"A last time. Are you going to undress?" Madame Desage's tone was brusque, brooking no argument. His hump turned to the only door, Pierre held the martinet aloft in readiness.
"B-but you can't possibly get away with this!" the redhead panted. "Claire and I are registered at the hotel and when they miss us-"
"Decidedly, you must have been living in a convent all these years," the Negress impatiently broke in. "Since furnishing slaves is my profession, Sally, give me credit for some imagination. A telephone call to your hotel will convince the manager that you've fallen madly in love with a handsome young Frenchman and decided to share his apartment during your stay ... And now I am tired of this nonsensical argument which, you may as well know from the outset, I never tolerate in a slave. Strip! Otherwise Pierre will persuade you."
With an evil cackle, the hunchback moved swiftly behind the redhead and sent the three leather thongs whistling across the ripest curves of her oval-cheeked bottom....
* * *
INTRODUCTION By Daniel Gregory, Ph.D.
Sexual domination has long been a favorite theme in erotic literature. In certain societies, sexual domination was a criteria for judging "obscenity" or "pornography", yet the fact is that this area of sexual behavior, while extreme to be sure, is actually an extension of the normal human love relationship. In both courtship and the more intimate human relationships between a male and female, one person assumes the active, dominant, even mildly sadistic role, while the other accepts the passive, mildly masochistic personality.
Although recent sociological and psychological trends indicate a certain rebellion, these two roles have been arbitrarily established by society with the male assuming the dominant personality and the female accepting the masochistic role. It is the male who pursues, takes the active role in sexual seduction, chooses the time and place for the sexual act and assumes the upper, or dominant, position.
There are both sadistic and masochistic traits in even the most normal of personalities. The love bite, scratching, use of force, or the desire to be forced, are all normal actions and reactions in the human sexual relationship. And as long as these are contained within a normal range, society and the individuals who participate accept all of this as normal behavior.
The very fact that these traits exist in every human personality, however, provides the opportunity for both sadism and masochism to be carried beyond the realm of normal behavior in human sexual contacts. In fact, many people at one time or another fantasize situations in which the master/slave relationship is carried to extremes. Whether or not this is normal depends on several factors: The ability to control these fantasies, and the behavioral patterns which result from repression of these desires.
And this obvious contradiction between normal impulse and the repression necessary to conform with moral codes is one of the basic causes of sexual anxiety in the average human being. Authors over the centuries have treated this basic theme in any number of ways. The Marquis de Sade, for instance, leaned on sexual domination as a means of presenting morality couched in absolute immorality. Glorifying cruelty, de Sade portrayed man's inhumanity toward his fellow man. At the same time, however, de Sade's works carried a strong philosophical criticism of the structure of society in his time. His emphasis on sexual cruelty and the master/slave relationship, then, served several distinct purposes.
Genet, like de Sade, deliberately set out to profane and ridicule many of the sacred institutions of society. And like so many others, he used eroticism as a vehicle to portray the human personality as it is and at the same time to shock the reader into considering the philosophical argument for the change he couched in his work.
Many may feel that Sally in Black Bondage, by A. de Granamour, is written in the tradition of de Sade or Genet. There is a decided similarity in that Sally in Black Bondage contains vivid descriptive passages involving bondage, discipline and flagellation. Yet the similarity to de Sade and Genet begins and ends at this point. Sally in Black Bondage does not serve as a vehicle for the author's philosophical views, nor does it glorify sexual sadism per se.
Actually, this book is written somewhere between the styles of The Story of O, by Pauline Reage, and Jon Reskind's Abducted Bride, two books which enjoyed immense popularity in the United States. The Story of O was a masterful portrayal of sexual domination which almost overnight became a classic in its time, while Abducted Bride added the dimension of organized crime and the White Slave traffic to the sexual domination theme.
The reader will find these elements in Sally in Black Bondage, yet again the similarity ends rather abruptly. What the author has done in Sally in Black Bondage is combine a study in sexual domination with a tour of an emotionally disturbed mind. And naturally this emotional disturbance results from the conflict between sexual impulse and the necessity to conform to morality. The characters are real enough, yet they are actually symbols in this psychological drama.
With the exception of perhaps excessive eroticism and several rough passages, the author pulls this off rather adeptly. One feels a certain identity with the heroine, Sally, and does not suspect that all of this is actually taking place in her mind as a result of her sexual anxiety over her impending marriage until well into the story. Even when it becomes more and more apparent that this is a journey through anxiety, it is difficult to separate the realism and surrealism of the narrative. Everything seems to be actually taking place, even if the description is highly exaggerated at times.
This exaggeration, incidentally, is true to the psychological condition portrayed here. Sally, the daughter of a prominent minister, had lived a sheltered existence. Her circumstances in life caused her to build an elaborate defense mechanism to protect her from any of the contradictions of life as it is against life as her religious training has taught her it should be. Thus, faced with the traumatic experience of marriage, Sally allows her sexual anxieties repressed into her subconscious mind to come to the surface. This is, of course, triggered by the candid discussion of sex with her girl friend, Claire, and Sally realizes that nothing in her life or training has equipped her for marriage.
Who is to blame for this? In Sally's mind it is her parents, and in her fantasy Sally's parents are punished. Sally begins by punishing herself, in reality her sexual personality, by projecting herself into situation after situation where she is humiliated sexually and tortured physically. In this, Sally is acting out a desire to punish herself for her physical, sensual needs. Claire must also be humiliated and punished for her part in bringing Sally's anxiety to the surface.
The real accomplishment of the author here is the finely textured blend of reality and fantasy woven into the plot. Do White Slave rings actually exist? Certainly. Two internatonal incidents, one in Mexico and the other in Belgium recently, attest to the fact that forced prostitution is a giant industry in the underground of many of the world's societies. Sally's Negro captors would appear to be a blend of the two organizations recently exposed; hence this part of the narrative has the ring of authenticity.
The use of Negroes for the White Slave ring is a sharp jab at the racial conflict in the United States today, but also serves Sally as a means for complete humiliation. And it is only when we begin receiving hints that Sally's family will be brought into all of this that we see that all of the realism was simply a trap or guise on the author's part. The master behind everything that happens is Sally, or at least Sally's subconscious mind. All lingering doubts are dispelled when Sally's fiance is brought into the narrative in the very final passages.
Here we see her sexual anxiety in its raw state. Her marriage concept of master/slave is bared for all to see, and her fear of sexual emotional turmoil-is manifest.
Does this mean that the Sallies of this world are abnormal? Not at all. Recent progress in group therapy has proven that acting out repressed desires and emotional disturbances provides a means of control for the individual. And if anxieties can be relieved in this manner, the individual can direct his or her energy to serving a useful place in the community.
Sally in Black Bondage is not as well conceived or written as The Story of O, but is head and shoulders above the average erotic novel. It has that rare capacity of being able to entertain and instruct at the same time. No matter what your interest, I think I can safely say that Sally in Black Bondage will provide hours of interesting and exciting reading.
Danil Gregory, Ph.D.
CHAPTER ONE
"I've known you since you were a little girl, Sally," Claire Downing said softly. She leaned over to the coffee table in front of the couch in the living room of her apartment, opened the silver humidor, took out a filter-tipped cigarette and meticulously tapped the tobacco end before putting it between her ripe, somewhat tremulous lips. Sally Bannion admiringly watched her best friend not without mingled envy and sympathy. Envy, because at thirty the golden-haired divorcee scarcely looked twenty; sympathy, because poor Claire must have been ever so lonely the past two years since her divorce from Henry Downing on grounds of desertion.
Claire picked up a monagrammed silver lighter and flicked it to the tip of the cigarette, her nostrils voluptuously flaring as she sent a blue whorl of smoke toward the ceiling. Then she leaned back, one beautifully rounded arm behind her head in a gesture that emphasized the opulence of her jutting cantaloupe-like, close-spaced breasts against the bodice of her black nylon slip. Her large, widely spaced blue eyes contemplated the lovely young redhead, and then she smiled at Sally as she went on:
"It's a fact. You're so beautiful and good and sweet that you're almost unbelievable. If you want to know the truth, the reason I made such a point of insisting that your parents let me take you with me to Paris is that I'd like to see you break away from all that virtuous, clinging protection of theirs."
Sally shook her head, a look of disbelief on her piquant face. She still couldn't believe that she was on the eve of her first trip outside the United States-to Paris, no less-and that when she returned, marriage to Jackson Meredith awaited her. She didn't know how Claire had managed to talk her father and mother into letting her make this trip in the first place, even though dear Claire would be along as chaperone.
Maybe it was because Dad, and Mother too, felt sympathetic toward poor Claire because of the divorce. Up to now. at least to her, Claire had never said much about Henry except that he had apparently preferred other women to her. But what had happened was that Claire had finally got a settlement from Henry's lawyer-enough of a windfall to make the trip to Paris she had always wanted. Then, wouldn't be alone, and so Sally could have a kind of last fling before settling down with Jackson.
"You make me awfully uncomfortable when you talk like that. Claire dear. Just because I teach Sunday school doesn't mean I'm a Pollyanna." She couldn't help flushing as her eyes met Claire's. "Besides, if you were the daughter of the minister of the First Episcopalian Church of Washington, D.C., you might just get a little tired of being thought of as a goody-goody girl. I'm just a plain, ordinary young woman, and you know it."
"And you're also a cute little liar, darling!" Claire laughed as she took another puff of her cigarette, threw back her head and sent an artistic whorl of smoke toward the ceiling. "You're twenty-four years old and you've got a figure to turn the head of a marble statue-a male statue naturally-and that long, coppery-red pageboy of yours is all the more devastating because it's perfectly natural. And the way it contrasts with that pale skin of yours ... Well, all I can say is that I don't know how you manage to control the boys in your Sunday school class, that's what!"
Sally Bannion's blushes deepened, and she lowered her eyes before her friends' teasing gaze. "You make me very self-conscious when you talk that way," she protested. "There's nothing extraordinary about my looks. As for my physical qualities, I guess I inherited them. Isn't there a saying that after a girl is thirty and is still attractive, it's her doing, but before that it's just nature?"
"I wonder if you're trying to give me a left-handed compliment, dear," Claire twitted the charming redhead. "Or are you just being overly modest? Even a clod like Jackson Meredith is certain to get the hots for you once it's legal."
"Claire!" Now Sally's blush spread to her ear-lobes and the roots of her hair.
"Well, it's true. And even though I know you're a nice girl and never even had a boy friend until you got engaged to Jackson, you can't tell me you don't know what makes the world tick. Even if you have been cloistered almost like a nun, first in that swanky elementary school your folks sent you to, then a carefully chosen public high school where there wasn't too much riffraff, and then Jocelyn College, where there weren't any men and where the enrollment is practically limited to Phi Beta Kappas. Somewhere along the line, though, you must have found out about the birds and the bees and the flowers."
"Can't ... can't we just talk about the trip, Claire? You've told me so much about places like the Cathedral of Notre Dame and Fontainebleau that you've got me all excited about Paris. Do you know what hotel we're going to stay at? And will we go out into the country at all?"
"Don't try to change the subject, baby. And don't forget that you're supposed to become an adoring bride on ... let's see, what day is it? Oh, yes, I remember. September twenty-second, isn't that right? And what a romantic date that's going to be for you. It happens to be a week before the opening of the fall term of the Circuit Court, and your husband-to-be is scheduled to plead two cases there. If it weren't for this trip of ours, baby, you'd be settling for a week's honeymoon, and dollars to doughnuts you wouldn't be leaving Washington during that week. Not with a penny-pincher like Jackson; that's for sure."
"You're being very unfair to talk about Jackson that way, Claire." Sally felt it incumbent upon her to voice a loyal protest.
Claire crushed out her cigarette and stood up, luxuriously stretching her arms above her head, completely at her ease in her attractively furnished apartment. Sally was uncomfortably aware of Claire's physical aura in a way she had never been before. The divorcee's black nylon slip was form-fitting, and clung to her voluptuous curves like a translucent second skin. Sally could see the outline of a narrow garter belt which held up gauzy charcoal-brown stocking on Claire's curvaceous calves and thighs. And for all her ripe femininity, the way Claire wore her hair in a coronet braid around the top of her head gave her a singularly imposing and autocratic mien.
There was, to be sure, not even the most subconscious feeling of Sapphic interest latent in Sally Bannion's outwardly decorous and genuinely modest nature. As Claire had said, she had never even had a boy friend; there had been no temptations during her adolescence. Reverend Allen Bannion and his wife, Edith, had kept her busy at school, saw to it that she went to Sunday school even while in her teens, and for the past two years had also seen to it that she taught Sunday school to children ranging in age from six to twelve.
She didn't really feel that she had been denied anything. As her father was fond of saying, "It isn't really necessary in these modern times for our souls to have the temptations of Saint Anthony imposed upon them. We should be wise and sophisticated enough in righteousness to be good without investigating temptation." And just to be sure that this goodness persisted, he had later declared, "It is wholesome for a young woman with your advantages to work with impressionable young minds who are comparatively free from sin and error, so that both you and they may progress to an even more sanctified state."
Yet now, on the eve of this trip to Paris with Claire Downing as her companion, Sally was inexplicably beginning to have misgivings and feelings that shouldn't have cropped up at all. Maybe it was because when she had come over this evening to go over last-minute details of their itinerary, she had been surprised to find Claire in deshabille. She herself had never gone around in her undies, not even in Claire's apartment, although they were the best of friends and had been for at least a dozen years. Not even Mother had seen Sally undressed-not since she'd had the measles when she was eight. With a grown brother in the house, she had early been made conscious of the need for proper modesty. This evening, Claire's scanty costume, the languorous poses which her friend took on the couch, and now the way Claire was beginning to talk about things that had nothing to do with Paris, made her just a little uneasy.
"I keep asking myself how the devil-Excuse me, honey; I keep forgetting you're a minister's daughter. How the dickens you ever got hooked up with an oaf like Jackson, anyway." Claire stopped in front of the armchair in which Sally was seated, put her hands on her hips, gave Sally a droll look and then shook her head.
"You're not being fair to Jackson at all."
"I know. You're such a nice girl that you can't think of a single nasty thing to say even about people you don't like. But good lord, Sally, marriage isn't Sunday school! Or maybe you're forgetting that when you're Jackson's wife you'll be going to bed with him. And I don't mean just to sleep?"
"Claire! You're embarrassing me!"
"Good! It's about time somebody did. Here you are at twenty-four and a pure virgin-I believe that's the popular expression for it. No; don't interrupt me. You're the closest girl friend I have. I don't mind admitting you're the only one I have, because my taste has always run to men. It's just my darn luck that the one guy I though I was nuts about had eyes for every other skirt he thought he could make."
"Please, Claire dear, you only make yourself unhappy talking about your divorce. We're going on this trip so we can be together and have fun and explore the sights, and so you can forget about what a bad time you've had the last few years."
"Stop talking like a lonely hearts columnist and listen to me for a change." Claire went back to the couch, sat down, lit another cigarette and eyed the redhead for a moment. First, tell me this : Are you madly in love with Jackson?"
"I'm not madly in love with anybody. But I like him, and I respect him. Lots of marriages last for a long time based on much less than that."
"Oh, sure! Marriages are made in heaven; I know," Claire countered sarcastically. "From a purely material point of view, I guess your intended is a decent enough sort of joe. He's quiet; even in court he doesn't make a big noise, he's thirty years old, but the few times I've met him, he impressed me as looking like one of those dour old Puritans who came over on the Mayflower."
"Please stop talking like that. I don't like you when you get catty, Claire dear."
"I don't care whether you like it or not, honey. You've got to do some serious thinking about Jackson. Another reason I wangled your coming along with me was that I thought maybe being out of the country and away from that square would give you a chance to find yourself and discover that you're flesh and blood, not just a born Sunday school teacher. Sure, I remember that you're a minister's daughter. All the more reason that you'd better take a good long look before you plunge into marriage. With your background, once the knot is tied, it'll be forever. And if I were in your shoes, sweetie, I don't think I'd let Jackson put his shoes under my bed for the rest of my life."
"Claire!"
"Quit saying 'Claire!' as if I were shocking you. You can't be that naive."
"We don't have to talk about such things; really. And besides, you know perfectly well that Jackson's father was a deacon in Dad's church. That's how I met Jackson. And it was quite a few years before we got engaged, after all."
"Sure. I know. And Elmer Meredith owns a company that makes aviation parts and does a lot of government business. So Jackson's in the chips. But you don't have to marry for money, because your dad's doing all right himself. You're not the type to marry for money, anyway. So really, what has Jackson got that you want?"
"I do wish you'd change the subject, Claire." Sally fidgeted in her armchair.
"I know: Your dad picked him out because there wasn't anything wrong with his background or his breeding. But since you got engaged to him, you've been out a few times with him, haven't you?"
"You know I have."
"Has he ever felt you up, or given you a French kiss, Sally?"
"Ohh!" Sally gasped, color rushing to her cheeks again.
"I can see he hasn't, from that reaction. That's just great! In fact, I could probably tell you the story of all your dates. He's probably taken you to a concert or to the opera or a museum or the Lincoln Memorial, and he's probably kissed you on the forehead, or maybe on the cheek when he really felt excited."
"Stop it, Claire! If you must know, he ... he...." Sally faltered, and she stared down at the floor, her color deepening. "He says he hopes we'll have four children, and he'd like the first to be a son, so he can bring him up to take over the company later on."
"Well, at least that's some progress!" Claire's tone was lightly sarcastic as she took another long puff on her cigarette. "Four kids, eh? Well, he's going to have to do more than kiss you on the forehead, baby, unless he plans to go in for artificial impregnation."
"Ohh! That's enough, Claire! I ... I don't think it's proper to discuss such intimate things."
"And why not, for heaven's sake? If you're not going to talk things like that over with your best friend, who've you got? I can just see your dignified mother sitting down with you and telling you about the rhythm theory."
"I don't want to listen to it. Please be nice. Let's talk about Paris."
"Sure. People screw in Paris, too; maybe even more than they do here. There aren't any Puritans in Paris, from all I've heard."
Sally rose from her armchair, biting her lips and trying to avert her scarlet face from the mocking eyes of her mature friend. She walked to a bookcase near the door and pretended to study the titles on one of the shelves, her heart beginning to pound erratically. She didn't want to admit it, but Claire was right: She and Jackson, apart from his single comment about wanting four children, hadn't really become at all familiar with one another-hadn't known each other in the Biblical sense. And of course they wouldn't, until the wedding night. Just the same, until this very minute she had never really thought of its happening to her, the whole process of procreation which was so integral a part of marriage. And now Claire's flippant remarks had turned her attention almost morbidly on what was going to happen in September when they got back from Paris. It was most disquieting.
