms around her knees as a football player might tackle an opponent, while Dick Tunbold, standing on a chair, corded her wrists together and then made them fast with the other end of the cord around the heavy metal rod, forcing her to stand on tiptoe.
Lennie Masters and Chuck Bordon held Margie Eulles between them, making her watch the preparation of her companion in lascivious suffering and torment. Their eyes feasted on Margie's luscious nakedness, but they did not neglect Genevieve Douglas's body either.
The haughty prickteaser, the girl whom Henry Wilson had said one day would get her comeuppance, was about to get it now. Her flaming red hair fell below her shoulderblades in the cascade of the long luxurious pageboy. Her svelt, magnificent body strained and twisted, as she jerked at her bound wrists held high above her head. Her high-perched bubbies were deliciously formed, not too large, but gloriously firm, their aurolae narrow and of an orangeish-coral hue. Her nipples were pale pink coral, sweet nuzzling tidbits as yet unstirred by sensual desire, for she was a selfish narcissist. The thick triangular muff of dark red hair just covered the twitching lips of her cunt ... twitching in terror, not in desire, to be sure! The men had eyes for her bottom, too, those saucy, tightly set ovals of warm creamy flesh sprinkled with the exquisitely tiny rosy flecks of the typical and genuine redhead. And for those long lithe thighs as well and the sinuously highset calves, chiseled ankles and dainty little feet whose long patrician toes shifted about frantically as they strove for purchase.
That oval face of hers, that lovely cameo which had been so haughty, a mask of arrogance and intolerance, was very pale and taut now, as she realized her doom was upon her.
"Ohh noooo!!! Don't do it to me, I'm begging you, for God's sake, don't do it to me!!!" Margie Eulles screamed as Lennie Masters and Chuck Bordon forced her remorselessly under the doorway to stand facing the naked redhead.
Margie was five feet four inches in height, and her body had a delicious combination of slimness and amplitude which roused the rut of the inimical Negroes clustering around her. Dick Tunbold continued to stand on the chair and ordered that they pass Margie's arms up to him, she struggled wildly, but to no avail as Chuck Bordon grabbed her wrists and handed them up to the trombonist. A cord was swiftly tied around the slim wrists, then hauled up over the heavy metal rod and made fast after Dick had gauged the placement of both girls. Already their titties were brushing together. Margie whimpered and sobbed and tried to arch away from Genevieve, who was looking back over her shoulder at Earl Gorman; he had one hand on her bottom and was squeezing and stroking it in lustful anticipation.
Margie's titties were closely spaced, and rather small but perfectly proportioned. They had wide aurolea of a pale coral tinting, and their nipples were small and dainty and crinkly. Her bellybutton was very wide and shallow, and the hair over her cunt was dark brown as against the lighter shade of her chic upsweep. But her bottom was really tempting to the flagellant: two spaciously highset round cheeks, with a gradually widening furrow, set off by long slender girlish thighs and slim long calves. Her skin was tawny, and extremely sensitive, for Chuck Bordon playfully scratched his fingernails over the small of her back, and immediately an angry bright pink mark flamed up while Margie uttered a cry and lunged forward, rubbing her titties and cunt against Genevieve's.
"Let me start it off, Dick," Lennie Masters pleaded. He had taken off his shirt and undershirt, was naked except for jockey shorts and socks. His lean muscular light-brownskinned body rippled with rut-impelled energy, and he stared at Margie's tensing naked bottom with an almost avid intensity.
"Okay, you've got reason, soul brother," Dick Tunbold chuckled. "Make those two uppity ofay cunts rub off. That'll get them hot for the hosing we're all gonna give them!"
Margie Eulles turned her contorted face back over her shoulder and saw the handsome young jazz pianist slowly draw back his right hand. With a strident cry, she lunged forward to escape the imminent spank, again jostling her naked body against Genevieve's. Following her, Lennie applied a ferocious Smack with all his might on the right center of her behind.
"Owwww!!" Margie wailed as she again lunged forward. A second spank landed on the other cheek this time, and again Margie swayed and lost her balance as she ground her body frantically against the redhead's. But Dick Tunbold, seeing this commencement of the final punishment of the two girls who had most offended him and his friends, could no longer put off his own active participation in the tableau. Bounding forward, he placed himself behind haughty Genevieve Douglas and, plunging the fingers of his left hand into her flaming red pageboy, twisted the curls and yanked back her head till her face upturned in a mask of torment, as he applied two solid swats across the ripest curve of her right bottomglobe.