In a final valiant effort to change the topic of conversation, the young redhead turned to Claire and with a feignedly gay little laugh, riposted, "Now it's you that's the forgetful one, Claire. You've known me all these years, so you know I'm not a child any more, and I do know what people do in bed when they're married. I expect to make Jackson a good, loyal wife."
"That's not the question at all, and you know it. He's getting a lot more than he could ever bargain for if it came down to attracting a girl. But you're settling for the first fellow to ask your dad for your hand in marriage, and you keep thinking about hands instead of all the rest of you-the parts men have fun with when you're in bed together. Look, I don't care what they teach you in Bible school; sleeping with a man is something more than giving him a kid. Did you ever hear of lust? Because a woman has just as much of that as a man does, and the whole idea in marriage nowadays is that both the man and the woman enjoy their lust. If you want to know something else, Henry and I got along fine until he decided he wanted to have his cake and eat it too, and started playing around, and then up and deserted me. But he got his comeuppance in the end. I hear he's down to just one girl friend instead of half a dozen, and she's holding him off on going to bed. And it serves him right."
Claire's blue eyes sparkled as she finished this statement. Her parents, who had died when she was nineteen, had sent her to the same private grade school Sally had later attended, and Reverend Allen Bannion and his wife had been very close to Claire's dead father, so they had overlooked her faults (which were trivial but mostly carnal) for his sake as well as out of sympathy for her disrupted marriage.
"But Jackson isn't that kind of man at all." Sally exclaimed. "He'll be quite satisfied with me, I'm sure he will, Claire dear."
Claire uttered a short, jeering laugh. "Of course the poor sap will be satisfied with you. You're more than he deserves, if you want to admit it. He'd be quite content to wind up with a brood mare to give him his kids, and make him a respectable wife and entertain his business associates. But he happens to be getting the sexiest redhead in the nation's capitol, and if that isn't an undeserved dividend, I never heard of one."
"You ... you're trying to make me feel like a magazine model or something," Sally stammered, her color again deepening.
"I'm not trying to do anything of the kind. I'm trying to tell you that this is the twentieth century, and even the daughter of a minister has a right to expect sexual happiness as a part of her marriage. In fact, if you want my advice, you'll take this opportunity we're going to have in Paris and make the most of it. What you really ought to do is get one of those expert Parisian lovers, maybe one of those Bohemian lovers from Montmartre, who'll teach you how nice it can be when a woman wants to be loved up good in bed."
"Claire Downing! If Dad and Mother heard you say a thing like that, they'd think you were taking me there to make a delinquent of me. And ... and I really don't care much about lovers or anything like that. I ... I guess I have to get married some day, and Jackson is as good a choice as any. He does come from a very good family, and we do have some intellectual things in common. A love for music and the arts ... In fact, he asked me to make notes on my visit to the Louvre."
"Oh, that's great, that is! I suppose on your wedding night the two of you will be discussing Monet and Degas and forgetting that he's got a cock and you've got a pussy that needs attention."
Sally Bannion's gray-green eyes widened with incredulity, and her mouth gaped at the shock of these brazenly candid words. But Claire, having gained her friend's full attention by such drastic means, pursued her advantage, continuing: "You know, Henry and I, when we first got married, agreed not to have kids for at least the first two years-until we could find out whether we were well adjusted in bed. And by that I mean fucking, sweetie. Nowadays, with the pill and all sorts of other devices, a woman's lot doesn't have to be getting a big belly the first time her husband slips his cock into her furry little nest. And that's a good thing, because then the two of you can have lots of fun together. A wife submitting faithfully and closing her eyes and opening her legs to her hubby ... well, that went out of style at the turn of the century."
"I ... I don't ... I don't want to listen to talk like that! I ... I'm going to leave unless you stop, Claire," Sally stammered, not daring to look at her mature friend.
"Looking back now," Claire continued as if Sally hadn't said a word, "I can see what was wrong between Henry and me, and I just don't want you to make the same mistake. At least with Henry I knew I had a real cocksmith in bed. With your guy ... He's probably a pussy-prude-the kind who'll keep the lights out and his pajama trousers on and just unbutton them enough to let his cock sneak into your sweet little slit, Sally darling. The kind of guy who'd be shocked all to hell if he came into the bedroom and found you naked, waiting for him with your legs spread and your arms held out and your pussy itching for what he had to offer."
"Claire! Don't! Please! You're embarrassing me horribly!"
"Better that than a fuckless marriage, baby,"
Claire retorted cynically. "You're going to listen to me if it's the last thing you do, Sally Bannion. Like I said, maybe if I hadn't been quite such a one-man woman, we'd still be together. Maybe I could even have overlooked his skirt-chasing, because he did satisfy me every so often. My trouble was, I didn't have any really useful premarital experience, and my mother left Dad when I was just a kid, so I was brought up by just an old housekeeper who thought sex was wicked-just necessary for having kids, and that's all. Quit blushing like a schoolgirl, Sally. Make up your mind you're going to listen to me. It's for your own good, baby; believe me."
"But ... but do you have to use such ... such shocking words?" Sally breathed, scandalized. Yet despite herself she felt a trembling along her thighs, which she instinctively clenched a little. It was as if Claire's words had conjured up an evil male genie who was intent on taking her prized virginity.
"It's the only way I can find to get through to you and that Sunday school mind of yours, honey," Claire said more kindly. "As I was saying, I liked bed all right, but I didn't know too much about it. Like most women, I relied on my hubby to show me what I had to know. The trouble was, he was randy every time he saw another pretty girl come along, so he didn't teach me all he could have. All I knew was the standard position-on my back and him on top of me. Even that was good, though." She sighed ruefully. "Last winter, when we had a record low temperature I found myself crying alone in bed and wishing Henry were there to warm me up and fuck me good and hard."
"Don't ... don't torture yourself that way, Claire dear," Sally faltered. Her fingers restlessly clutched the arms of her chair, and she squirmed uncomfortably, very ill at ease. Yet the fervent sincerity of her friend's outburst held her rooted to the spot, in spite of all her well-trained inclinations to leave the apartment and not expose her chaste mind to such lurid verbiage.
"You know, Sally," Claire went on after a long sigh, "when a woman is dependent on her husband for screwing pleasure and she doesn't make an effort to take it away from him, she has only herself to blame. I can see now what I did wrong. I didn't even wear lingerie like this until after Henry left me, damn it! Look at me now. I've got a gorgeous shape and I know it, and this black makes me look awfully sexy. If I'd worn something like this, or maybe just bra and pantie-briefs, and sprayed myself with perfume and gone up to Henry and run my fingers along his leg and gave his cock a good squeeze, I mightn't be going to Paris with you. I might be going on a second honeymoon with Henry. And here I am the last two years without a man in bed, just when I've found out how much my pussy needs one. It's hell, believe me, Sally, because a woman like me is prey for every unscrupulous cunt-chaser in town."
"Oh, please stop! I can't bear to listen."
"You're going to listen. I haven't told you about all the propositions I've had in the last two years, because I didn't want to shock you. But I think now is the time to do some shocking, before September twenty-second. Sure, every guy thinks a divorcee has to be cured of her loneliness, and he's got the formula. And if you don't come across, he's sure you're neurotic, and the only way to make you a normal woman again is to rape you; so you have to fight off extra-special efforts to get inside your panties. A man is an animal, and darn it all, I should have studied the nature of the beast a lot more before I let that little floozy Jessica Travers take my guy away from me. Sally, I want you to promise me something-word of honor."
"Wh ... what?" Sally breathed, her throat choked, her eyes wide, her nostrils quivering. A tumultuous emotion made her magnificent bosom rise and fall erratically, and as she raised her eyes to Claire's, she blushed so violently that she could feel her skin grow warm all over-even between her thighs and along her belly. Why was this happening? Why was she suddenly being made to think of things ... things that nobody should talk about, not even when you were alone with your husband in a locked bedroom. And yet now, almost hypnotized, she couldn't leave her chair, but was forced to listen with pounding heart and quivering pulse.
"You just mark my words, baby: Jackson Meredith isn't the kind of guy to teach a woman how to fuck. Which means you've got to be the one to take the initiative. You've got to vamp him and yet let him feel that it's his own idea. Otherwise, knowing his type the way I do, he'll probably think you're a fallen woman and want to annul the marriage. You've got to be clever about bed, honey. Since you're not the sort to have affairs on the side, and since marriage for a girl like you is for life, your only hope is to teach Jackson what to do with his prick to satisfy that eager little cunt of yours."
"Ohh! Please, please don't go on talking this way! I ... I never heard you talk like this before, Claire. We've always been such good friends, and I don't recognize you now at all!
"That's because I'm just recognizing myself, for the first time in thirty years, Sally. Six years from now, when you're my age, I don't want to see you turned into what I've become-a frustrated, man-hungry divorcee who hasn't the gumption to go out and get herself a lover. That's because I'm afraid of what your folks would say, or the neighbors, nice as they all are. So you'd better learn all you can in Paris. There are books and pictures you can get there, and I'll go over them with you and show you what it's all about. Then when you get back and marry that Puritannical lawyer of yours, maybe you'll have half a chance. Maybe you can work a miracle and turn him into a cocksmith. You're cuter than I am, and sexier, and you can do it better than I could."
"I ... I think I'd better go now. It's getting late, and Mother and Dad will be wanting to say evening prayers with me. I'll call you tomorrow, and we'll talk about the trip," Sally faltered as she tried to rise; her legs were trembling so violently that she had to close her palms on the arms of the chair.
Claire Downing's face softened. Gently, she put her arms around Sally's waist. "All right, honey. I'm sorry if I offended you. But promise me that you'll think about it. A friend isn't a friend unless she stands by the person she likes, and I like you lots. I always have. I don't want you turning into a sour, hopeless housewife with a flock of kids and a millstone around your neck because your hubby neglects his bedtime chores. Now you go home and get a good night's sleep."
CHAPTER TWO
It was a warm, almost oppressive night in June. Claire had had the air-conditioning on in her bedroom for the past forty-eight hours, but the rest of the apartment was sticky and close. She watched Sally leave, and wondered worriedly for a moment if she hadn't been much too blunt in telling the young redhead the facts of life. God knew it was time someone did! And it was high time that Sally started living her own life and making her own decisions, away from the sanctimonious influence of her ecclesiastic parents. Of course, Reverend Allen Bannion and his organ-playing wife were good people-perhaps too good for Sally's own welfare, at least in this modern day and age. If somebody didn't stir Sally up, she might wind up like her twenty-year-old brother, Don-very studious, bespectacled and handsome, but absolutely terrified of girls. It was already apparent that the Bannions were planning to steer Don to a seminary, with the ultimate goal of having him take over the pulpit when his father at last decided to step down.
God, it was muggy in Washington this week! Claire went back to the couch, took another cigarette and lit it with a frown. Yes, maybe she had gone too far this evening; Sally certainly seemed to have been shocked. But maybe it was a good thing. Maybe it would make her take a long look at the future-the kind of dreary, dutiful future she was certain to have with a husband like Jackson Meredith. Sally had really never had a date with any eligible guy; neither in high school nor college. The Bannions had hand-picked Jackson for her, and there wouldn't even be a premarital shack-up for Sally to enjoy before the ring was put on her finger and the halo of chaste domestic bliss raised above her copper-red head.
Claire leaned back and took another puff at her cigarette. She closed her eyes, a dreamy expression on her heart-shaped face. There was something else that Sally didn't know, nor the Bannions either: Six weeks ago she had seen Don Bannion on Pennsylvania Avenue, coming out of the National Research Library. It had been one of those depressing days for her, brooding about the disruption of her marriage after eight reasonably enjoyable years with Henry. To distract herself after the divorce, she had gone back to work in the insurance company where she had been a secretary prior to her marriage, and that very morning Mr. Robinet, the big boss, had called her in to tell her she'd been promoted to the post of assistant office manager, with a substantial raise.
It had been a kind of triumph, to be sure, but a hollow one at best, for there wasn't a man around to celebrate it with. As she had told Sally, there had been plenty of propositions, even in her office. But somehow she hadn't met a man whose personality really appealed to her fastidious taste. They were all alike-smug and self-assured, coarsely confident that they could furnish the panacea of prick she needed to avoid a nervous breakdown. Hog-wash!
So when she'd seen Don coming down the steps of the library, a sudden wild, irrational idea had taken possession of her. He was such a good-looking fellow-clean, uninitiated, wholesome. What would it be like to teach him his first lesson in fucking; to observe the wonder and curiosity, the boyish excitement he would experience when his stiffening cock entered a girl's pussy for the first exultant time?
She'd accosted him gaily, asking him to have a late supper with her, and he'd agreed, blushingly and awkwardly. That made him all the more endearing, because he was so ingenuously sincere and obviously unaccustomed to being out with a girl at all. So far as she knew, he'd never had a date either; at least, Sally had never mentioned it in all their years of friendship.
She'd taken him to a little restaurant near Kralor Street, where there were booths and a gypsy violinist at the rear to create an atmosphere of clandestine romance. But it hadn't worked at all. All he could talk about was his studies, his hope of doing well in the seminary next fall, and his desire to emulate his father's masterful sermonizing that had won the respect of all the latter's parishioners.
Finally, titillated by his Galahad-like virginity, Claire had broached the subject of romance, playfully twitting him on how it was that such a handsome fellow didn't have a girl on his arm. He had dropped his fork and turned tomato-red, and mumbled something unintelligible. She had put out her hand to help him retrieve the fallen fork, brushing fingers, and he snatched back his hand as if a hot poker had touched it. In desperation, she had even resorted to one of the most banal tricks in the book, extending one nylon-sheathed leg and artfully rubbing her calf against his. All he had done was gasp and squirm in his seat, and pull his leg away. No; it was hopeless.
And so she'd come back to her apartment, the heady glory of the morning banished, and the bitter loneliness of nightfall encompassing her as it always did when she found herself alone with her memories of Henry. If only she had been more sophisticated! If only she had conquered her revulsion and let him put his cock into her little brown-hole ... Just a year before he'd run off with that floozy, he'd come home about six sheets to the wind and tried to do that to her, and she'd slapped him and indignantlly told him she wouldn't stand for that! What a fool she'd been! Now he was probably doing it even to his cheating girl friend, and to God knew how many other infatuated little hussies, won over by his animal magnetism, and looks and suave line. And Claire was left to sing the empty-bed blues.
That had been the first night-that night after her unsuccessful attempt to seduce Don Bannion-that Claire had experienced a subconscious erotic fantasy which combined two hitherto abhorrent phases of lust: miscegenation and sodomy.
She crushed out the cigarette and abruptly rose from the couch. Her body felt clammy, even though she wore only the nylon slip and garter belt and hose. She wanted a shower, and then bed. Two days from now, she and Sally would board the S.S. Touraine for Cherbourg. Actually, she would have preferred to fly, but Reverend Bannion was just old-fashioned enough to veto the idea. In a way, it was better to go by ocean liner, for there would be all sorts of eligible men aboard. Maybe she could find one for herself, and maybe even a love-tutor for sweet little Sally.
She doffed the slip, and stood for a moment before the long bathroom mirror. Thank God she still had her figure, her good looks, even though they were being wasted! She didn't look thirty at all. She put her hands to her breasts and squeezed them. They were still springy and lusciously firm. The aureoles were wide and orangeish-brown, and the soft, crinkly pink buds at their centers tingled as her fingertips grazed them. Yes, she was still capable of response, if only there were someone to awaken it. Her fingers glided down to the shallow niche of her navel, then to the suave curve of the lower abdomen, where the dark golden curls began to flourish. She shivered and closed her eyes, sensing that the incredible lust-fancy was about to manifest itself again, as it had that night with Don.
The stinging spray of the shower revitalized her, made her gasp, made her nipples stiffen and ache. She turned so the spray lashed the effulgent mounds of her bottom, and reaching back, drew the cheeks apart so the stinging water could bite against the tender tissues of her asshole. She groaned, her teeth chattering at the indescribably lascivious pain she felt.
Hastily, she toweled herself, took a can of talcum and sprinkled it over her breasts and belly, her thighs and bottom, then rubbed it in with her palms. A warm glow now began to pervade her flesh. She turned out the bathroom light and walked down the little hallway to her air-conditioned bedroom.
The door was closed, and she put her hand to the knob and closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. The fantasy was about to begin. She yearned for it with all her feverish flesh, with all her deprived desire.
Inside, there was no light, and the sheets were invitingly drawn. The air was cool, and it laved her naked flesh and firmed the buds of her nipples. She felt the lips of her cunt twitch and shrink as if in helpless apprehension of the unseen, ghostly ravisher who lay in wait for her.
Some months ago, in a little bookstore down the street from her office, Claire had found a battered copy of Sir Richard Burton's Tales from the Arabian Nights. On an impulse, she had bought it. taken it home and read herself to sleep with it that night. One particular story, about a tyrannical black efreet who came daily to torture a doomed prince-a prince as fair as a girl-had lingered in her mind. The night of her encounter with Don Bannion, she had been the fair prince, and the efreet had taken on facial and bodily lineaments of the hulking Negro janitor, Bunnie, who came once a week to wash the office windows and do other menial chores. He was a man of about fifty, six feet tall, with bald head and jutting, pugnacious jaw, a broad flat nose, thick lips and bloodshot eyes. To Claire, he represented the embodiment of Negroid brutishness, remembered from childhood days when her mother had tried to scare her by talking about black bogeymen. Ever since, she had been unthinkingly afraid of Negroes, though she'd never in her life had personal contact with one.
And now the dream-fantasy out of the Arabian Nights began. As she walked toward her bed in the darkness, it seemed as if a cold wind had risen out of nowhere, bringing the dread efreet in its gust. Claire flung herself on her bed, burying her face in the pillows, her fingers clenched into aching fists, the muscles of her thighs surging with tension. The cold wind seemed to be endowed with fingers which touched her round, firm thighs, ascended to the lower curves of her bottom, then yawned the cheeks asunder. Claire uttered a sobbing "Oh, please, not that! Oh, don't do that to me!" yet her thighs spread yearningly, and as she clutched one of her titties with her right hand, she stretched her left behind her, prodding the cheeks of her bottom till the tip of her forefinger grazed the shrinking prism of her puckering hole.
"Oh, my God, not there! Fuck me, but don't do that, I beg you!" Her voice was a choking sob in the darkness. She dug her nails into her tittie until she winced, and at the same time her forefinger pried open the quivering, tensing lips of her bung. A low, raucous moan escaped her as she forced the finger deep, deep, to the very hilt. And then as she lay abandoned, she ground her cunt against the sheets while her finger drove in and out of her brown hole as would the prick of the terrifying efreet.
Even though the bedroom window was open and the shade drawn halfway, there was scarcely enough air stirring to let Sally breathe comfortably enough to fall asleep. She turned from her side onto her back, then stretched her arms over her head and lay staring at the ceiling as she tried to summon up the narrow streets and adorable little shops, the sidewalk cafes, the majestic Eiffel Tower. There would be so much to do and to see, and Claire would share it with her.
But tonight she'd hardly recognized Claire as her loyal friend. Tonight Claire had talked of things that just oughtn't to be spoken about, even between friends. She wished Claire hadn't done that. Here she'd looked forward so much to the trip, and now she was forced to think of what would happen in September. She had taken it for granted, without even considering the physical aspects of marriage, but what Claire had said tonight forced her to be conscious of all that marriage would imply.
Oh, it was impossible to go to sleep, especially in this pink satin nightie. Mother had bought it for her in April, and she didn't want to hurt Mother's feelings, so she had worn it, even though she hated pink. In the first place, it hardly went with her coppery hair, and didn't do a thing for the exquisite tint of her skin, which had that inimitable hue of her genre, pale milk suffused with tiny, ethereal rosy flecks.
Impatiently, Sally reached down to the hem, which decorously descended to her lower calves, and lofted the rustling garment above her gracefully proportioned thighs. Then, after a momentary hesitation, she drew it above her loins. Next she sat up, with a grimace of annoyance, and drew it over her head, carefully folding it before slipping it under her pillow. Mother had a disconcerting habit of coming in in the morning with a cup of coffee and a cheery smile, and some Bible parable to start the new day; it would never do to let her see her gift lying on the floor, or hanging discarded on a chair. Furthermore, it would absolutely shock Mother to think that her daughter had slept raw.
There was a full moon, and its rays filtered into Sally's room. They came to caress and glide over the basin of her loins, highlighting the dark, curly garden which shielded her virgin slit. Sally's belly had been described centuries ago in the Songs of Solomon; it was enchantingly dimpled in the center, with a deep, narrow nook. Her waist was slim, yet flared into delectably curvaceous hips. Her bottomcheeks were spacious ovals, firm and saucily high-set, separated by a sinuous, gradually widening groove which led to the unprofaned temple of her young womanhood.
Her arms again pillowing her head, she contemplated herself. Her eyes fixed on the thick thatch of her pussyhair, and she shivered and blushed.
She had never thought about that hair-framed cleft in such terms before. Claire had brought the words to the surface of her mind tonight, and now she found herself considering her own loins. Was this really what men wanted of a girl? But it was an excretory outlet, serving nature's function of elimination for proper health. Because she was a female, because Eve had committed the original sin, she had to put up with the monthly curse, which was embarrassing and terribly messy. What would it be like on their wedding night, after the reception, when she and Jackson went to the little house his father was going to give them? What would it be like when the bedroom door closed behind them, and Jackson stood before her and said, "Now we're alone together, Sally darling." Would he undress in the bathroom and come in in his pajamas? Would she excuse herself and go to the bathroom and come back in her pajamas? Or should it be a nightgown? Mother had said something about buying her something very beautiful and practical to wear on her wedding night.
And when she was his-that was the expression people used to signify that a man had the right to go to bed with a girl-how would he go about making love to her? Would he just kiss her on the cheek or on the forehead, as he did whenever they went out, then quickly expose her secret, hairy spot ... and put his ... p-penis into it ... and ejaculate into her so she could have a baby nine months later? Was this all there was going to be to her union with her husband?
Claire had called it "fucking" and "screwing." She had talked about a man's "prick" and "cock." As Sally's cheeks flamed, she tentatively edged a slim forefinger toward the soft mound covered with reddish curls. Her eyes widened, and she felt a titillating surge of physical awareness vibrate in her loins. She brushed the crinkly, soft outer labia with the pad of her finger, and closed her eyes. Would he be gentle when it was time to make a woman of her?
Her breasts rose and fell a little more quickly now, and she put her other hand on one of them, impersonally appraising the firmness and jut of the pear-shaped globe. There were dark coral circles in the centers of these love fruits, and her nipples were poutingly firm, softly coral-hued tidbits. Claire had told her, "Henry just loved to suck my little ninnies-just like a baby drinking his mother's milk. It's terribly stimulating, darling, really. I just hope Jackson isn't blind to what you've got when he peels you down on your wedding night."
To her mind now came the image of her finance, her husband-to-be in three short months. His grave, quiet face floated before her in the moon-tinged somberness of her room. The whole house was asleep, and she could hear her own quickened breathing. Would his eyes brighten at the sight of her ... t-t-titties? The word caught on her tongue and made her blush as she recalled how Claire had pronounced it. With her thumb and forefinger, she hesitantly touched the nipple, and a quickening tinge of erogenous awareness made her know the sensitivity of her virginal yet voluptuous body.
Her other forefinger had remained quiescent against the lips of her cunt. Now a slow, warm, pervasive tingle began to creep through that exquisite crevice. It seemed to start along her inner thighs, which twitched and shivered uncontrollably. Deep inside her sheath, she sensed a cumulative force that was like nothing she had known before. She sighed restlesly, swinging one bare knee out to the side, gaping the lips of her soft hole, and her finger slipped in.
She pressed her other hand tight against her heaving tittie, for her fingertip had just discovered a tiny nodule near the inner lips of her slit. The merest grazing touch against it caused a swell of feverish emotion, stirring the innermost recesses of her body to carnal anticipation.
She glanced about, as if fearful that her mother might enter her room, although this was something her mother had never done so late at night. Then, exploratively, she rubbed her finger back and forth on the secret button. Spasms rippled through her thighs and buttocks. The warm, shuddering glow in her sheath began to grow.
She shivered spasmodically as her fingertip delved against the turgifying button which was the very lodestone of her womanhood. Her face turned to one side, the skin taut, nostrils flickering. She felt the throbbing rigidity of that dainty nodule; it was now surprisingly hard, and had begun to throb and vibrate.
She pressed her finger against it, burying it in the protective flesh which concealed it. She ground her teeth at the instantaneous twinges of lascivious urgency which took possession of her slit. In her mind's eye, Sally now saw not the face of Jackson Meredith, but her friend Claire, naked on a bed, and Henry Downing looming over her, his organ pressed against the dark golden curls of Claire's eager orifice.
Sally's breath whistled through her nostrils as, shuddering and trembling with the force of her self-induced passion, the red-haired Sunday school teacher began to frig her clittie till suddenly she arched her bottom up from the rumpled, sweaty sheets and felt her juices seep down to wet her imbedded finger.
CHAPTER THREE
It was her third day in Paris, and thus far Sally had found the City of Light quite up to her happiest expectations.
Of course, she had been in a mood to enjoy just about anything, and her first boat trip had been a constant source of delight during the seven days and nights crossing the Atlantic.
Claire and she hadn't been important enough to be invited to the captain's table, but the dining-room steward had done nicely by them, assigning them to a comfortable table for four near the five-piece orchestra, which played light classical and popular dance music even at breakfast. Their two companions at mealtime had been a young couple from Des Moines, the Armbrusters, also making their first voyage across the Atlantic. Sally had found Genevieve Armbruster a most stimulating conversationalist. A tall, animated, auburn-haired young woman in her mid-twenties, she was a devotee of museums and an amateur painter in water-colors. It had turned out to be the Armbrusters' honeymoon, but Genevieve had brought along a pile of guide books and at every meal enthusiastically drew up itineraries for Sally and Claire. "You must be sure to spend a great deal of time in the Louvre," she had urged with a blushing glance at her lanky, tow-headed and somewhat self-conscious husband. "Bob and I are going to, aren't we, darling?"
To be sure, the presence of the Armbrusters served to remind Sally that her own nuptials and subsequent short honeymoon were not far off. She discovered that she had mixed feelings about that forthcoming event. She hadn't quite been able to rid herself of the uneasiness that Claire's racy remarks had evoked. She had determined, however, to put such matters firmly out of her mind and to give herself up totally and hedonistically to this wonderful vacation.
After the plain but nutritious cooking on which Mother had brought her up, Sally was delighted to discover excellent French cuisine. On the last night out, she had confessed to Claire, "I'll bet I've gained at least five pounds. I've eaten like a pig, but it's so good!"
Somewhat to her embarrassment, Claire had winked and replied, "I wouldn't worry at all about those five pounds, baby. You know, it's said that gentlemen prefer blondes like me, but when we get to Paris, I'll just bet it's you that gets all the whistles and the pinches. Why, once they look at that sweet, innocent face of yours, and then see that sexy bottom and those eye-filling titties, they'll forget all about me."
Sally had blushed and gasped, "Please, Claire, I'd rather you wouldn't talk like that. It embarrasses me dreadfully."
Even more embarrassing-and the only real small cloud on the happy horizon of the ocean voyage-had been on the third day out when, on a beautifully sunny afternoon, Sally had decided to try her hand at shuffleboard. Claire had joined her, but had decided to pair herself against a sardonic-looking man in his early forties who, it turned out, was an executive in a Paris radio station, returning from a visit to the United States where he had been studying the American technique of programming and broadcasting. Sally found herself up against a fat, middle-aged woman with an affectatiously cooing voice, and the disconcerting habit of squealing, jumping up in the air and clapping her hands every time her own pitch sent the spheroid close to a large number. It had made Sally grimly determined to beat her, and she had made a delicious picture of concentration, leaning forward till her superb bosom thrust provocatively against the bodice of her frock, studying the range of the numbered squares and then taking careful aim and grasping her stick firmly.
There had been about half a dozen precocious and obviously pampered boys, ranging in age from about eleven to fifteen, crowding around the sky-bridge just above the shuffleboard area, and looking down on the participants. The first time, when she had bent over to study the terrain, she had turned crimson and gasped as she heard a young, piping voice call out, "Hey, you guys, get a load of that broad's tits!" And then another of those detestable little monsters had sniggered and hooted, "Hey, Red, doing anything tonight? Let's you and me do it together, huh?"
Naturally, she hadn't made the mistake of turning around or letting them know in any way that they were annoying her. But their remarks had distracted her enough to cause some rather wild casts, shooting her discs far past the numbered squares, and so allowing her tedious opponent to win the game.
Apart from that, the voyage had been perfect. So had the weather, and Sally hadn't been the least bit seasick, as she'd been afraid she might be the first time at sea. Also, she'd been quite happy over the freedom Claire had given her, not in the least exercising authority as chaperone to compel her to account for every minute. Claire seemed to be quite relaxed and easy-going, which would make their stay in Paris most delightful.
After disembarking at Cherbourg, the train had taken them along a scenic route to the great city about which she'd read so much and which was so great in history. Famous people like Francois Villon, Joan of Arc, and all those other splendid characters, who had come to life on the printed page in high school and college, suddenly became real, alive.
Even the first ride in a French taxi was exciting and novel, almost death-defying. When the driver stopped before a charming little three-story building on the beautiful Bois de Boulogne, and Claire told her, "That's our hotel, Sally honey," she had felt a tingle of anticipation over the pleasure they would have exploring Paris, meeting people and visiting the museums and wonderful shops, and perhaps drinking a glass of wine at a sidewalk cafe and feeling very daring.
Now it was Monday, a rainy day in Paris, and this afternoon she and Claire were due to make their first visit to the Louvre. In a way, she hoped she wouldn't meet the Armbrusters there. The way they'd held hands right on the table and stared at each other almost hungrily, had made her think about Jackson Meredith and September twenty-second-a name and date she had tried to keep out of her mind.
She and Claire had decided to make their first visit to the Louvre at about ten-thirty, because one of the guide books had indicated that on a weekday morning there would be less of a crowd and more time to devote to the great masterpieces. Mother had asked her to pick up postcard reproductions of works by Picasso, Manet, Rembrandt and Reubens. She rummaged in her purse and found Mother's exact list. Claire had gone on ahead with instructions to meet her on the stairway of the Louvre; her chaperone had impulsively decided to pay a visit to Les Halles, the remarkable produce, fish and meat market where housewives and restaurateurs alike shopped for the freshest, lowest-priced comestibles.
She marveled at Claire's energy. Last night, they had gone to a Montmartre night club, not far from the Place Pigalle, and hadn't come home until nearly midnight. It had been a little risque, with a couple of Apache dancers and even a slinky stripteaser, who had removed everything except a G-string. The excitement of the first two days, plus the lateness of the hour, had induced Sally to pass up the visit to Les Halles, but she was very happy that Claire was enjoying herself so much and seemingly forgetting all about her unhappy marital past.
The redhead dressed carefully. Mother had insisted she buy some new clothes just for the trip, but Sally didn't want to be conspicuous. She'd heard too much about "ugly Americans" and how a Parisian could spot an American at a glance. Besides, she didn't mind admitting to herself that Claire's ribald remarks on the ship had made her more self-conscious than ever. The more decorously she dressed, therefore, the less danger there was of some masher singling her out, even at the Louvre.
So she chose a rayon print dress with a hem that came down to the top of her calves. The bodice was neither tight nor deeply cut; if anything, it nearly had a Peter Pan collar. As she stood before the mirror in the bathroom, she observed the jut of her breasts, and color flamed her cheeks at this new awareness. Until a few weeks ago, she actually hadn't once thought about the particularities of the charms with which nature had endowed her; but ever since Claire had started talking about wedding nights and sex and other sensuous topics, Sally had found herself increasingly disconcerted by the simplest phenomenon.
Flesh-colored nylons and black leather pumps with comfortably low heels, together with a cute little toque of blue felt, completed her attire. As she glanced out the window, seeing the dreary gray skies, she decided to take along her raincoat. She drew it on and was more satisfied with her appearance; the gray plastic cocoon was as sexless a costume as she could possibly choose.
Nevertheless, when she walked from the elevator into the lobby, the dapper front desk clerk, complete with waistcoat and carnation in his buttonhole, caught sight of her and volubly wished her a pleasant morning and expressed the hope that she and her ami were enjoying their stay in Paris. Out of politeness, Sally thanked him for his concern, observing that every eye in the lobby was fixed upon her and that all of a sudden there seemed to be more men in the lobby than she had noticed when they registered.
The doorman whistled for a cab and with a grandiose flourish opened the door for her as he, too, wished her a happy morning. As she clambered into the cab, she blushed again, for she observed that he was staring at her thighs, against which the raincoat tightened. As a result, her direction to the driver, "To the Louvre, please," was spoken in a shakier tone than she was won't to use in her Sunday school classes.
The cab driver was a young man with an enormous and very florid mustache, who wanted to show off his English. Unerringly he seemed to know Sally was an American and he demanded to know from what part of that great and glorious country she had come. She informed him shyly that she was from Washington, D.C., and he turned back to beam at her and to recall to her that the great French patriot Lafayette had visited that great city which she honored as a resident. His English was so quaint that Sally was torn between a desire to giggle and a constant effort to restrain her blushes at his extravagant compliments. Apparently the raincoat had failed its camouflaging purpose, at least so far as this Parisian taxi driver was concerned.
Claire was there at the top of the stairs, near the great entrance door of the Louvre. Sally paid the driver, not without some little difficulty in cutting short his rapturous praise of her country, her natal city, and herself, and hastened to meet the divorcee.
"Well, well, well, darling," Claire greeted her with a sly grin. "Didn't I tell you the magic spell of Paris would get through that goody-goody veneer of yours? Flirting with a taxi driver, no less! Darling, I'm proud of you!"
"Claire!" Sally objected, hating herself for blushing. "It wasn't anything I did at all. He just asked me where I was from and I told him, and then I had to listen all through the drive to how much he thought of America and all about General Lafayette."
"You mean he didn't proposition you, darling?"
"Of course not! The very idea!"
"Well, it would be a good beginning, anyway. Let's go."
"By all means, let's," Sally stammered. What in the world had got into Claire lately? She had never known her friend to be so suggestive and bawdy, almost every time she opened her mouth. It was exasperating.
"Want me to let you in on a little secret, darling?" Claire whispered as soon as they had entered the first corridor, which led into the main wing of the great art museum. "I met the most divine man at Les Halles. And the funny thing was, he came over with us on the boat. He's from Cleveland, he's sales manager for a women's wear chain, and he's all alone. The poor dear is a widower and very wealthy. He wants me to have dinner with him tonight at Maxim's. Oh. I'm sorry, Sally. I ... I guess I forgot I'm supposed to be your chaperone. Of course, you can come along too. That's one of the greatest restaurants in Paris, you know."
"I wouldn't think of it. And you don't have to feel that just because you're my chaperone, you have to be with me every minute of the day and night," Sally said rather tartly. "I can go to dinner in that nice little restaurant across the street from our hotel, you know. And then maybe I'll visit some of the bookstores, or if it isn't raining this evening, take a stroll along the Bois."
"You're sure you wouldn't mind? I'll make it up to you. He's really a fascinating fellow and, well-" Now it was Claire's turn to blush and lower her eyes.
Nothing could have pleased Sally more than this sudden discovery that Claire was human after all.
"It's all settled, Claire. You don't have to make anything up to me. I'm just happy that we're both here. Now let's go and look at the wonderful paintings. Shall we start with this wing of Monet and Degas?"
"If you like. There are some costumes and some remarkable period furniture in the north wing, and I'd like to see those, too. But we'll start with your selection, honey," Claire generously conceded.
Both of them purchased illustrated brochures from an attractively uniformed young woman in a glass cage just inside the entrance, and Sally consulted hers as she stared admiringly up at one of Renoir's famous canvases.
"I'll have to get another of these brochures for Mother," she told Claire. "And isn't there a little shop at the end of this wing where we can get reproductions and postcards?"
"Sure. Oh, by the way, have you written your mother yet?"
"Oh, my God, Claire! Do you know, things have been so exciting that I'd actually forgotten? And that makes it all the better that you have a date without me tonight. I'll just get off a nice long letter."
"Fine. You're a real friend, darling, and some day I'll do as much for you. Like maybe fib for you when you want to have a rendezvous with a boyfriend after you're married."
"Claire Downing! You're making me terribly uncomfortable with all those innuendoes. You know perfectly well that once I marry, I'm going to be faithful to my husband."
"All right, but you can't say I didn't warn you. Oh-oh, I think I'd better look for the little girls' room. That nice man from Cleveland bought me champagne for breakfast, would you believe it? I couldn't pass up the opportunity, but now I've got to pass something else, if you know what I mean. See you in a jiffy."
Claire giggled, gave Sally a pat on the back and hastened to the room behind them.
The redhead shook her head wonderingly. Her mature friend was certainly acting like an adolescent lately. Well, she shouldn't be too hard on Claire, after all the trouble she'd had. And wouldn't it be romantic if Claire did meet the right man and get married and live happily ever after?