And now it was Genevieve's turn to lunge forward with a wailing cry of pain and to rub her cunt and pussy against Margie's. Lennie Masters had begun to give Margie Eulles a really thorough thrashing. At intervals of about every ten seconds, his right hand rose and fell solidly and noisily against her naked tawny-skinned bottomglobes, forcing Margie to swerve and twist her hips frantically, to lunge forward and rub herself violently as she tried to escape the punishment.
"EEEAAARRRHHH!!! OH DON'T, YOU'RE HURTING. OH PLEASE, I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T MEAN-OWWAIII!!!!" Margie Eulles screamed. But her cries were echoed as strongly and stridently by the haughty redhead, who, naked as the day she was born, kept looking back over her shoulder as Dick Tunbold energetically spanked her dancing, flattening, squirming, jouncy bare bottom: "PLEEEEASE!!! OWW!!! AHRRRROOOOUUUU!!! OH IT HURTS, PLEASE, OH DICK, DON'T DO IT TO ME PLEASE DON'T HURT ME ANYMORE, I CAN'T-EEE YEEEOWWW!!
Margie Eulles had forgotten all about her Southern superiority and about keeping people like her assailants in their place. Right now, unfortunately for her, they were in their place, and the tables had been turned with a vengeance. Her bottom was flaming, and it apparently seemed to mark even more than Genevieve's supposedly more sensitive and paler white skin. Each time Lennie's hand collided with her burning rear, Margie executed a wailing scream and a violent wriggling of her bottom, as her body arched forward to rub her furry cleft against Genevieve's.
"I-I can' help it, Genevieve, I-EEEYEOWWW!!! OHHHRRR!!! Oh stop, stop spanking me so hard, my poor bottom's raw, oh please, have mercy, I didn't mean anything, I couldn't help it:-Owww!!!" Her tearful apology to Genevieve was suddenly interrupted as Lennie increased the tempo and the vigor of his spanking, and Margie lunged and twisted on tiptoe, finding herself intimately rubbing Genevieve Douglas's furry cunt.
As for Genevieve, she had begun to apologize to Margie for this lewd proximity of their naked bodies, but Dick Tunbold's heavy hand had already turned her bottom a fiery red, and the cheeks of her posterior were shuddering and tremoring, opening and closing uncontrollably as she danced from foot to foot, tugging uselessly on the overhead bar to which her wrists were tractioned and tied, glancing back with tears streaming down her face to implore the trombonist for mercy.
"And what you gotta do, baby, is rub your coozie against Margie's, until you give down all your pussycream," Dick intimated as he whispered into her ear. "Because if you don't, you're gonna get smacked awful hard. I might take a belt to you, you hear me?" And to punctuate that remark, he applied two more violent slaps at the base of her left bottomglobe.
Genevieve sought to distract herself from the fires raging in her tender naked behind. Arching herself, she felt the fleecy lovecurls and the twitching lips of Margie Eulles's virgin cunt. Casting aside all shame and self-esteem and pride, knowing only that her bottom was mercilessly scorched and that the relentless Dick Tunbold would keep it up unendingly, she pressed herself frantically against Margie, felt Margie's pussy rub against hers, and then, closing her eyes and whimpering, began to arch and squirm and twist her loins as frantically as she could.
The friction began its work. Margie Eulles's eyes widened, she caught her breath, and then shrieked again as Lennie applied three hard stinging slaps across the base of her right buttock.
The other men exhorted their two cronies as the latter continued the ferocious spanking. The heavy metal rod creaked but did not yield or give way; both girls remained standing on tiptoe with their arms drawn high above their head, their hips jerking and twisting ceaselessly, and the creamy and the tawny skin of the two naked martyrs was an angry, dark red which would soon become violet.
"I can't help it, Margie, I've got to, oh my God, I've just got to, I-EEEYEEOWWW!!! Oh Dick, oh my God, Dick, I'm doing it, can't you see I'm doing it? Oh please don't spank my raw bottom anymore, please, I'll be good, I'll do anything, oh my God stop it!!!" Genevieve suddenly screamed as Dick resumed the furious spanking of her flaming rear.
Casting aside all restraint and prudery, all haughtiness and insolence, the naked patrician redhead now wantonly rubbed her pussy against Margie Eulles's virgin cunt.