Oh, here was that magnificent painting of the ballet girl by Degas! What a riot of color and pattern and design! How she wished that she had some God-given talent like that, to leave something imperishable behind for others to enjoy.
"It is magnificent, isn't it?" a rich contralto voice suddenly broke in on Sally's thought. She turned and found herself facing a striking and imposing woman, veritably an Amazon. She was nearly five feet nine inches tall, and the black satin dress that sheathed her ripely sculptured body lined spacious hips, long feminine thighs and a breathtakingly sumptuous bosom where two high-perched melon-like globes arrogantly surged against the tight de-colletage which bared the warm chocolate-tinted skin to the widening valley between them. Her interlocutor was a Negress. Her black hair, which showed very little kinkiness, was piled in an imperious upsweep so pronounced as to make it almost resemble a wig. Her face was both haughty and cruel, with full lips, an aristocratic if somewhat broadening nose, high-set cheekbones and firm chin and jaws. Her eyes were magnetic, widely spaced, vivid black and glowing with ardor. From her pierced earlobes two ruby pendants dangled from short, tiny-linked gold chains, and around her full throat was a necklace of tiny, white, perfect seed pearls.
"Wh-why, yes, it is," Sally quavered, fascinated by the intent look in the Negress' eyes.
"Forgive me for startling you, my dear. I am Madame Victorine Desage. I come here often, because, like you, I admire that which is beautiful. You are an American, aren't you?"
"Yes ... yes, I am, Madame Desage. My friend and I just came here a few days ago-it's our first trip, you know."
"How interesting. And how I envy you, seeing Paris for the first time," the Negress interposed with a gracious smile. "But it does have that charm, even to those like myself who have lived here many years. Are you an artist, perhaps, my dear?"
"Oh, no. I'm afraid I can't lay claim to any real abilities. I do teach a little, though," Sally falteringly explained. "My name is Sally Bannion. My friend will be back soon, and I know she'd like to meet you, too."
"It's very nearly time for lunch. I'd love to have you join me in perhaps an omelet and a glass of wine. There's a little bistro just outside the Louvre. You would do me a great honor by accepting my invitation, Sally-if I may call you that."
"It's very kind of you. I do wish Claire were back," Sally peered nervously down the corridor in the direction that Claire had gone, but there wasn't any sign yet.
"I'll tell you what, Sally. We can tell the guard here to have your friend join us. I'd like her to be my guest, too. How long do you plan to be in Paris, my dear?"
"We'd thought of staying through July and August."
"That's wonderful. And I can give you some itineraries that will make your trip more memorable, Silly. You mustn't confine yourself just to Paris, though. The country is marvelous this time of year. Come along, why don't you? What does your friend look like and what's her name?"
"She's very blonde, and her name's Claire Downing, but I'm sure she'll be back any minute now."
Madame Desage took hold of Sally's elbow. "If we go now, we can find a table before the crowds come, my dear," she remarked with a warm smile. Her eyes seemed to fix on Sally's face with an hypnotic force. "And after lunch, after we've had a lovely chat, I'll point out to you and Claire some of the wonderful treasures that aren't so well known. I come here often, you see. It's one of my very special hobbies. Come along, dear."
"But-"
"I'll tell the guard right now to send your friend over to the bistro. They make the most marvelous omelets. And I think they may even have a bottle or two of strawberry wine-only a true Parisian knows about that, Sally. It's delightful. Come along."
She looked down the corridor again, but there was still no sign of Claire, and the dominating aura of this spectacularly beautiful Negress, who spoke with such a cultured tone and used such impeccable diction, purged from Sally's mind the slightest wariness of striking up a friendship with a stranger. There was, too, an ineffable, clinging scent to Madame Desage, exotic and yet subtle, an emanation which helped contribute to the power of the Negress' allure.
"L..I'd like to go with you, Madame Desage, and I know Claire will want to meet you, too. I'll tell the guard, if you like," Sally heard herself proposing.
CHAPTER FOUR
The bistro to which Madame Victorine Desage had referred was across the street from the Louvre, about half a block to the north. It evidently catered to tourist trade as well as its daily bevy of regulars, for there were a few scattered stone-topped tables and chairs on each side of the narrow rectangular court near its entrance, and it had the shuttered swinging doors of an English pub. Directly inside was a little cocktail lounge, and to the left a long bar. To the right, about ten feet from the bar, was an old Baldwin spinet and one of those old-fashioned, ornately scrolled revolving stools, familiar to every child who has ever practiced piano and had to spin the stool to elevate himself for proper keyboard control. A lean, swarthy man in his late forties, with a greasy beret jauntily perched at an angle, wearing a cashmere sweater, wrinkled slacks and tennis shoes, sat on the stool. With a distracted air and his eyes unwaveringly fixed on a garish oil painting of an overripe naked concubine reclining on a couch surrounded by four eunuchs with drawn scimitars, he was playing "Aupres do ma blonde il fait bon dormir."
Beyond the piano and toward the back was a row of circular wooden tables comfortably seating three
(four if the bistro was crowded); to the right beyond these tables stood a row of darkly intimate booths, each with curtains. Sally Bannion kept glancing back over her shoulder while she walked along with the imposing Negress. She had hoped that Claire would be following at any moment. Surely it didn't take that long to go to the bathroom. But as if anticipating what the lovely redhead was about to say, Madame had reassured her: "Now, it's perfectly all right, my dear. That guard you talked to knows me well and he knows La Boulle. I often lunch here. It's charming and they have excellent Beaujolais, and the people who come here are a cross-section of the types you'll find in Paris. I'm sure your friend Claire will enjoy herself."
So Sally had let herself be steered toward one of the booths, the last one at the rear, and a short waiter in red vest and black trousers, with shaggy eyebrows and a bulbous nose, and a napkin over his left arm, detached himself from behind the bar and hurried over, effusively bowing to Madame Desage. Observing this, Sally Bannion's uneasiness was somewhat quelled, but all the same she wished she hadn't yielded to impulse and accepted the invitation. Of course she was being silly, and Claire would be there any moment.
Madame Desage ordered a glass of sherry for each of them. Then she pursued her pleasant, smiling questioning of the redhead.
"So this is your very first trip! How I envy you, my dear. You are perhaps an only child?"
"Oh, no, Madame Desage. I've a brother. My father is a minister, and we live in Washington, D.C."
"I envy you that, too," Madame Victorine De-sage leaned forward across the table, her eyes warm and appraising. "It's the most historic city in your country, isn't it? And your friend, this Clare Downing, she isn't related to you?"
Sally shook her head. "No, she's a family friend and I've known her for many years. She's divorced."
"How tragic. And yet, now that she's in Paris, that can easily be remedied. This is the city of romance, you know. Oh, here comes our sherry."
The waiter set two glasses down before Madame Desage and Sally, with lingering care. The autocratic Negress complimented him. "Je to felicite, Armand. It is a rare art to be able to serve a glass of sherry without spilling a single drop."
"Merci, Madame."
"C'est rien," the Negress turned to look back at the narrow swinging doors of the bistro. "Perhaps it is your friend Claire. Oh, would you do me a favor? Jim, the bartender, has a little envelope for me and I quite forgot it. Would you get it for me, my dear?"
Three people had just come in, a young couple and a woman behind them. The lighting was most obscure, and the woman did look something like Claire. Sally eagerly left her seat and hurried to the front of the bistro. As she did so, the Negress extended her right hand over Sally's glass of sherry and dropped a tiny white pill into the amber liquid. It dissolved almost instantly, and Madame Desage leaned back with a faint smile on her sensual mouth.
The couple made for one of the tables in the cocktail lounge up front, and Sally's face fell when she discovered that the single woman wasn't Claire at all but an elegant brunette with a fox stole, looking very bored and evidently finding her companion late to the rendezvous. She went over to the bar and, timidly asking for Jim, requested the envelope for Madame Desage. The bartender was a Senegalese of proud bearing, tall and muscular, with fierce eyes and hawk-like nose, suggesting Coptic fore-bearers generations ago in his lineage. He bent down behind the bar and straingtened to hand her a small white envelope sealed with Scotch tape.
"I wonder what's keeping Claire," she said nervously as she seated herself and handed the envelope to the Negress.
"Thank you so much, my dear. I can't imagine, either. You know, I've an idea; I can call the Louvre and ask for the guard and see what's happened, if that would make you feel better. I should hate to think I had been the cause of upsetting you, when I was only trying to welcome you to Paris, my dear."
"You're very kind. I ... I would feel better, though, I think."
"Certainly, Sally dear. I'll do it right now. Drink your sherry. I've ordered omelets for us both. The sherry will give you a real appetite for it."
As Madame Desage left the booth, Sally picked up her glass of sherry and sipped at it. It was a dry sherry, properly aged, of the quality of a La Ina. She took another sip and then another while she peered towards the doors of the bistro. Madame Desage, as she could plainly see to her left, was in a kind of little kiosk using the phone. Sally leaned back and sighed. This was really a pleasant place, not noisy at all, with a lovely atmosphere of intimacy. Truly Parisian, just as Madame Desage had said.
"Now you're not to worry, my dear," Madame Desage said as she returned to the booth. "The guard says that she came looking for you and told him she'd remembered she had to make a very important phone call and she wasn't sure she could join you."
"Oh dear! I wonder if anything is wrong."
"I'm sure it isn't, my dear. Didn't you tell me your friend was divorced? Perhaps she's already found someone who interests her. Perhaps someone she met on the boat coming over. Could that be possible?"
Sally remembered Claire's praise of the man from Cleveland with whom she had visited Les Halles. "Why, I suppose-yes, she did say she'd met someone she liked."
"There, you see!" the Negress triumphantly smiled. "So you see, there's no mystery at all. It's, shall we say, Vamour. Finish your sherry like a good girl. In another five minutes, the omelet and some nice crisp salad will be here for us, and then we can go back to the Louvre and I can point out some things of special interest for you, my dear."
"Isn't the omelet delicious, Sally?" Madame Desage effusively leaned towards the redhead, her imperious face softened with a look of almost maternal solicitude.
"Why, yes, it ... it's very good, Madame. But I just can't get over Claire. I did so want you to meet her.
You'd like her very much, and she knows so much about art and paintings."
"I'm sure I'll meet her in due course, my dear. Would you like another sherry?"
"Oh, no. This is fine for me, thank you. I ... at home we almost never have any intoxicating spirits. Because of my father's position, of course."
"I quite understand. Still--" she continued with a playful wink, 'I've known men of the cloth to enjoy a good full measure of sacramental wine. But then, you won't mind if I have another, will you, my dear?"
"Of course not, Madame."
"You are so well brought up, my dear. I must say it's refreshing to find a young girl with old-fashioned courtesy and the manners that show good breeding and family discipline," the Negress avowed as she beckoned to their waiter, gesturing to her empty glass. A moment later he appeared with a full glass on a little round metal tray, set it down carefully on the table, whisked away the empty glass and replaced it, again without spilling a drop.
"Didn't I tell you he is a genius at serving sherry?"
Madame Desage chuckled as she reached for the glass, at the same time glancing at the obsequiously bowing waiter. But in that instant, the glass toppled forward and its contents drenched Sally's waist and lap.
"Mon Dieu, que je suis gauche! How clumsy of me!" the Negress cried. Sinuously she slid out of the booth and went to Sally, her face a study in contrition. "Come, my dear, a little cold water will take that out if we apply it right away. I shall never forgive myself. A thousand apologies, my dear!"
"Oh, it's not serious, really, Madame Desage," Sally stammered as she slowly rose. It seemed darker in the restaurant all of a sudden, and the solicitous face of the beautiful Negress appeared to her in kind of a haze. Her thighs had begun to shiver and a curious, warm, twitching paroxysm rippled the skin near her virginal loins and that of her belly as well. She blinked her eyes to dissipate the haze, but it wouldn't go away. She stared down at her rayon print. The spilled sherry had made the thin fabric cling to her belly and to the intimate hollow beneath. She was ever so warm, and she felt that her cheeks were hot and that Madame Desage was staring at her body.
"Here, my dear, the washroom is just around the corner. It will only take a minute. Come along, like a good girl," the Negress urged. Almost helplessly Sally let herself be guided as Madame Desage slipped an arm around her waist and took hold of her elbow to direct her.
The light in the washroom was very dim. Near the row of washbasins and the long rectangular mirror just inside the door, a pretty young mulatto busily soaped her long, slim hands. She hardly glanced up when Sally and Madame Desage made their entrance.
"This way, dear," the Negress murmured, as she pushed Sally gently toward one of the toilet stalls, opening the door with the flat of her right hand. "Now we'll just slip off this dress while you wait inside here comfortably. I'll just rinse it out thoroughly, and it will be as good as new. It won't take long to dry. There's a little gas heater right here, and I'll hang the dress over it, you'll see."
Suddenly she squatted and, taking hold of the hem of Sally's pretty frock with both hands, expertly whisked it up until the garment was drawn just over Sally's head, blindfolding her. Sally swayed, uttering a little frightened cry, fearful of falling back, but the Negress sustained her with her left arm tightly clamped around the redhead's waist.
"Lucette! A moi!" Madame Desage cried.
"What is it? What's the matter?" It seemed to Sally that her own voice sounded far away. There was a buzzing in her ears, and her legs felt like water. If it hadn't been for the Negress' clamping arm, she would certainly have fallen.
Then, again as from a distance, she heard a husky young voice exclaim "Mais c'est formidable! Quelle jolie esclave elle dcviendra!"
Madame Desage impatiently replied, "Je le sais, Lucette. Aides moi vite. Tu as apportee les cordes?" To which the other voice replied "Oui, Maman."
Then, before she could divine what was happening to her, Sally felt strong slim fingers take hold of her wrists, draw them behind her back, and then tie them together. She wanted to cry out, but another hand was rummaging under the rucked-up frock and stuffing something soft into her mouth. She swayed, but that possessive arm still clamped around her waist; she felt a cord being drawn around her ankles and tightly knotted.
"C'est fini!" Madame Desage jubilantly exclaimed. "The limousine is waiting, Lucette?"
"Mais oui, Maman! Pierre est toujours fidele."
"Bon! Now we shall lift her and carry her out of the back here, into the alley. She's a real prize, ma petite! And best of all, she has a dear friend who, I've reason to believe, will be as delicious as she is. Nous verrons ce que nous verrons. Ouf! Gently, Lucette. She's too precious to be bruised or spoiled just yet."
Sally wanted to cry out or protest, to ask why they were doing this, but she couldn't. The buzzing in her ears had grown into a loud drone, and there was no weight at all to her body. Dimly she was conscious of being lifted in the air, of being trundled away, and then a black void consumed her, and there was neither sound nor sight nor feeling.
CHAPTER FIVE
Her eyelids felt as if weights had been attached to them, and her temples throbbed as from migraine. Yet, singularly, her body seemed to have no weight or substance; it was as if she were suspended in black, empty space. Then, like the distant lapping of waves against a shore, came indistinct murmurs of voices, whose inflections and words were still obliterated, but which had, at least, the comforting assurance that she was still alive.
"Elle va revenir, Maman!" Now, the voice was closer, more distinct; it had an indefinable quality, between young, vibrant eagerness and arrogrance, so that she could not identify its age.
"Je le pense aussi, ma Lucette. A few more moments and she will be herself again. But, to be sure, not quite herself." And there followed a husky, mocking little laugh.
Oh, what had happened to her? What was it? Desperately she tried to move her limbs, but the same drowsy lassitude had taken possession of them as of her mind and senses. Her lips were dry, and she tried to move them, but no sound came forth.
"Yes, decidedly, it will only be a few more moments," came that richer, more imperious voice.
"Qu'elle est jolie, Maman! Je la desire pour moimeme. Donnes-moi cette belle poule, je t'en prie!"
"Gently, Lucette, I wish her to regain consciousness and to be quite aware of everything before we discuss such matters. You know that very well." There was indulgent reproach in this more mature voice.
Sally made a supreme effort; she felt her fingernails press into her palms, and finally she uttered a faint "Ohh! Wh-what is it?"
"Voila!" Now, that vibrant, forceful voice was very close, hovering over her.
"Shall I bring smelling salts, Maman?"
"By all means, and also a petite verre of brandy. It will speed the reaction."
"Bien, Maman." Sally heard footsteps receding, then hurrying back.
"Sally! Can you hear me?" Again there came the richly vibrant voice; how strange it sounded in her ears, and yet there was the vague feeling that she had heard it before.
"Oh ... wh-what is it? I ... I feel so weak."
"But of course you do, my dear. Here, let me help you to sit up. There. My arm is around your shoulders to support you. Try to open your eyes. Everything will be all right in a moment, you will see."
She felt an arm circle her shoulders as she swayed against the body of a woman-the scent was that of a woman, a clinging, indescribable scent, and this too was curiously familiar. She tried to blind her eyes, but her lids seemed still too heavy. "Oh ... w-where am I?" she quavered.
"At my villa in Limourgne, my dear. It is a suburb in the south of Paris. Come, take a sip of this good brandy." She felt a glass pressed gently against her trembling lips and blindly groped with quivering ringers to grasp its stem. "No, don't try, my dear. I'm holding it to your mouth. Now I'll tilt it just a little and you sip at it, slowly, Sally ... ah, just so!"
The fiery liquid burned her throat, yet created a pleasant glow. Again she tried to blind her eyes, and this time, through a blurry haze, she managed to make out a face close to hers ... that of Madame Victorine Desage.
"That's very good, dear! You recognize me, then. Yes, it's I, Madame Desage. We were having lunch at La Boulle, and you fainted, I'm afraid."
"I ... I fainted?"
"Yes. The drug had a swifter effect on you than I had supposed, my dear."
Sally blinked her eyes with an effort, forcing herself to see that haughty, beautiful face, trying to read the expression in those dark, glowing eyes, those sensual, faintly smiling lips. "The drug-I ... I don't understand, Madame Desage."
"I'll make her understand quickly Maman!" Again with an effort Sally recognized the young mulatto from the washroom. She was slim and tall, with a rich tan complexion, and her green satin housecoat accentuated small, high-set, pointed breasts, a breathtakingly slender waist, felinely sleek hips and long thighs. Aside from her skin coloring, the only visible feature that pronounced Negro blood in her veins was the broadening shape of her dainty nose. Her cheekbones were slantingly set, her mouth small, petulant and lasciviously moist, and her wide dark-brown eyes seemed enlarged because of their incredibly short lashes and the plucked, dainty semi-circles of the brows.
"Gently, Lucette. Sally has not yet regained all her faculties. Give her a little time to understand ma petite." Madame Desage gently admonished. Then, turning back to Sally, she added, "But of course, the drug in your sherry. You are more high-strung than I had supposed, my dear, that is why you fainted. Usually it makes a girl drowsy and very easily manageable."
Sally struggled to understand what she was hearing, peering at Madame Desage, her lovely forehead deeply furrowed. "You ... you drugged me? But why did you do a thing like that? I don't understand."
The autocratic Negress shrugged and her mocking little smile deepened. "Because, my dear, the very moment I saw you in the Louvre I told myself that you would make a magnificent slave. And so you shall, after some essential training."
"Slave?" Sally echoed with an incredulous gasp. "But surely you must be joking, Madame Desage! Slaves don't exist anymore. I'm an American citizen and this is Paris. It just isn't possible!"
"Decidedly, you ought to let Pierre teach her a little wisdom, Maman." Lucette impatiently interrupted in her vibrant, slightly high-pitched voice.
"Pierre is here, when we need him," Madame Desage placidly remarked. Then to the redhead, "Now Sally dear, another sip of this excellent brandy. It will help to restore you. Ah, you hesitate. Yes, I understand. You think it's drugged again. But this time, I assure you it's perfectly harmless."
"No, no, please, I don't want it. What are you trying to tell me, Madame Desage? I want to go back to my hotel right away!"
"I'm afraid that will not be possible, my dear." The Negress placed the rejected brandy glass on a little tabouret. "Perhaps it will be easier for you to understand me when I tell you something about myself. My parents were Senegalese. They were shot by the Germans just before the American, French and Russian armies entered Paris in 1945. I was just sixteen then, but I had to sell myself in order to live. I met an American sergeant from Dayton, who picked me up on the street one night when I was trying to solicit customers. He took a liking to me, and because he didn't care much about going back to the States on some stupid job, decided to desert and go into the black market."
"But what has this to do-" Sally began.
"Maman, Elle merite une belle fessee! Je t'en prie, fais-mois cadeau de Sally!" Lucette sibilantly interposed.
Madame Desage turned to her daughter and smilingly retorted, "Tais-toi Lucette!"
Sally had recoiled and now for the first time she looked around, her eyes widening with terror.
She found herself on a wide low divan padded with black leather. The room was narrow, with a low ceiling. And the only other piece of furniture in it was a curious apparatus in the center which reminded her of a gymnasium horse, except that its legs, instead of being solidly vertical, had angling metal extensions fixed directly under the rounded top.
The floor was bare and there were no windows. The walls were of white plaster, like those of a hospital. But it was not this cheerlessness alone which caused Sally Bannion's lips to tremble and her eyes to dilate; it was the presence, far to her left and skulking in a corner, of a Negro hunchback dressed in the livery of a chauffeur. He was perhaps four feet tall, but with extraordinarily long, wiry arms and exceptionally muscular legs. When he removed his visored cap, he resembled a gargoyle such as those on the Cathedral of Notre Dame. His forehead was narrow and bony, his hair kinky and greasy, his chin pointed. His nose was flat and like the snout of a pig, and his upper lip was deformed and shriveled, so that it bared crooked yellowish teeth. His beady little eyes fixed on her with a look of lustful malice which the rictus of his deformed mouth accentuated. As she grimaced and drew back in her repugnance, she caught a glimpse of a curious instrument in his long thin right hand. It was a lacquered red round stick about eight inches long to which were attached three glistening and tapering black leather thongs the tips of which were notched and pointed.
"Oh, forgive me, Sally, I have quite forgotten my manners," Madame Desage laughed softly. "That of course, is Pierre. He is indispensable to me as both chauffeur and trainer of slaves. You have not formally met him in his former capacity, but I assure you that you will in the latter-and most painfully-if you are not the sensible girl I believe you to be."
"This ... this is unheard of!" Sally tried to struggle to her feet. "You have no right to keep me here against my will! I demand that you let me go. And where is Claire? Why didn't she come to meet us at the restaurant?"
"Sit down, my dear, don't disturb yourself needlessly. Allow me to finish what I'd begun to tell you and then perhaps you'll understand everything." There was a guileful kindness to the Negress' tone. "As I told you, my dear, this sergeant from Dayton took a fancy to me, after he had bedded me, to be sure. And since he was a realist and enjoyed the pleasures which could be so readily found in Paris and not at all in his natal city, he decided to settle here. Young as I was, I already knew something about the black market and the opportunities for profit which existed immediately after the war. In his gratitude he married me when I was pregnant with Lucette. Ernest-that was my dear husband's name-made a good deal of money selling contraband, food and drugs to people who had money to pay for them. Eventually with my help again, he opened several very profitable maisons de luxe. Unhappily, about ten years ago when that interfering bluenose of a Marthe Richard caused dear old General de Gaulle to make prostitution illegal, Ernest suffered an irreparable loss. He was never quite the same after that, and indeed he was killed a year later in a drunken brawl in an alley just off the Place Pigalle."
"Madame Desage, this doesn't concern me at all, and I've had quite enough of being kept a prisoner here against my will! I demand that you release me! And you haven't yet told me what's happened to Claire!" Sally indignantly exclaimed.
"I am coming to it quickly, my dear. And I would not advise you attempting anything so rash as leaving here without permission. The door is locked and Pierre has had a great deal of experience with rebellious girls, believe me. Now, where was I? Oh, yes! So, after the death of poor Ernest, although he had left a considerable fortune, and wishing to make certain that my dear Lucette would never want for anything, I simply went into business for myself. There are many amateurs, Sally, who even in this day and age would pav a great deal of money to own a beautiful young slave. And so, voila, my work is now that of procuring them, at a price, ca va sans dire."
"Why, that's monstrous! But how can you do this? A girl had only to go to the police and-"
"You are a naive little fool, my dear. Don't you think that precautions are taken so that the girl has no chance to complain of her fate?" Madame Desage laughed. "Let me illustrate. The guard to whom you gave your message for Claire happens to work for me. I had only to make a sign to him and he understood that he was to intercept your friend and give her a convincing story to explain that you had gone off with a friend and that you would see her this evening. That is all. The bartender at La Boulle from whom you requested the envelope is also in my employ. And while he was giving it to you, I merely dropped a little white pill into your sherry. And here you are. And now that you know all this, I think we may proceed to your first lesson in obedience. Sally, you are my slave, and I order you to take off your clothing. Every stitch of it, do you understand? I want you naked as the back of my hand, and at once!"
Sally uttered a cry of consternation. The smiling mask of the Amazonian Negress had vanished; her lips were curled in contemptuous triumph, her eyes had narrowed, glowing with a feral light. Conversely, Lucette's face exhibited a gleeful animation, like that of a child with a new toy and to complete Sally's frightened bewilderment, the grotesque hunchback now uttered a cackling little laugh and hobbled quickly toward her, brandishing that sinister instrument whose glistening thongs danced like angry serpents in the air.
"Yes, naked," Madame Victorine Desage repeated, her voice husky with evident relish. "Otherwise, the whip!"
CHAPTER SIX
"A last time. Are you going to undress?" Her tone was brusque, brooking no argument. The lovely mulateto had moved beside her mother, fixing Sally with an intent look of anticipatory relish. And, his hump turned to the only door, Pierre held the martinet aloft in readiness.
"B-but you can't possibly get away with this, Madame Desage!" the redhead panted as her distraught eyes shifted this way and that in search of some escape. "Claire and I are registered at the hotel, and when they miss us-"
"Decidedly, you must have been living in a convent all these years," the Negress impatiently broke in. "Since furnishing slaves is my profession, Sally, give me credit for some imagination. A telephone call to your hotel will convince the manager that you've fallen madly in love with a handsome young Frenchman and decided to share his apartment during your stay. Oh, he will believe it, never fear. This is Paris, the city of romantic intrigue, you know. And now I am tired of this nonsensical argument which, you may as well know from the outset, I never tolerate in a slave. Strip! Otherwise Pierre will persuade you."
"No! It's unjust, it's unheard of! If you dare to detain me or hurt me in any way, I'll prefer charges against all of you, And-Aarrrhhll"
With an evil cackle, the hunchback moved swiftly behind and to the left of the redhead and sent the three leather thongs whistling across the ripest curves of her oval-cheeked bottom. Sally Bannion uttered a piercing cry and at once clapped her hands to the assaulted area. In all her life, she had never experienced the indignity of corporeal chastisement, so that this was indeed a rude debut.
Her eyes wide with disbelief, she stepped back, one hand still soothing the enticing contours of her backside as she indignantly protested: "How dare you! You will regret that, you'll see." Then, regarding her imposing dominatrix. she exclaimed, "You must absolutely be crazy to have me treated this shameful way!" And, seeing that Madame Desage continued to regard her with a silent and mocking insolence, she faltered, "I ... I won't inform on you, not about what you've told me. Just let me go, and I won't say a word about this, I promise you."
"Lucette, it seems incredible to me that parents confide their children to the teachings of this obstinately childish young woman."
"Perhaps, Maman, her brains are not at all in her head but in her ass," was the young mulatto's obscene reply.
Before Sally could begin to register shock of the insult, Pierre moved swiftly behind her and applied a second furious stroke which wrapped the three serpentining leather thongs over the lower curves of her vulnerably prominent bottom.
"Owww! Stop it, you dreadful beast! You've no right to hit me like that!" Sally Bannion tearfully cried out as she whirled to face her tormenter. Madame Desage, her daughter and the hunchback now joined in a peal of laughter at the suggestive sight of the redhead's frantically rubbing her burning seat. But even as they laughed, the Negress made another sign, and this time Pierre with a backhand flick of his bony wrist, directed the three lashes over the tops of Sally's heaving titties.
"Aiii! Eeeoowww! For God's sake, don't hit me there, don't hit me there!" and this time her hands rushed to soothe her virgin bubbies while tears began to stream down her cheeks.
Again uttering his hideous little cackling laugh, the hunchback bounded to one side and this time made the leather bands curl around Sally's right calf. As she stooped to clutch at the attacked region with a feverish cry, he dextrously hobbled back and then slashed the martinet diagonally over her projected behind, wresting a new wail of suffering from the stupefied victim.
"Perhaps now you will believe that I mean what I say, Sally," Madame Desage coldly interposed. "As soon as you begin to take off your clothes, Pierre will allow you a little respite from the martinet. And since your flesh appears to be extraordinarily sensitive to it, I suggest you do not keep him waiting too long."
As if to punctuate this cynical advice, the martinet whistled through the air and the notched tips of the gleaming black bands flicked just under Sally's left nipple. With a wild scream of pain, the redhead sank to her knees, rubbing at her tittie as if to eradicate the ferocious burning sting of that vicious caress. With her arm uplifted, she tried to fend off the whip while piteously glancing at the Negress to sob, "Don't-oh, my God in heaven, don't let him beat me so horribly. I can't stand the pain! Oh, M-Madame Desage, for God's sake have pity on me! What have I done? Why are you doing this to me, a stranger?"
"I can see that the lesson is hard for you, my dear." The Negress' voice grew unctuous as, hands on her imperious hips, she stared down at the shuddering, crouching redhead. "But as I have told you, I deal in slaves, and one acts quickly when the opportunity is at hand. I saw you, admired you, voila! That is all you need to know as to why you are here. As for the rest, a slave has no will and no rights, and her sole duty in life is to obey. Now do so. Are you going to take your clothes off or shall I have Pierre continue to persuade you? All this will be, it goes without saying, a supplement to the indoctrinizing spanking which every new slave receives."
"Oh, please, I beg of you, I beseech you, let me go! But it's impossible-you can't keep me here against my will, you can't, you can't!" Sally's voice grew shrill with panic as the nightmare persisted. "If my parents don't hear from me, they'll get in touch with the American Consul here, and he'll find me and-"
"My poor child," the Negress laughed softly, "you are absolutely too innocent to be believed. Do you think that I operate alone? If you are not yet convinced that the guard at the Louvre and the bartender at La Boulle are in my employ, I will tell you that long before your parents could learn that you have disappeared, you would find yourself the property of some fat Turkish khedive or perhaps a wealthy Armenian shopkeeper or again," and here her face became a mask of cruelty, "to punish you for your rebellion, I might even have you sent to the auction block of Addis-Abba in Morocco. You may count yourself fortunate that I am personally interested in your beauty and propose to keep you as my own body-slave. And now that you know what might or will be, do as I command you! Stand up and begin to take off your clothes. I give you this order for the last time, Sally!"
Desolate in her terror, unable to believe that this was still part of the incredible nightmare and surely not reality, Sally twisted about and flung her arms around Madame Desage's legs, looking up at the Amazonian Negress with agonized, tear-blurred eyes. "Oh, no! Surely you can't mean that, surely not, M-Madame! Let me go, let me go back to Claire and to my parents. My father's a minister, Madame, a good, decent man who brought me up to believe in the goodness of people as he does. Don't do this awful thing to me, I beg you on my knees, Madame Desage!"
"She is very lovely that way, Maman," Lucette purred. "What I wouldn't give to have her for myself! Her eyes are beautiful when they are full of tears, and that soft red mouth is so delicious when it trembles. I love to see her on her knees-but I am dying to see her on the horse all naked while Pierre gives her the martinet on that big juicy ass of hers!"
"Oh, dear God!" Sally groaned as she clung all the more desperately to the beautiful black Amazon who had so ingeniously abducted her.
Madame Victorine Desage smiled down at the sobbing, shuddering captive. Very gently, as if imparting a tender caress, she passed her left hand over Sally's bowed head, but only to entwine her strong, supple fingers in the thick curls of the lustrous pageboy. Then, twisting them until Sally cried out at the painful twinge, she gestured with her other hand. Once again, the whistling fury of the martinet resounded, followed by a "Thucckk!" as the thongs curled over the captive's back. Uttering a shrill cry, Sally released her captress, tried futilely to twist about on her knees and to lift her arms to guard herself against those biting, burning lashes. But the hunchback, with his grotesque hobbling lope, seemed to spring this way and that as he directed the martinet now over the tops of her lush young hips, now across the base of her bottom-cheeks, now over the dimpled round shoulders, now flicking them around her left side. Beside herself with torment, Sally strove to rise on one knee, but Madame Desage's other hand clamped at the back of her neck and pinioned her immutably to the floor.
"Thuck! Thuck!" Cackling with lubricious glee, the hunchback hobbled first to the right, then to the left, directing the martinet to curl around the middle of her left tit, then swept the thongs around her right hip and side, the tips perilously flicking near her tender groin.
"Ohh! Aahhhrrr!! Oh, my God, I can't bear it anymore! Oh, stop! I'll do ... I'll do anything, only for God's sake, stop w-whipping me!" Sally shrieked. Her fingers clawed at Madame Desage's skirts, her face twisted this way and that, contorted and drenched with tears. Another lash swirled the martinet's thongs right down the groove between her bottomcheeks.
The fiery agony could no longer be endured. With a hoarse shout, Sally capitulated: "Stop! In the name of mercy, stop, I'll do it, I'll do it, Madame! Only tell him to stop, for dear God's own sake!"
"Bravo, Pierre!" Lucette giggled. "But, apres tout, it didn't last nearly long enough. It is as I thought: these soft American girls are like babies when they feel the lash for the first time. Quel dom-mage, just when it was becoming interesting to see her big ass wriggle about!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
In that narrow, low-ceilinged room, for a moment the only sounds were those of Pierre's stertorous panting from his energetic exercise of wielding the martinet, and the choking sobs of the conquered, huddled redhead who, her hands covering her tear-stained face, still knelt before the black dominatrix. The latter permitted her captive a few moments to regain control, then snapped, "Enough of these childish jeremiads! Stand up and prove that you are ready to obey me!"
Slowly Sally dragged herself to her feet, and a feverish glance around her assured her that she was hemmed in by her tormentors. Pierre behind her with that infernal whip lowered to the floor like a snake ready to recoil and strike instantly, and Madame Desage and Lucette on either side of her. The crushing awareness of what she was about to do was still almost too much for her mind to encompass. To have to undress in front of that horrible, bestial, deformed little creature who had whipped her so abominably; to show her most secret parts to a man-all this violently clashed with her decorous upbringing and her station in life. But even as she hesitated, the painful throbbing where the thongs had kissed her flesh impressed her with the dangers she ran by continuing her rebellion.
Frantically, her mind strove to adapt itself to this atrocious new situation; perhaps the wisest thing was to pretend to obey, to temporize and get them to relax their vigilance so that she could ultimately escape. But even as she made her decision, in the pitiful hope of placating them, she uttered a sharp cry and jumped, looking backward, so ludicrous an expression of mingled pain and surprise on her face that Madame Desage and her daughter burst out laughing. Pierre had slyly whisked the thongs around her right calf as a tacit reminder of what she was obliged to do.
"Pierre has an estimable sense of humor, my dear," Madame Desage silkily explained, "but you must take care not to try his patience, for then he has a really frightful temper."
Shuddering at the hideous smirk of the hunchback, Sally at last resolved herself. Stooping, she approached her trembling fingers to the hem of the rayon print skirt and began to pull it up over her voluptuous young body. Her flesh crawled as the garment momentarily blindfolded her, the flesh of her tender thighs twitching and shrinking in nervous apprehension. It was actually out of fear of receiving another reminder from that dreadful whip that made her hurriedly tug off the dress and let it fall to the floor, as again she glanced nervously around. No, the glistening thongs dangled along the floor, their venom momentarily checked.
"And now the slip," Madame Desage recalled her to her shameful task. Drawing a deep breath, Sally again stooped and dragged up the chaste white sheath, and that too fluttered to the floor to join her discarded dress. She was now seized with a fit of uncontrollable deshabille of white nylon panties and matching bra, with a narrow satin-elastic garterbelt serving to hold up with unwrinkled sheerness her gauzy flesh-colored hose. Here and there on the pale milky satin of her bare skin could be seen the obscene, bright pink streaks and splotches which the martinet had imparted.
"Oh, Maman," Lucette breathed, "qu'elle est belle! Quels beaux nichons, quel fessier gracieux!"
"My daughter, as you see, Sally dear, finds you most attractive, particularly your breasts and your behind. All of us are anxiously waiting to see them now. I am sure you won't keep us waiting, my dear," now the voice of the Negress unctuously coaxed. Yet almost in the same breath, she added, and in a tone of insolent command, "Take off the brassiere slowly, Sally. Straighten your shoulders so that your breasts will show themselves off to the best advantage."
"Oh, my God, Madame!" Sally quavered, digging her nails into her perspiring palms. "If I ... if I must d-do what you want, in the name of c-common decency, send him away, I beg of you! I ... I've never been naked in the presence of a man."
This ingenuous plea drew a mocking cackle from the hunchback, which made poor Sally turn crimson with shame, while the Negress tauntingly rebuked her. "You are quite right in crediting Pierre with manhood. Indeed, he is exceptional. However, you are neither the first nor the last girl whom he has seen naked, so don't give yourself silly airs and let us have an end at once to this insipid modesty of yours. Unless, of course, you prefer to have the rest of your clothes torn off by the martinet."