Nor did Margie have much opportunity to protest the lascivious and shocking immodesty of her companion's exertions: Lennie Masters was urging the Southern belle on with furious openhanded spanks which drove her, panting and screaming, against the redhead's naked, wriggling body. Margie's bottom was, if anything, even redder than Genevieve's by the time Lennie paused for air and to flex the fingers of his swollen, inflamed spanking hand.
"Hand me your belt, Dick," he hoarsely ordered. "I'm gonna make this little racist cream her pussy if it's the last think I ever do!"
And Margie Eulles now forgot all her prejudices and her virginal modesty, and screaming, "OH NO, NOT THE BELT, I'LL DO IT, I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT, ONLY STOP, OH MY GOD, I'LL DO IT, WATCH, WATCH, I'M DOING IT, SEE?" rammed her furry snatch against Genevieve's and began to share with her red-haired companion the unwilling ritual of coerced lesbian wooing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Look at those two ofay cunts go to it," Fred Bunson exclaimed. He had just emerged from the bedroom in which Brenda Abrams lay, sullied and weeping disconsolately, on that bloodstained bed which bore the mark of her virginal loss. But the sight of Genevieve and Margie squirming together and dancing on their bare feet, their arms dragged high overhead, their bottoms flaming and darkening and swollen from their ferocious spankings just administered, had completely restored his priapic vigor.
"Okay, Jenny, I'm gonna stop spanking your big ass for just long enough to let you make Margie cream her pants," Dick Tunbold salaciously intoned. "But I got my wristwatch on, and if you don't do it in three minutes, you get the belt too and right between your legs, hear?"
"Yes-oww-yes, I'm trying, oh Dick, my God, I'm doing the best I can-oh don't hit me anymore, oh my poor bottom-oh Margie, come on, for God's sake, we have to, Margie, or they'll whip us awfully hard with the belt-do it, Margie, rub me good, oh Margie, oh Margie, I can feel it-oh God-oh-oh-EEEYAIIII!!!"
For Genevieve Douglas, the supreme moment of degradation had come-and so had she! The burning spanking had, unbeknownst to her, incited her latent healthy young sensuality to the fore, and this reiterated friction against Margie Eulles's soft virgin cunt had done the rest. Her body shuddered and jerked, dancing like a puppet on strings, as she finally pressed herself, belly to belly, titties to tittie, cunt to cunt, and a long violent spasm passed through her naked, shuddering flesh and left her sagging, head fallen to one side, her bubbies heaving wildly in the upheaval of all her senses.
But Margie, who had been so annihilated by her downfall from haughty white superiority that she could not be sensitive to sexual impetus, was left behind.
"Too bad for you, Margie," Lennie Masters chuckled grimly as he took Dick Tunbold's black leather belt and swished it about in the air. "Get your ass ready, here it comes!"
Margie Eulles turned her tear-drowned, twisted, ravaged face back over her shoulder and whimpered: "Oh no, oh my God, I'll do anything you want, anything in this whole world, I swear I will, just don't use that belt on my poor raw bottom, oh please, oh please!"
"What do you think, fellows, should we let her off and see just how far she'll go on her own? This sweet little bitch from Atlanta with her dreams of lynching us poor niggers, now she's all eager to make us happy. Shall we let her try?" Lennie turned to his comrades.
Shouts of exultant "Yeah, man, let's see what she'll do!" gave Margie's bottom a temporary reprieve at least.
"Okay, speak up, Margie, and make it fast. If I don't whip ass with this belt, what'll you do for me?"
Margie shuddered at the malevolent and greedy look in his glittering, narrowed eyes. "I-I'll go to bed with you," she babbled.
"That's a start. What'll you do in bed, bitch?"
"I-I-oh my God-I-I-" a cat seemed to have got Margie Eulles's tongue, but the shock of horror and the burning, unspeakable pain in her bottom had paralyzed her speech.
Lennie Masters drew back his right arm and the doubled belt crashed against the ripest curves of Margie's naked, flaming rear.
"YEEEOWWWOUUUUEEEEARRRHHHH! Oh stop, wait, I'll tell, I'LL DO ANYTHING, JUST PUT that awful belt down, oh my butt, oh my poor sore butt, have mercy, oh please have mercy, Lennie!"
"Now we're equals, aren't we, honey?" he said sarcastically. "All right, you got the floor, use it. What do we do in bed if I let you off this belt?"
"You can-you can f-f-f-fuck me, yes, yes," Margie babbled, "and I'll be good to youI-I'll do it nice-oh please, please don't belt me, please fuck me instead!"
A shout of gloating exultance went up from the jazz musicians at this acknowledgement of defeat by the haughty and bigoted Southern blonde.
"I got a better idea," Lennie said sibilantly, his lips curving in a cruel little smile.
"Anything-oh yes, anything, Lennie, I promise I'll be good, just don't whip me!" Margie babbled.
"I'm going to brown you, Margie," he declared. "Your ass is warm enough to make that hole of yours really sizzling. So get yourself ready for it, bitch! That's what I think of you and your little speeches about keeping us poor niggers in our place! I'm gonna put myself in your place, baby, and you're gonna feel me, you're gonna know what black power really is!"
With this, dropping the belt, and at Margie's shrieking consternation, he gripped the inflamed and discolored cheeks of her bottom, viciously wrenched them open to expose the shrinking crevice of her virgin asshole, and then crammed his stiff hard prick against the furtive entryway.
"OWWWOUUUU!!!! NOT THERE, OH PLEASE, FUCK ME INSTEAD, NOT THERE, OH DON'T PUT IT INTO ME THERE, AIIIYOU'RE RIPPNG ME TO PIECES-OH PLEASE, OH HELP ME-OH GOD, I CAN'T STAND IT-TAKE IT OUT-OH FUCK ME INSTEAD-OWWWEEEEARRRRHHHOUUU!!!!"
Margie's screams reached an incredible pitch of intensity as Lennie Masters, gripping her yawned-open bottomcheeks, sank his prick in her asshole to the hilt and then slowly began to bugger her. In her frenzied agony, Margie ground her cunt repeatedly and distractedly against Genevieve. But Genevieve had no time for such distractions; Dick Tunbold was doing to her precisely what Lennie Masters was doing to Margie!
And thus it was that the girl whom Henry Wilson had called a prickteaser learned that she could no longer tease pricks, and that those people whom she had deprecated would have their revenge in reverse ... for she was having her first sexual experience and not in that soft eager cunt of hers, but in the tight and narrow crevice of her virgin rectum!
After the two gins had been buggered, Earl Gorman stepped up behind Margie and took Lennie Master's place, while Manny Tandey waited next in line. Chuck Bordon replaced Dick Tunbold, and now Genevieve's shrieks became heartrending, for the saxophonist's prick was even sturdier and thicker than Dick Tunbold's.
Fred Bunson replaced Chuck Bordon, and thus Genevieve received three buggerings in succession, while Margie endured four.
Then the girls were untied, only to be tied back to back this time, since both were virgins there as well as in their mouth.
Dick Tunbold prepared himself for the final onslaught of this evening by downing a shot of whiskey, and then stood up against Genevieve, squeezing her titties and rubbing his limpened cock against her furry crotch, while she pleaded brokenly with him to spare her. This time, the two unfortunate girls rubbed their burning, swollen bottoms together, for Lennie Masters had approached the sobbing, whimpering, fear-crazed Margie Eulles and was restoring his own momentarily effete manhood by rubbing himself against Margie's furry cleft while pinching her titties and armpits and promising what he was going to do to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Genevieve and Margie were half-fainting and hysterical by the time their intended rapists had their virility restored. The furious whippings they had received, together with the enforced Lesbian act which had stimulated their overwrought emotions and senses to the extreme, as well as their buggerings, had broken their spirit completely. Genevieve pleaded tearfully with Dick Tunbold to let her go after this, saying that she would never be uppity again. It was amazing how child-like the once insolently aristocratic redhead had become as a result of the vengeance which her black lust-executioners had achieved upon her.
But her supplications availed her nothing, and neither did Margie's so far as Lennie Masters was concerned.
Both girls screamed almost simultaneously as their rapist's hard pricks thrust through the membranes of their maidenheads, and now they rubbed bottoms in the most lascivious and immodest display as they were harpooned by their two Negro assailants.
Dick Tunbold's fingers clawed and fondled and squeezed Genevieve's panting titties, while Lennie Masters pinched Margie's nipples till she whimperingly implored him to stop, abjectly and servilely promising him that she would do anything in the world if he would only let her go.
Only when their last seminal drench shot into the two girl's ravaged, unvirgined cunts, did Dick and Lennie think at last of a reprieve ... for the ordeal of these arrogant captives was not yet done.