"Ohh, oh, no, Madame! Have mercy. I couldn't bear it! I promise I'll do what you want, only send h-him away!" Sally tearfully held out her hands as in prayer.
The martinet answered her, as the hunchback made the three leather bands smack noisily from right to left across her milky naked back. The tapering tips of the lashes darted around to nip into her soft, tender waist. With a shriek of pain, Sally stooped forward, rubbing that wounded region, whereupon the hunchback, with a dexterous backhand swipe, sent the thongs dashing across the upper summits of her pantie-sheathed bottom.
"Oww, please, please, I'll do it, I'll do it! Only don't hit me any more!" the redhead wailed. Sobbing pitifully, she reached behind her to unhook the bandeau of the snug white bra, trying desperately to prolong its removal to the last possible moment. As if he had read her thoughts, the hunchback gave a little jerk of his wrist, and the hooks and the tips of the leather thongs stung her trembling fingers. With a cry, she released the bra, which fluttered down to the floor, and then, overwhelmed by her despair and shame, bowed her head and covered her face with her hands as she gave vent to a hysterical crisis of tears.
Madame Desage's narrowed dark eyes glittered with lust as they contemplated her captive's delicious bubbies. They were perched high on Sally's milky chest, widely set apart, uptilting, ripe pears ornamented with dainty, narrow coral circles and adorably pert pink buds. Where the martinet had kissed those magnificent titties-the first burning kisses there which Sally had ever known!-the angry crimson marks imparted a lubricious beauty to that succulent white flesh, as if the importunate fingers of a lover had clutched them in the throes of fucking.
"Decidedly, you would bring a high price on the auction block in Morocco," the Negress appraisingly remarked, but the huskiness of her voice belied her own sensual emotions at so glorious a sight. "And now you see, Sally, you didn't die of shame, so it should not be too troublesome to remove your panties now."
"Oh, no, no, please let me keep them on please, not in front of him. No, I just can't. Oh, please have mercy on me, Madame Desage!" Sally sobbed.
"I have already told you that there is no such word as 'can't' in the vocabulary of a slave. Pierre, you will let her have the martinet across her big bottom until the panties are torn from it. And if your skin is damaged in the process, Sally, you will have only yourself to blame for your ridiculous obstinacy."
With a cry of terror, the redhead plunged her hands to the waistband of the nylon sheath, fearfully turning to stare at the malevolent hunchback. When she saw that he had lifted the martinet slowly in the air, she ground her teeth and with hopeless despair wrenched the panties down to the middle of her buttocks. Then, comprehending the enormity of what she was about to do, she stopped and burst again into hysterical sobs. At that very moment, the black thongs of the martinet coiled across her shoulders, then over the middle of her naked back, and as she twisted and writhed under the burning torment of those lashes, she tugged her panties down to mid-thigh, and then clapped both hands over the furry grotto of her virgin cunt. It was a pose that would have fired the blood of an ascetic; and if Sally had looked around at this moment she would have observed that the incredibly big, thick prick of the Negro hunchback was threatening to burst through the fly of his livery trousers.
"You haven't finished yet," Madame Desage approached the sobbing redhead and, tilting up Sally's chin with her left palm, applied a stinging slap on a tearstained cheek. "Take them off completely, and then the garterbelt. I have come to the end of my patience with you, my girl. And then the pumps and stockings. Or perhaps you would prefer to have Lucette and me leave you alone with Pierre."
"Ohh, my God, my God, not that, Madame! I ... I'll do it. Oh, if you only knew how ashamed I am, how humiliated I am! Oh, have pity on me, let me go, let me go!" Sally sobbed. But already the dominant will of her abductress and the annihilating torment of the whip had accomplished their purpose. As if realizing the futility of this ingenuous prayer, Sally stooped, dragged her panties down to her ankles and stepped out of them. Then, closing her eyes, her teeth chattering, with furious waves of shame tinging her cheeks, forehead and even her throat, she fumbled with the garterbelt, undid the stocking tabs and was naked now except for her hose and pumps.
"That's better. Now finish it quickly. It's nearly time for my afternoon nap!" Shifting from dainty foot to foot, Sally obediently slipped off her pumps.
Then the final humiliation of having to stoop and roll down each stocking, a pose which made her twitching, bare bottom jut out in a most salacious manner, as well as making her panting bubbies jiggle in the air like ripe fruits for the plucking.
She was naked before them now. Once again she put her hands over her pussy in the naive and classic gesture of the virgin whose modesty has been outraged.
"It's about time," Madame Desage drily exclaimed. "Now, Sally, walk over to that horse and get on it. You are going to have the good whipping I promised you."
"Oh, no! Oh, for God's sake, Madame Desage, I've done what you wanted. Isn't that enough? Don't whip me. I'm already in such pain from that dreadful whip-have mercy. I've obeyed you!"
"That is not entirely true. You argued at every order, you dawdled, and you continue to irritate me with your senseless pleas. Even if you had been as docile as a proper slave this first time, you would still not escape a whipping. Every new slave, who passes into my hands for training, is at once subjected to the lash to teach her from the outset how completely she must resign herself to the will of her new mistress ... or master, as the case may be. And as I have decided to make you my own personal slave, I shall certainly not dispense with this most beneficial first step in training you to do my bidding. Now I warn you, if you resist or continue to argue, your punishment will be doubled. If you wish me to be lenient, your only hope is to do exactly what I tell you to do. So, walk to that horse and climb astride it at once. If we have to use force to get you on it, my dear, you shall wear a pair of mustard drawers on your bottom after Pierre has whipped you to the blood ... I am waiting, Sally."
The agonized, redhead began to sob like an unhappy child, but conquered, terrorized, and humbled, she nonetheless obeyed. Slowly, with stumbling steps, she made her way to the padded leather horse in the center of the room, turning to look back in the anguished hope of reprieve. Seeing none in the faces of her three tormentors, she uttered a tearful groan and slowly and awkwardly hoisted herself astride the whipping-horse, her arms and legs dangling, her titties mashed down against the coarse surface of the apparatus.
As she lay there weeping bitterly, Madame Desage and Lucette took charge of their victim. The Negress grasped each of Sally's wrists in turn and affixed them to one of the mobile angling extensions of the apparatus by means of a buckling strap. At the same time, Lucette drew Sally's left leg out against the metal branch directly under the padded top of the horse and buckled a thick black strap tightly around the milky lower calf. Moving to the other side, she pinioned Sally's right leg in the same manner. Finally, Madame Desage buckled a broader and thicker leather strap around the middle of the redhead's back, and Sally found herself immobilized and shamefully spreadeagled, her arms widely stretched to either side of her and drawn towards the floor, while the distension of her naked legs served to gape the oval cheeks of her bare bottom so exaggeratedly that the dainty puckering rosebud of her virgin asshole was exposed, and one could see also, framed by silky dark red tufts of public hair, the gaping, twitching orifice of her cunt.
Madame Desage and her daughter took their places, standing side by side to the right of the victim. Lucette, an arm around her mother's waist, arched on tiptoe to offer her moist lips in a kiss that was far more lustful that filiat. And in turn, Madame Desage's right hand cupped one of her daughter's pert titties, gently squeezed and fondled it.
Sally turned her head back over a dimpled, milky shoulder, and uttered a cry of horror. The monstrous hunchback was at her left, just beyond the horse, making the three black leather bands of the martinet leap and whistle in the air.
"Attention, ma belle," he cackled. "I am going to begin. It's a rare treat to work on such a magnificent ass as yours, Mademoiselle Sally. I promise you I shall devote all my skill to it." With this, he swept up his long, wiry arm, and abruptly descended it. The three lashes whistled down and with savage fury clung over the distended, oval-shaped cheeks of Sally's ass. The victim's head rose up, her eyes maddened and glazed with tears, and her body jerked against the restraining straps. The nervous reaction of her agile sphincter muscles made her dainty asshole contract and then yawn, while a convulsive shudder raced along her beautifully sculptured thighs. Her toes and fingers clawed like talons under the empire of ferociously hot torment; after that initial lash, succeeding waves of torturing heat seemed to rush back along the pathway which each thong had taken, so that her suffering was cumulative.
A second lash swept down, and the leather bands spread out greedily over her upturned and distended asscheeks. Again her body jerked against her pinions, and she could not control the wild shriek that tore from her agonized throat:
"Aiii!! Oww! Oh Madame, Madame, I can't bear it! Oh, he's killing me. Oh, have mercy, have mercy."
But there was no word from the dominatrix. Locked in each other's arms, Lucette and Madame Victorine Desage were French kissing, their hands groping over heaving titties, then moving inexorably and inevitably towards shuddering loins, delving under rustling skirts till Lucette's forefinger was buried in her mother's cunt, while her own soft quim felt the incestuous Lesbian stimulus of her mother's expert finger.
Snorting and grunting and cackling with his evil joy, the hideous hunchback moved back and forth behind the tortured redhead. With the skill of a virtuoso, he directed the leather bands, sometimes horizontally across the jerking, squirming hillocks of the reddening ass, sometimes vertically or diagonally. Again, studying the contortions of her hips and loins over the whipping-horse, the Negro bade all three glistening thongs smack down along a single narrow pathway of tortured, palpitating flesh, or spread them out to embrace the entire posterior.
Sally's shrieks and pleas were deafening and incoherent. By the time she had received twenty strokes, her behind was striped in a varigated pattern that left hardly a patch of unmarred white skin on those inflamed, spasming asscheeks.
Glancing over at his mistress, Pierre observed Madame Desage and Lucette glued to each other, their hands buried under each other's dresses, their mouths fused, nearing the final throes of carnal rapture. Moving back a step he flicked up the thongs of the whip to drive the notched tips into the crevice between Sally's asscheeks, attaining both her asshole and the rims of her pouting pink cunt.
"Eeeyowwuu! Not there-oh, please, my God, not there! Oh, Madame Desage, I'll do anything, anything you want, only have him stop. Oh, I'm dying, I can't stand the pain any longer. Have him stop!" Sally's voice was hoarse with suffering as her body leaped and twisted against the leather straps. Her armpits, her belly and the inside of her thighs were clammy with her own agony-sweat. Her bottom felt as if she had been forced to sit on a hot radiator; the recurrent waves of searing torture were so severe that she had been kept from fainting only by their intensity.
Pierre caught his mistress' eye. Madame Desage was shuddering, her magnificent titties rising and falling turbulently in the aftermath of climax. Tenderly she cupped Lucette's passion-twisted face and kissed her on the mouth. Then smoothing down her rumpled skirt and drawing a deep breath, she once again assumed the imperious poise of a dominatrix as she walked slowly to the head of the horse to contemplate the groaning, shuddering, naked captive. Deliberately she reached out her left hand and, cupping Sally's trembling chin, forced the girl to lift her head and look at her. At this refinement of cruelty, Sally's body was seized by a violent convulsive tremor.
"Have you had enough for your first lesson, or would you like some more?" the Negress sibilantly demanded.
"N-no ... G-God, n-no ... pity ... have pity on me ... I'll do ... wh-whatever you tell me to ... don't let ... him ... whip me any more ... Madame...."
"Then you are ready to be my slave, without argument or rebellion, Sally?"
Her eyes closed, and another long shudder made her vibrate on the whipping-horse.
"Pierre-"
"Oh, no, no! Don't let him whip me again. I ... I'll be your slave. Anything ... anything! Oh, have mercy, Madame!" Sally cried wildly, twisting her face around to look at the smirking hunchback, who had slowly raised the martinet again over her blazing ass.
"Then let me hear you say it. Humbly and eagerly, as befits a slave, Sally! Say T am your humble slave, Mistress. I will obey your every command, without hesitation, on pain of punishment.' Repeat it exactly as I have said," the Negress insisted.
In a voice choking with sobs, hoarse and trembling with agony, the redhead repeated that degrading formula.
"Very good. And now, since I have pardoned you the whip, you will carry out my next order most carefully, won't you, my dear?"
Again her palm cupped Sally's trembling chin.
"Y-yes, I ... w-will."
"But you are forgetting my title. Whenever a slave speaks to her mistress, she calls her by that exalted name. You will never again call me Madame Desage, do you understand? Henceforth it will always be 'Mistress'. Now answer me as you should, and remember, Pierre is still behind you, and his strong arm does not easily tire."
"Y-yes, M-mistress," Sally quavered.
"You see how easy it is, once you make up your mind to it?" A beatific smile curved the sensual mouth of Madame Victorine Desage. "Now, after you have rested a little and Pierre has put some soothing cream on that big, tender bottom of yours, you are going to call your dear friend Claire Downing, and you are going to invite her here for dinner. Tell her to be very prompt. It will be at six o'clock. Needless to say, you will not let her know what has become of you. If you should be stupid enough to warn her, you have my word that by tonight you will be on your way to Morocco. Is that understood?"
Sally's tear-blurred eyes fixed on that exotic, sensually beautiful face, and this time she read the implacable cruelty and cynicism of her abductress. With a shudder, closing her eyes, she whispered faintly, "Y-yes, M-Mistress."
CHAPTER EIGHT
"That will be your friend now, dear. Lucette, will you answer the door? And remember, Sally, not so much as one hint or whisper about what's happened to you, or what you got this afternoon on the whipping-horse will seem like a love tap." Madame Desage smiled benevolently at the nervous redhead.
After her ordeal under Pierre's martinet, Sally had been led by the Negress and her daughter, half-fainting with suffering, to the former's room and eased down on her stomach on a huge, wide bed. Lucette had gone to the medicine cabinet for a special salve, which she had proceeded to rub over Sally's inflamed bottom-cheeks, and then a cold compress had been appiled. Then Madame Desage had made the redhead swallow the contents of a brandy snifter, which contained a tranquilizing soporific. Indeed, she had not wakened until five-thirty, whereupon the Negress and Lucette made her shower and at last resume her clothes. Much to her own surprise, Sally discovered the agonizing soreness of her bottom had almost entirely vanished, though she could not move abruptly without a grimace of discomfort, for the surface was still exquisitely sensitive.
Now, unable to control her trembling, but forcing to her lips the smile which Madame Desage had ordered, she awaited Claire's coming into what she knew to be a trap-yet she dared not save her dearest friend. She knew now, miserably, unhappily, that she was a coward. But the thought of returning to that leather horse to lie naked under that dreadful whip wielded by that horrid hunchback made her blood run cold.
As the young mulatto went to the door, Sally stared helplessly at the Amazonian dominatrix, her lips trying to frame a question. Anticipating it, Madame Desage whispered, "I told you that your friend thinks you went off with a man. You will simply tell her I am his housekeeper and he has gone away for the evening and offers his apologies. That is all you will say. You will leave the talking to me. Never mind-I know how to handle matters of this kind. Now keep that smile on your face, for I see Lucette is bringing your friend in."
Indeed, the golden-haired divorcee advanced ahead of Lucette, running eagerly to throw her arms around Sally's apprehensively quivering shoulders.
"You could have knocked me over with a feather when that guard at the Louvre said you'd picked up a guy and gone off with him," Claire airily exclaimed. "But just between you and me, I'm glad you took my advice and had yourself a fling before we start back to Washington and you tie yourself down to that stuffy Jackson Meredith." She giggled. "All the same, I've got to hand it to you. Here I was thinking you were a quiet little churchmouse-say, that's good, that is: churchmouse!-and the first time you're out in Paris by yourself for just a couple of minutes while I go to the little girls' room, you grab yourself a hunk of man. I can't get over it. What's he like, anyway?"
Sally glanced at the imposing Negress, who was fixedly staring at her. "He ... he's very nice, Claire," she quavered.
"He must be. Do I get to meet him?"
At this point, Madame Desage quietly interposed, "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Miss Downing. M'sieu Henri had to leave about an hour ago on urgent business, and he won't be back until tomorrow. He's asked me to convey his apologies, and he hopes you and your friend Sally will do him the honor of dining here this evening. Our chef, Hercule, is really a cordon bleu, and I believe he's ready for us now. Come along, both of you."
The divorcee looked at the Negress, then back at Sally, who sat docilely in her armchair. This was all very mystifying. That evening gown this nigger woman had on must easily have cost two-hundred-fifty, and that slinky high-yellow girl wasn't exactly dressed in rags, either. This guy of Sally's must really be in the bucks, she thought. But the funniest thing was the authority this housekeeper gave herself, practically ordering them both in to dinner here and now.
"Well," she said with a forced attempt at gaiety, "I'm starved. And you're lucky you found me in when you called, Sally. I was about to go look up that guy from Cleveland. But at that, I'll bet you've got yourself somebody lots more fascinating. He must be, to own a villa like this."
Madame Victorine Desage had not misled Claire as to the culinary ability of Hercule. From the Quiche Lorraine to a superb salad, the dinner was impeccable. For the entree, Hercule himself emerged from the kitchen with a chafing table on wheels and proceeded to prepare the sauce for the Canard a Vorange. Claire watched attentively as he deftly poured in a generous dollop of Grand Mari-nier. His expert carving made her smile with approval, and when he served her first and she tried her first mouthful, she exclaimed, "Why, this is fabulous!"
Hercule was coal-black, six feet tall and brawny, and from his build looked to be more familiar with the prize ring than the kitchen. At this praise he doffed his chef's white hat, murmuring, "Ma'am'selle is too kind."
Claire's eyes widened. Hercule's head gleamed like a billiard ball. But more disconcerting still was the long, ardently appraising look he fixed on her as he slowly straightened, put the hat back on, then marched back to the kitchen through the swinging door.
Claire's momentary irritation over the Negress' authoritative airs were somewhat quelled during the dinner. Madame Desage and Lucette let her and Sally converse without interruption. Yet seated at Sally's right, just before the head of the table, Madame Desage watched the redhead, and Sally was conscious of it as she apprehensibly fended off some of Claire's more prying questions.
"Well, I don't think I have to teach you much after all, honey," Claire leaned back with a sigh of repletion after she had finished the last morsel of duck and wild rice on her plate. "You're a little schemer, that's what you are. Oh, I might have known it! Still waters run deep, and the quiet ones are always the sexiest. I still can't get over it. In a couple of minutes, when my back is turned, you find yourself a handsome, rich bachelor-oh, he must be rich and he must be a bachelor to have a place like this-and I'm sure the two of you have had some fun this afternoon, and yet you won't tell me a single thing about it. All right for you, Sally Bannion. But you know I'm your friend, and I won't blab a word to your folks or that poor excuse of a husband you're going to marry." She brightened. "Or maybe you won't now. Maybe you've found the one and only. Things like that do happen in Paris, you know. Just between us girls, I'd much rather see you marry a sexy Frenchman than Jackson Meredith. He'd keep you up all night reading his briefs, he would."
Claire was in an expansive mood, and it amused her to see Sally's cheeks redden under her barrage of insinuating questions. She caught the eye of Madame Desage, and she couldn't help noticing what a handsome woman that nigger housekeeper was. That black satin evening gown was cut down to where you could see the valley between her big, firm titties, and she had ruby pendants at her ear-lobes and a white pearl necklace that set off her chocolate skin. What sort of housekeeper was this, with a gown cut at the back down to the waist? And that slinky girl in a green satin frock that left her shoulders bare. Maybe-oh, no, it couldn't be possible. Sally couldn't go to bed with a nigger! Or would she? At this audacious thought, Claire shivered. The flesh of her inner thighs had begun to twitch, and her pussy began to moisten ... just as it did when she had her nocturnal fantasies about the efreet. Good heavens! Suppose it really were that way? It would be a dreadful scandal if Reverend Bannion and his wife found out about a thing like this. They were tolerant, of course, but they would just die if they found out their one and only daughter had let a nigger fuck her.
She giggled again. "Well, I guess if you won't talk about it, you won't. Maybe that's because you don't want to get personal in front of servants. Maybe they'd snitch on you to your guy, hmmm? Tell you what, when we get back to the hotel tonight, you and I are going to have a nice, cozy little chat and let our hair down. You owe me that, for standing me up in the Louvre."
Then, turning to Madame Desage, Claire brightly demanded, "I'm just dying to know what Hercule has prepared for dessert."
"You, Miss Downing," was the astonishing answer.
Claire's mouth gaped in stupefaction. Then color rushed to her cheeks, and she indignantly exclaimed, "Now look, Victorine or whatever your name is, that's just a little too fresh! I don't think this M'sieu Henri would like it if he found out how you talk to guests."
"I assure you, Miss Downing, I meant what I said." With this, the Negress took up the silver bell before her and shook it three times. The kitchen door swung open and Pierre emerged, wearing a short-sleeved light silk shirt, red velvet trousers and sandals. At the sight of the Negro hunch-back, Claire uttered a cry of revulsion and half-rose from her chair.
"Is ... is that your M'sieu Henri?" Claire stammered hoarsely, turning to regard Sally with a horrified look. The redhead's eyes were filled with tears and her lips were trembling as she stared across the table at her mature friend, not daring to speak.
"There is no M'sieu Henri, Miss Downing. This is Pierre. He trains slaves for me. It is time to begin your training, for my daughter Lucette is most anxious to have you in her service," Madame Desage calmly declared.
"What kind of nasty joke is this, Victorine?" Claire demanded, her magnificent titties heaving with indignation. "I don't think I like this at all. Sally, how did you fall in with people like this? I demand to know who this M'sieu Henri is."
"You will not henceforth address me as Victorine, Claire. I have already told you there is no M'sieu Henri. To prove to you that I mean what I say, I am going to make you, of your own accord, agree to become Lucette's slave."
"Sally, let's get out of this insane asylum!"
But before Claire Downing could move from the table, the hunchback seized her by a wrist and dragged her to the open archway which led into another elegant salon, which in turn connected with the room where Sally had abdicated from her free estate.
"Let go of me, you filthy little swine," Claire cried, and she tried to slap the cackling hunchback with her free hand. With amazing strength and agility, he warded off the blow and caught that wrist too, his bony fingers pinching the nerves in her arms till she screamed with pain and sank to her knees.
Instantly, Madame Desage was on her, her left hand seizing the golden coronet braid around Claire's lovely head, swiftly unfurling it as she clutched and twisted, her right hand gripping the back of Claire's neck.
"To the horse with this insolent bitch," she hissed.
Sally slowly rose from her chair, wringing her hands in futile anguish, but Lucette moved to her and hissed, "You'd better not try to help her, or I'll have Maman turn you over to Pierre to fuck after Maman is done with you!"
Crying out in pain, her wrists numb from the hunchback's paralyzing grip, feeling as if her scalp were being lacerated by Madame Desage's vicious little tugs, Claire Downing was forced to stumble to her feet in a stooped-over pose, and obliged to lurch forward as the hunchback hobbled ahead of her, dragging at her wrists.
Lucette opened the door of the chamber of subjugation.
"What are you going to do to me? My God, Sally, Sally, run and get the police! Ohh, you filthy little nigger animal, you're hurting me," Claire cried.
"Pierre will want to avenge himself for your insults, you white bitch!" Madame Desage snarled. "Come, Lucette, give me a hand with Claire."
The three of them forced the divorcee against the leather horse, and lifted her up, despite her frenzied stragglings, until she lay astride it. Lucette immediately furled the thick leather strap around Claire's waist and buckled it so tightly that Claire's breath was hampered. Pierre occupied himself with the captive's wrists, while Madame Desage buckled the straps around Claire's ankles. The divorcee found herself, as Sally had been, her arms spread out and angled toward the floor, her legs distended to maximum, her opulent bottom lewdly upreared. Because of the exaggerated straddle of her legs, her blue silk skirt already threatened to tear. Madame Desage calmly stooped to the fuming blonde and, seizing the hem of her skirt with both hands, ripped it in two, and then the slip under it. Claire uttered a shriek of furious indignation:
"Stop it! You're all insane! You'll pay for this, you'll see!"
It was Lucette who unfastened the tabs of the pantie-girdle, then plunged her slim hands under the waistband of the tight sheath and tugged it down as far as it would go. The little hunchback produced a penknife from the pocket of his trousers and deftly slashed the garment until it unfolded like a cocoon, and Claire's sumptuous ass was naked and ready for the whip.
CHAPTER NINE
As the last veil concealing her buttocks was ripped away (For now the hunchback wrenched the split-open pantie-girdle out from under Claire's loins with his incredibly strong hands), the divorcee uttered a piercing shriek of mingled rage and terror. "What are you going to do? You're insane, all of you! Sally, for God's sake, what is all this nonsense? Help me, help me!"
"She hears you, to be sure, Claire," Madame Desage mockingly riposted, "but there is nothing she can or will do. She is my slave, just as surely as you will be Lucette's. Now, Pierre, you can see that you have a much more spacious backside to work on, one that has evidently never experienced any discipline whatsoever. And do not forget, mon vieux, that she has dared to insult our race, as well as all of us by calling us insane."
"Have no fear, Madame," the hunchback chuckled in a hoarse, rasping voice that made Sally shudder. "The martinet knows how to talk back! As you have said, this blonde one has an ass exactly fashioned for whipping. Hers is much plumper than that of Ma'am'selle Sally, and it will take much longer to turn that soft pink skin a warm and delicious red!"
With this, he hobbled closer to the horse and passed his long, thickly-knuckled fingers over the quivering cheeks of Claire's bare ass. The divorcee stiffened, turning her contorted, flushed face back towards him, as with all her strength she contracted her sphincter muscles in a futile effort to diminish the amplitude of her magnificent behind.
"Don't touch me, don't touch me, you filthy little monster!" she cried raucously. "You cowards, to treat a decent woman this way!"
Pierre cackled hideously as he applied with thumb and forefinger a vicious pinch to the tender, slightly humid flesh along the groove between those round, jutting asscheeks. Claire jerked fitfully, her hips convulsively swerving, but her cry of pain and anger was drowned out by the high-pitched laughter of Lucette.
"Sally," the Negress commanded, "you will kneel and clasp your hands behind your back. I want you to watch this correction, whose effects will be salutary for both of you. Pierre, I leave the number of lashes to your discretion. Claire is to acknowledge herself a slave and then humbly admit her readiness to serve my daughter. That is what I wish."
"It will be as Madame desires." The hunchback scurrried, with a grotesque hobbling lope, to the wall nearest the whipping-horse. Reaching up, he took down the red-handled martinet. Brandishing the instrument and whistling the three black leather thongs this way and that in the air, Pierre hobbled back to take his stance behind the tethered divorcee. Claire uttered an incredulous shriek: "My God, you can't be going to beat me with that! It's inhuman! You filthy little coward! No! Don't you dare! I'll have you all sent to prison for this. I swear I will, if it's the last thing I ever do!"
Having ascertained the range between himself and the juttingly proffered naked asscheeks of his blonde victim, the hunchback lowered the martinet and then slowly drew it back. He paused a moment to let the victim become aware of the imminence of her chastisement; then, with a grunt of pleasure, he swept the lash out and down. The black thongs cracked over Claire's jutting ass, spreading out into three narrow paths of burning torment as they wedded salaciously to the soft pink flesh.
"Oww! Stop it, stop it! You dirty little bastard, you filthy beast, I forbid you to treat a white woman this way, do you hear me?" Claire shrieked as she tugged uselessly at the restraining straps. As Sally saw the ugly face of the hunchback twist with rage, she forgot her own peril and hysterically called out, "For God's sake, Claire, don't say such things to him! He'll only whip you harder for that! Oh, Madame, please, please don't hurt my friend Claire! I can't bear to see her suffer this awful way!"
"How dare you speak without permission, Sally!" the Negress hissed. "And you forgot to call me 'Mistress' as well. You will pay for that tonight, I promise you. Let me hear another word out of you and you will go back on the horse after Claire has had her due. Va t'en, Pierre!"
Thwack! Thwack! Twice without pause the martinet's thongs hurtled in a vertical attack over Claire's shuddering asscheeks. The victim's head rose, her eyes dilating in agony, and as her straddled and pinioned body jerked under the burning fury of the leather thongs, she began to curse at her tormentors: "Damn you, you dirty nigger criminals, you lousy filthy cowards! You just wait, you Goddam bastards, I'll get even with you for this!"
"Make the blood flow from her big, fat ass, Pierre," Lucette called as she walked towards the head of the whipping-horse to gloat over the suffering of her intended slave. Her slim fingers reached out and tugged and twisted at the disheveled golden coronet braid till Claire's hair tumbled down over one contorted, flushed cheek. "There, that's better, bitch! You looked too much like a queen with that hair-do, and only Maman and I are queens here, as you will find out. Oh, I'm going to love having you as my slave, Claire dear! I'm going to make you kneel at my feet and kiss them and lick them-yes, in between the toes. And that's not all!"
Summoning all her bravado, Claire spat in Lucette's face. The mulatto recoiled, her mouth gaping with astonishment at the victim's audacity. Then, with all her strength, she slapped Claire's face, crying out, "Why, this big sow has dared to spit at me! Thrash her backside till the skin's torn away, Pierre! I want to hear her scream for mercy, I want her to beg your pardon for what she called you. Yes, and I want to hear her cry like the big baby she is. Give it to her fat ass till it's torn to shreds!"
"You can kill me, but I'll never be your slave, you ... you dirty nigger bitch!" Claire screamed. Sally burst into hysterical tears, aghast at her friends recklessness, but a stern look from Madame Desage made her bow her head and close her eyes as her body shook with choking sobs.
Moving slightly to the right, the hunchback now directed the martinet in furiously sweeping blows that leaped the gleaming thongs across both jerking, spasming buttocks. The sonorous "Thwack!" of leather against bare skin sounded like a pistol shot in that confining room. Claire's head rose, but she ground her teeth and closed her eyes, tensing all her muscles in heroic defiance of the lash. This last stroke had left angry, flaming stripes over both summits of her posterior, yet the stoicism which she now displayed was totally belied by the shuddering flexions of her bottomcheeks. Another furious stroke in the same place made her hips jerk to one side, and a muffled groan escaped her now compressed lips.
"Make her cry, Pierre," Lucette hissed, as she clutched at Claire's cascading golden tresses. "I want to hear her scream for mercy-I want to hear her beg-I want to see her crawl at my feet! Rip that fat ass of hers to shreds, dear Pierre!"
Pausing a moment to let his victim writhe under the cumulative heat of the lashes thus far administered, Pierre capriciously flicked the martinet about, watching the divorcee squirm and try to shift herself on the padded leather horse against which she was so painfully constrained. Then, as she bowed her head and tensed herself to endure the resumption of the chastisement, he delivered a whistling cut just over the tops of her sumptuous hips, and instantly followed this by making the three leather bands fall as one right over the plumpest curves of her shuddering and now vividly striped asscheeks.
"Aaaahhh! Ouuuu!" The victim's groans were muffled as, with a supreme effort, she clenched her teeth, wanting to give her pitiless black executioner no satisfaction. But the involuntary play of her sphincter muscles proved the atrocious suffering she was enduring, and in her contortions over the horse, she had scuffed off her pumps as her straddled legs jerked against the metal extensions to which they were bound.
Lowering the instrument, the hunchback hobbled up to the horse and ran his long, wiry black fingers over the palpitating cheeks of Claire's burning ass. She stiffened convulsively and. turning her now tear-stained face back over her shoulder, panted, "Don't-don't touch me. I don't want you to t-touch me, do you hear? You can kill me. but don't shame me this wa-. you horrid little black ape."
"Oh, Claire, please don't make him angry. Oh, my God. please don't. Claire!" Sally could no longer control her fear for her dearest friend. The Negress bent down to her and sapped her viciously across the mouth. "That's twice you've disobeyed me. slave! A third time, and I'll let you share Pierre's bed tonight instead of mine. Now you are warned!"
"Oh, you devils, you filthy dirty devils!" Claire burst out, her voice hoarse with suffering. "You'll all pay for this, you'll-Eeeeoww! Oh, don't pinch me there! Oh. my God. not there, not there!"
The hunchback, with a lewd cackle, had applied his right thumb and forefinger to the plump pink lips of Claire's asshole and had applied an insidious little pinch. Mad with pain and shame, the divorcee tried to arch her body off the horse, her bottom muscles contracting frenziedly, but her bonds suppressed this attempt, and she fell back, panting and groaning, on the apparatus.
"So you prefer the whip to my gentle caresses, eh, Ma'am'selle?" Pierre sniggered. "C'est bien. You shall have all you wish, and you will tell me when you have had enough."
With this, hobbling back and transferring the martinet from left to right hand he directed a ferocious slash which sent the thongs diagonally clacking over Claire's jutting ass, wresting a feverish moan from the captive.
Each time the thongs noisily bit against Claire's ass, Sally winced and dug her nails into her palms, as if she felt the dreadful whip on her own smarting and still tender behind. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she watched her friend's intolerable agony. And Madame Desage, with a smile of gloating triumph, posed her left hand atop Sally's head in a gesture of total emprise.
Slowly now, the hunchback whipped his mature blonde victim. As he varied the pauses between lashes, she could not prepare herself for any regularity of pain. He also differed the direction of the glistening leather bands, sometimes making them cling together over a narrow segment of the now angrily inflamed bare skin, again letting all three sweep diagonally or vertically over the huddling, jerking, twitching globes. Claire endured a dozen more atrociously painful cuts, but her indomitable will enabled her to stifle all but sobbing groans and choking gasps as, compressing her lips and grinding her teeth together until her jaw muscles stood out against her sweating skin, she steeled herself.
As the hunchback paused again and wiped his sweating forehead with a swipe of his left arm, Lucette taunted her future slave. "Is your big ass nice and warm now, Claire dear? Are you ready to beg me for mercy and call me 'Mistress'? Where are all your fine insults now, you yellow-haired bitch? Or have you suddenly lost your tongue, dear?" Sadistically she yanked at Claire's tumbled hair, pinched the spasmodically quivering nostrils, tweaked the trembling chin of the agonized divorcee. Then, catching Pierre's eye, she made a gesture: the grotesque hunchback nodded gleefully. Hobbling back and placing himself directly behind the distended, streaked and swollen bottom of the victim, he lowered the martinet and then flicked up the thongs so their pointed tips leaped hungrily into the yawningly distended amber-shadowed groove between Claire's asscheeks, stinging her asshole and cunt at the same time.
As if a current of electricity had suddenly passed through her body, the victim lunged and arched, madly dragging on the straps, her face upturned, the eyes exorbitant with indescribable torment, and a wordless bellow of agony, like that of a wounded animal, was torn from her. "Uuuooueeaww!"
"And what does that mean, bitch?" Lucette giggled. "Again, Pierre, again!" And once again the hellish, tapering tips of the martinet's thongs darted into the interstice between Claire's asscheeks, biting the pouting pink labia of her twat and the puckering, slightly inflamed lips of her bung.
"Ohhh, G-God-kill me, kill me, but for God's sake, don't whip me there between the legs! Oh, my God, I'm dying, I'm dying!" Claire shrieked as she lunged and jerked on the whipping-horse.
"You're going to get it there and nowhere else, bitch, until you are ready to be my slave. Do you hear?" Lucette grabbed with both hands at the divorcee's hair, cruelly twisting and tugging it this wav and that. "Again, Pierre, again, till she's ready to obey."
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Almost without pause the hunchback lowered the martinet, and then with a twist of his powerful wrist darted the tips of the thongs into that intimate gape. Claire's asscheeks clenched, and clenched again as rippling spasms of inhuman agony surged through her. Despite Lucette's relentless grasp of her hair, Claire twisted her face from side to side, her eyes revulsing to the whites as she shrieked, "Yes! Ahhhrrr! Owweeeouuuu! Stop it, I can't stand it, you're killing me! Oh God, my pussy, my pussy, you're ripping me to pieces! Stop! I'll do it, I'll do it-only stop!"
"Wait, Pierre. Now, darling, do you really mean it? Are you really ready to be my slave, to obey every order I give you, no matter what?" Lucette gave Claire's hair a brutal jerk.
"Yes, yes, only spare me any more! The pain-oh, God, the pain! Yes, Yes! Only have mercy on me!"
"Then say it, bitch. Say, 'Mistress Lucette, I beg you humbly to let me be your most obedient slave.' I want to hear you say every word, bitch, or Pierre will whip you there again!"
In a dying voice, broken by sobs and groans, the half-fainting divorcee repeated the infamous formula of capitulation.
"Take her down now, Pierre," Lucette giggled as she stepped back and smoothed her slim hands over her belly, then sensually and obscenely, over her cunt. The Negro hunchback nodded, uttering a hoarse sigh of disappointment. For his part, he would have preferred to go on whipping Claire's juicy plump ass. Why, the skin was not even broken anywhere, and with a backside like that, a ripe bitch like this blonde could stand a great many more lashes. But he consoled himself with the thought that there would be other times for both these white sluts. Yes, they would be sorry they had ever called him a nigger or looked with loathing on him. He'd show them, one of these days, that he was easily as much a man as, and maybe more than, anyone they'd ever known. It wasn't your face or your skin that made you a man; it was your prick, and he, Pierre, had made many a white slave-bitch beg for mercy and fall back on the pillow when she'd felt his becque deep in her twat.