It was well past three in the morning now, and the jazz musicians were exhausted; small wonder, after their nightclub gig and then this unleashed orgy against the "slumming" whites.
But Dick Tunbold took Genevieve and Lennie Masters took Margie into the bedroom where Brenda Abrams still lay, and these two couples shared the bed for the rest of the night, while poor Brenda, her wrists and legs once again bound so that she could not escape, was carried over to an old cot in the comer of the room, on which she spent a sleepless night.
Peggy, Julia and Dorothy Tompkins, all bound hand and foot and gagged again, as well as blindfolded, remained in the other bedroom, which was occupied by Fred Bunson, Manny Tandey and Earl Gorman. Art Jackson and Chuck Bordon arranged themselves for what sleep they could get on the broken-down divan and one of the armchairs in the living room.
The musicians didn't waken until noon on Saturday, and Art Jackson and Chuck Bordon, having been nominated to prepare brunch for the gang, shaved, showered, and went out to buy groceries. A little after one, the seven musicians and their six stark naked lovely young captives ate together in the kitchen. Only Brenda Abrams was given a chair with the men; the other five girls had to kneel around their captors, and, like dogs, be fed the tidbits from the men's fingers. Genevieve, all shame and arrogance gone forever now, humbly and even gratefully accepted this mark of attention from Dick Tunbold, while Margie Eulles served Lennie Masters in the same way.
In the afternoon, the Negroes rehearsed for the evening's appearance at the Club du Sable, but there was still time for a little erotic amusement. Brunette Peggy Davidson and blonde Julia Vickery suffered the fate of Margie and Genevieve; like those two, Peggy and Julia were tied face to face with their arms high above their heads, and this time Art Jackson wound the rope around their waists, to make certain that their libidinous maneuverings under the playful spanking which they were about to receive would produce the longed-for Lesbian effect. To add a little spice to the event, Earl Gorman, the bass fiddler, took his bow and, holding the neck of his huge instrument with his left hand, stood off to the left of both unfortunate naked girls and alternately whacked them across their squirming bottoms, making them dance and wriggle and squirm and cry and sob for mercy. The others, meanwhile, formed a single line and gave each girl ten hard spanks, so that each received at least sixty, not counting the energetic and stinging blows from the back of the bass fiddle bow wielded by Earl Gorman.
To her own sobbing and agonized surprise, lovely brunette Peggy achieved two orgasms while grinding her cunt against Julie Vickery's.
The girls were gagged and bound and blindfolded, and Ma Sheba was ordered to watch the apartment while the seven musicians dressed and went off to the club to play their stint. It was one of their best swinging sessions, judging from the enthusiastic cheers of the overflow crowd at the Club du Sable. And there were plenty of mash notes for Art Jackson and Chuck Bordon and Dick Tunbold, but the girls were extremely surprised when their three virile heroes failed to acknowledge any of them. They could hardly have dreamed that these virile Negroes already had ample rations of pussy waiting for them back at the apartment!
They didn't get back until about one o'clock in the morning, and the six girls once again entered upon a night of shameful and degrading sexual orgies.
Even Brenda Abrams wasn't immune; Chuck Bordon desired, as he put it, "to shag this four-eyed educated little bitch who doesn't use any dirty words but who's got a shape on her that would make a baboon randy every day in the week!"
Crushed in the arms of the behemoth saxophone player, Brenda Abrams closed her eyes and surrendered herself as passively as she could. Nonetheless, his vigorous fucking wakened her latent sensuality; and now that the laceration pains of her lost hymen were no more, she uttered a cry of shame and dismay as he mounted over her and thrust himself back and forth with furious vigor inside her tight cunt, for she began to feel the answering response of her healthy body, in spite of all her revulsion and aversion.
Lennie Masters had taken Margie Eulles under his special wing. In one of the bedrooms, Margie was kneeling on the floor, her hands clasped behind her back, learning to French a man. Her reward was going to be a good fucking; her punishment, if she didn't do it properly, would be a good belting on the bottom and then a buggering. Margie's Southern ancestors would have turned in their graves to discover how apt a pupil Margie became under that kind of conditioning, because she displayed towards the handsome young Negro as much passionate devotion as if he had been a white plantation owner and she his perfectly submissive slave.
Genevieve was learning the facts of life from Dick Tunbold, who made her lie atop him and, squeezing the cheeks of her bottom, guided her to move back and forth till she too first experienced a true orgasm as a woman....
It was Sunday night. It was a century for the six girls, for each minute seemed a year, but at last it was going to be over. They were having one final orgy. Dorothy Tompkins and Julia Vickery were girlfucking on the floor of the living room, watched by the amused Earl Gorman who had promised that he was going to fuck each of them in turn if they roused him enough. Brenda Abrams was compelled, despite her timid pleas, to girlfuck with Margie Eulles while Genevieve and Peggy were paired off in similar erotic fashion.
Two hours later, by the time each girl had been fucked at least twice, Dick Tunbold, again as master of ceremonies, lined them all up naked, with their knees on their palms, while he and his cronies advanced also in single file. "This is going to be our goodbye, honeygals," he chuckled. "You're going to kiss and suck our cocks goodbye. I just got the news, you guys, we got a new contract out of town. We're not gonna tell these little coozies where it's gonna be, just in case they got notions of putting us in the hoosegow." He turned to Brenda: "I'm going to tie you up except for one hand, and then I'm going to lock up the other girls and tie them tight so it'll take you some time to get them all loose. And there's no phone in this building. You can consider yourselves lucky you didn't get taken off to one of the apartments down here in the ghetto, as some of you girls would like to call it, where you'd have to hustle for a living and where nobody would ever find you. Don't think it couldn't happen. And you, Jenny, don't try slumming again. You might not be so lucky next time."
"Oh I won't," Genevieve said so rapidly that all the men laughed uproariously and nudged one another.
And then the "farewell" began. In turn each man stepped forward, to receive salutation from the soft trembling lips and tongue of one of the naked girls till he had received such homage from all six.
Then they turned and tied up the girls and carried them into the bedroom, bringing in Brenda last. She was blindfolded, her right wrist was tied to her bound ankles, and she was put into a closet with a heavy chair against it. The men rapidly dressed, collected their instruments, paid a final visit to Ma Sheba. Dick Tunbold had just got a contract for his coinbo in Acapulco and from there he and the boys were going to Mexico City. If he had his way about it, they wouldn't come back. There was plenty of nice brown-skinned, warm-cunted nookie down in Mexico, and there was money to be made in many ways besides playing jazz....
Brenda Abrams at last managed to move the heavy chair aside after having untied herself with her free left hand, and then set to work freeing the other girls. They dressed in their tattered clothes as best they could, and then Brenda managed to flag a cab and induce the driver to take her on trust back to her home and by dropping off the girls in turn.
Ben Lorway was waiting for her, with her anxious parents. They had been in tears, calling the police station, the Bureau of Missing Persons, even using radio and TV appeals, trying to find their missing daughter, and Ben Lorway had been accepted by them, despite the fact that he was a Gentile. There wouldn't be any objection now to their marriage. Maybe, Brenda thought, as she tearfully snuggled in Ben's manly arms, it had all been worth it....
Margie Eulles went right back to Atlanta, a sadder and very much wiser girl. Two months later, she married a Northerner from Detroit who was office manager of an insurance company for which she had gone to work. He wouldn't toerate any nonsense, and he didn't like affectatious Southern accents. He also used a hairbrush on Margie's bare bottom whenever she got out of line. But as far as pussy was concerned, he couldn't have asked for a more passionate and eager wife. Margie's racist days were over forever.
Peggy Davidson was spared a sound spanking by her strict father and mother when they learned what had happened to their darling daughter. They sent her to the hospital, and after that on a cruise to the Bahamas, where she met a handsome West Indian bank manager and married him.
Dorothy Tompkins was also spared chastisement by her aunt, but Dorothy put her foot down for the first time in her young life: from now on she was going to date when she wanted to, and her aunt wasn't going to stop her. And her aunt didn't. A week after Peggy got married, Dorothy went on her honeymoon to Hawaii with a handsome young lawyer who had always loved her but thought that she might be a prude in bed. What Dorothy had learned from that weekend of black lust convinced him how wrong he had been and how much time he had wasted in not courting her earlier!
Genevieve Douglas? She's married to Henry Wilson now. She's still a prickteaser ... but Henry likes the way she does it to him. She comes across where before she never used to. Genevieve Douglas too learned that lust has no color, but it does have a lasting effect, and she has learned to enjoy it and to welcome it from the man who is now her quite contented and equally virile husband!