Slowly, as if wanting to prolong the sight of Claire's sagging and trembling, straddled body on the horse until the last possible moment, he unbuckled the straps. Grasping her by the waist with both hands, he reluctantly lifted her down and let her sprawl on her belly on the floor where, covering her face with her hands, heedless of what she showed her three pitiless tormentors, Claire wept hopelessly. At the wall beyond, Sally, hypnotized with horror, still knelt with hands clasped behind her, tears blinding her eyes so that she could scarcely see the defeat and surrender of her adored friend.
CHAPTER TEN
Sally still knelt, sobbing and trembling with despair and terror as she saw Claire taken down from the whipping-horse and led from the room, her body lolling and supported by the hunchback and Lucette, who had placed her arms around their shoulders and their own arms around her waist and, holding fast to her wrists, led her off to begin her degrading servitude as the body-slave of the precocious young mulatto.
"Will you stop that senseless crying, Sally?" Madame Desage vexedly demanded as she stood, hands on her imposing hips, triumphantly staring down at the crouching, desolate redhead.
"I ... I can't help it, Madame. I was as Judas ... I made her come here, to bring her to that terrible beating, and then-" She could not finish. Seized with a new crisis of tears, Sally again covered her face with her hands and abandoned herself to her grief.
The Negress contemplated her, her eyes glittering with avid anticipation. It delighted her own imperious nature to have this gently bred, fastidious virgin under her heel-and that would be her literal fate. But more than this, since, from the outset of her career as a prostutite, Vicorine Desage had been forced to endure the contemptuous rut of white men who treated her like the lowest of animals, she found this time a particular joy in realizing that she might now avenge all those detested memories on the quivering, shrinking, creamy-skinned voung body of this voluptuous white captive. And moralb', her conouest would be spiced by compelling Sally Bannion, daughter of a man of the cloth, brought up and educated to think of the spiritual values of life rather than the material or carnal, to perform the most scabrous and obscene acts.
She had told Sally the truth about her past. When she had been Lucette's own age, she had had to se'l herself to keep alive. And the third client she had solicited at the very outset of this demeaning career had been a young divinity student from Belgium a man in his early twenties, whose speech was that of a poet and whose eyes were gentle and benign. Not knowing who or what he was, she had accosted him near a little sidewalk cafe near the Rue de la Paix. It was evening; the shadows of the setting sun obscured the wall of the tenement where she huddled forcing enough courage to solicit the first passerby. Still embittered by the knowledge that she had already yielded her virginity in return for tawdry francs to buy a little food and pay the rent on her squalid little room, she hadn't seen his black robe or his white collar, nor even the prayer-book in his mind. When she faltered out her formula, "Voulez-vous me suivre pour I'amour?" he took her hand and gently smiled upon her, and told her that prayer would save her from this despicable and pitiful livelihood, and he would wrestle with Satan for her salvation. Wonderingly, she followed him to the cafe where he bought her a plate of stew. Then he insisted that she accompany him back to his lodging, where, he said, they would kneel together in prayer and seek forgiveness for her sins.
But once they had knelt by the window in his room, once he had invoked the aid of Providence to pardon her transgressions and show her the proper path of righteousness, the young divinity student had turned to her, his face twisted with savage lust, and seizing her by a wrist, dragged her to his bed. Flinging her down upon it, he ripped off her only dress, tore her chemise, and despite her frantic attempts to free herself, hoisted up his robe, unbuttoned his fly and, liberating his hugely swollen, angrily red prick, dug it ferociously into her cunt. Then, locking her wrists behind her with one strong hand, while he slapped and pinched her with the other, he raped her. When it was over, he calmly said to her, "This was a lesson, bitch. It shows what risks you run when you try to earn your bread from strangers on the street. You are lucky that it was I whom you solicited just now. Get out of here before I report you to the police."
That was why, in the Louvre this morning, Madame Victorine Desage, after having heard Sally innocently reveal her background, had fiercely resolved to entrap and enslave the beautiful redhead.
"Once again you've forgotten to call me 'Mistress,' Sally," she declaimed in a harsh tone. "Forget your friend, because you have your own future to consider. Make up your mind to it-you are going to be my slave and you are going to serve me obediently. Whenever you fail or forget how to address me, as you have now done three times, you will be punished. Consider yourself fortunate that you are to serve me and not Lucette; she is very demanding and still more capricious. Now, on all fours, follow behind me to my bedroom!"
"Ohh ... M-Mistress ... have pity, have pity! What will Claire think of me now? I've betrayed her, I've delivered her into your hands ... it's all my fault, I was a coward."
"If you hadn't agreed to be my obedient slave, Sally, do you know what I would have done after having you whipped? I would have given you to Pierre, my expert trainer who, I can assure you, has broken in many a recruit. He would have taken you to his bed, my dear, he would have tied you to it, and amused himself in ways that only he knows, until you begged him to fuck you. Don't look so shocked! So you see, because your bottom is tender, you actually saved yourself a great deal of needless discomfort. Now, on all fours, bow your head and follow me. It's still not too late to turn you over to him, you know!"
A fit of shivering seized Sally like an attack of ague. Here alone with the Amazonian Negress, cowed and broken by her own suffering, in this narrow, windowless room, she comprehended at last the momentous scope of her destiny. She was to be the plaything, the willless toy, the pleasure-puppet of this exotic black dominatrix. Before her very first week in Paris was over, she had lost not only her own freedom, but also that of Claire Downing's. Crushed and humiliated, she had only the merest flickering of revolt left in her spirit; as she reluctantly dragged herself on palms and knees behind the haughty imperatrix, every moment sent waves of flaming torment through her voluptuous ass, recalling to her the ferocity of the martinet upon her naked flesh. Like a Damoclean sword, the memory of that flogging early this afternoon hung over her and strangled the breath revolt within her being. Great tears rolled down her flushed cheeks as she crawled behind Madame Desage. Toward what? She was not yet quite certain, but intuitively, she knew it would be unspeakable, degrading, decimating.
"Here we are. Merci, Pierre. Now, wait outside the door, just in case I need you," Lucette briefly explained.
"Bien, Ma'am'selle," the hunchback fawningly agreed. He paused a moment to look down at the whimpering divorcee, who was sprawled on her belly on the floor, arms outstretched, almost swooning with the unending waves of pain which surged through her well-thrashed bottom. Her stockings sagged to her knee-hollows, and these and her bra were her only covering. Pierre's beady little eyes glistened as they contemplated the pitiless tracery left by the thongs of his expertly wielded martinet. Her ripe, succulently rounded ass-cheeks were blotched and streaked, dark red with bluish spotches where the tips of the whip had repeatedly stung her tender bare skin. Her thighs and back, in their carnation-satiny purity, made the discoloration of her backside even more obscene.
Lucette eyed the hunchback with a mocking little smile. "I know, Pierre. You'd like to take her to your room, wouldn't you? Well, maybe you will, after all. If this big-tittied, fat-assed American bitch doesn't do everything I tell her to do, I'll call you, never fear. I'd just love to watch you fuck her till she begged for mercy. But she's my slave first."
"Je comprehends, Ma'am'selle," Pierre's rasping voice shook with envious lust. With a last look at the crumpled, almost nude body of the divorcee, he hobbled out and closed the door behind him. Then, fatalistically shrugging his shoulders, he perched himself on a little stool just outside Lucette's door. Perhaps luck would yet be with him tonight.
After a moment, the mulatto extended her pump-shod foot and contemptuously nudged Claire's head with her heel. "All right, bitch," she hissed. "That's enough yowling. I want that bra off and those stockings, too. Quickly, because Pierre is outside, and all I have to do is snap my fingers. You know what will happen then. He'll give it to you on your fat titties and right between your legs, right on that hairy little spot of yours."
Painfully, groaning with the effort, Claire slowly raised her head and, putting her palms on the floor, pushed herself to her knees. Her face was haggard and wet with tears, and her bubbies turbulently rose and fell from sobs she could not control. Lucette eagerly leaned forward, gloatingly staring at her mature prey.
"C'est bon, ca!" she sarcastically remarked. "I was afraid you might have died under the whip. That would be such a pity, Claire dear, because before I'm through with you, you'll wish you had died. Oh, you're surprised I speak such good English? Well, after all, Maman was married to an American soldier, you see, and I've a few girl friends at the private and very special lycee to which Maman sent me, and they're from the States. Oh, you're going to learn so much about me, Claire dear! I can hardly wait to start training you. The first thing you're going to do is obey me the minute I say something, like now. Get naked, bitch, before I call Pierre with the good martinet that put such a lovely design on your big round backside!"
Setting her teeth with a rancor she did not dare openly express, the divorcee falteringly reached behind her to unhook the straps of the bra. Lucette I sucked in her breath at the sight of the juicy titties, where the smooth, satiny sheen was marked here and there with salacious crimson streaks. Her eyes lowered to the plump mount, thickly covered with dark golden ringlets, and she murmured wickedly, "What Pierre wouldn't give to fuck you, bitch! Especially since you kept calling him a nigger, and that's something else I'm going to break you of, bitch. I've got white blood in me every bit as good as yours, and probably better, too. I needn't tell I you how mad you made dear Maman, as well as ' Pierre, with your insults. Didn't I tell you to take off your stockings right away? You're just begging to be whipped to the blood, aren't you?"
With a groan, Claire dragged herself to her feet and, stooping, began to roll down her nylons, her bubbies jiggling in the maneuver. Lucette leaned back, linking her fingers at the back of her neck, arching her apple-round titties with a tantalizing felinity. Despite her adolescence, a perniciously sly sensuality emanated from her.
"It's about time," she pronounced, as Claire at last stood naked and trembling, her fists clenched, her body shaken by fitful tremors. "But who gave you leave to stand up in front of your mistress? Down on your knees-no, on all fours! Maybe you've learned something after all. Now then," her tongue flicked out to lick her lips, "I want you to crawl forward, stick your head under my skirt and then kiss my pussy."
Claire, who knelt down with a gasp of shame at being thus ordered about by this clit of a girl, stiffened. Staring at Lucette as if she could not believe what she had heard, she panted, "No. That's too much-I won't do that to anybody-you can kill me, but I'll never do that!"
"I won't kill you, dear, but I'll make you wish I had." Lucette gave her a honeyed smile, then clapped her hands. Instantly the door opened and Pierre appeared, the martinet still in his hand. "I'm having trouble making this new slave obey me, Pierre. What does Maman generally do when a new slave refuses to carry out an order?"
At the sight of the satyr-like hunchback and his whip, Claire seemed to huddle herself, one arm crossed over her shuddering bubbies, the other hand clapped over her hairy cunt.
"Of course there always a whipping, Ma'am'selle Lucette." His tone was as meditative as though he were discussing a menu for the next day's dejeuner. "I remember with that Swedish girl, Karen, Madame had her strung up by the toes from the ceiling and her thumbs tied with strong waxed thread to rings set in the floor, very widely apart. Then, after pulling out all of Karen's pubic hair, Ma'am'selle, your mother had me give the bitch twenty-five strokes with a rubber whip that has three knots along the tip. It amazed me how quickly Karen was ready to carry out the order. By the time the fifth stroke stung her between her straddled legs, she was eager to obey."
"My God, my God!" Claire groaned. "How can these monsters get away with such atrocities?"
"I wonder whom she thinks she is talking to, Pierre, Lucette giggled. "Surely she doesn't dare mean us. She certainly wouldn't think of calling us monsters? Because if she did, I think I would ask Maman to let her be punished the way Karen was."
"If I may say so, Ma'am'selle Lucette, I quite agree with you."
"Well, Claire, did you hear that?" the mulatto taunted the horrified divorcee. "If you don't begin at once to carry out my orders, I'll have you strung up by the toes and pull out all the hairs of your fat pussy and then whip you right there, where it hurts the most. After all, I'll turn you over to Pierre for the rest of the night. Would you like that, Pierre, mon vieux?"
The deformed mouth of the freak gaped in a Satanic rictus of cruelty and lust. "You don't know how much, Ma'am'selle Lucette. In fact, I would rather fuck her than her red-haired friend. I have a score to settle with this one."
"Of course you have, Pierre. And that reminds me, I think I'll make her apologize to you before she carries out my order. Claire, turn around and bow your head down to Pierre and kiss his feet and apologize very humbly for all those horrible things j you said about him. And don't forget to take back all those 'niggers' you used. He's very sensitive about his race, you see."
Claire Downing slowly turned on all fours towards the malevolent hunchback. Her flesh crawled at the sight of his leering face, but fear moved her as she beheld the serpentining black leather thongs which had brought about her capitulation. With a nasty little chuckle, he lifted his right hand, the black leather bands seeming to jump about in the air. Claire uttered a hoarse cry and promptly bowed her head before him.
"That's a good start, but I told you to kiss his feet. I want to hear the sounds of your kisses, bitch, and so does he," Lucette reminded her.
Nausea swelled in Claire's belly and a mist of revulsion blurred her widened eyes. His feet were bare in sandals and his toes were long and crooked, like prehensile claws of a beast. The strong, musky odor of his body assailed her quivering nostrils, but when she felt the thongs of the martinet trickle along her bare back, lasciviously caressing her spine, her hips, she decided herself. With a stifled groan, closing her eyes, she pressed her lips to the bony arch of his right foot.
"Did she do it, Pierre?" Lucette demanded.
"I felt something touch me, oui, Ma'am'selle," the hunchback mockingly admitted, "but I didn't hear a kiss."
"Neither did I. You are beginning to exasperate me, you stubborn bitch! Maybe what you need is to have the hair between your legs torn out with tweezers and then Pierre's good martinet right over the naked slit of your fat cunt!"
The cruel relish with which Lucette pronounced this obscene threat overcame Claire's revulsion; this time, calling on all her powers of self-control to retard the urge to revolt against such degradation, the divorcee at last applied an audible suction of her shrinking red lips against that loathsome black flesh.
"I heard it this time, Ma'am'selle," Pierre announced with a gleeful cackle.
"So did I. I think she should kiss each one of your toes the same way. And after she has done this, she should say, 'Pierre, I am so sorry I called you a nigger, and I beg you humbly to forgive me,' Do you agree?"
"It is easily seen that Ma'am'selle is well on the way to becoming as excellent a trainer of slaves as her illustrious mother," the hunchback fawningly countered.
"Merci bien, Pierre." Lucette leaned back, yawning like a cat, squirming herself to and fro on the edge of Ve couch. "All right, Claire, you've heard what Pierre wants. Now go ahead and do it. It's your only chance of saving yourself from a very sore pussy, I can assure you." Her lewd giggle merged with Pierre's blood-chilling cackle, drowning out Claire's sobbing groan of desperation and disgust.
Under the onus of the leather whip, which playfully flicked and grazed her quivering pink-sheened back, Claire was compelled to carry out the ritualistic ceremony prescribed by the implacable young mulatto. Her voice broke several times, but it needed only Lucette's inimical reminder of the alternatives to compel Claire to finish the demeaning task. When it was done, her head remained bowed, her body violently trembling as she fought against the urge to revolt. Yet, naked and vulnerable as she was, fear mastered that urge.
"You'd better stay here a little longer," Lucette purred to Pierre. "Let's see if this bitch is really going to obey me. Why, you've forgotten, haven't you, dear? Remember, I told you to crawl under my skirt and lick my pussy. I want you to do it right now, without any more delay. Lift up my skirt with both your hands and stick your face between my legs. You're very privileged, Claire, because a new slave doesn't often get such a treat from her mistress, not till she's been broken in. All right, come on!"
"Please, for God's sake! Haven't you done enough to me already? It's ... it's disgusting. Don't make me do that!" Claire's voice was hoarse and shaky.
Instantly Pierre, hopped forward, spreading his legs and then clenching his bony knees together to pin Claire's sides as he faced her bare bottom.
With his left palm bearing down on the small of her back, he lifted the martinet and swept it down, then jerked the handle as the thongs flew toward the gap between her asscheeks. There was an angry "Clack!" as the glistening black leather bands bit against her cunt and belly. Her body jerked as she tried to rise, her head falling back and her mouth gaping in a wailing scream: "Aaoouuueeeowww!!! Ohh, the pain, the pain! My God, you'll kill me that way! Ohhaiii!!!"
As if she were a restive mare seeking to unhorse its detested rider, Claire tried to hunch up and at the same time reached back with her hands to try to push Pierre off his perch. But he was too well planted, and his muscular strength too great. As she twisted and jerked to dismount him, he direct-ed a second and third savage blow which made the thongs whistle and crack viciously over her pink-lipped cunt, while the pointed tips loafed under her to sting against her ripe, dangling titties. She lunged and twisted, her mouth gaping in frenzied screams which made Lucette shudder with an over-weaning lust. And once again she surrendered to the superior power of the lash.
"Aaaahhhrr!! Ooooeeeeooouuu!! No more! For the love of God, no more. Have him step and ... and I'll do what you want! Oh, I'm dying of the pain, I'm dying!"
At Lucette's signal, Pierre nimbly leaped off the divorcee's sweating, crouching body and then h'm-self took the part of the master of ceremonies: "Allez, done! Belle vache, tournez et gougnotter votre maitresse, vite! Go suck Lucette, or I'll shave you between the legs with the martinet, and that's a promise!"
Claire had flung herself down on the floor, her hands madly rubbing her cunt and belly, kicking her legs to and fro in the air, crying like a child. But the grating voice of the hideous little executioner recalled her to her inescapable ordeal. Whimpering and gasping as she fought for breath, she slowly got to all fours, turned toward the mulatto and painfully crawled toward her. Slowly, kneeling up, tears pouring down her cheeks, she put her faltering hands to the green velveteen skirt and lifted it, then lowered her head and slowlv moved forward.
Lucette wore no lingerie. Proffered at once to Claire's trembling mouth was the black-ringleted pink orifice of Lucette's pussy. The mingled perfume of urine, sweat, amorous secretions, perfume and naked female flesh filled Claire's quaking nostrils.
"I think I can trust her now, Pierre, but stay very close outside so I can call you, just in case," Lucette warned.
"Bien, Ma'am'selle Lucette."
With a nervous giggle of mounting sensuality, Lucette promptly squeezed shut her thighs against Claire's burning, tear-wet cheeks. And as she leaned forward she dug her fingernails into the lovely swelling curves at the top of Claire's hips.
"Suck me, lick me, kiss my pussy! Fais I'amour a, mon con! I want to feel your mouth and tongue against all my pussy. Yes, Claire, and inside of it, too! All I have to do is raise my voice and Pierre will be back to whip you where it hurts so much, you cowardly bitch. Aahh! Ohh, that's nice. Slowly now, I want to feel every single kiss all over it. Don't neglect any part of my pussy, or you'll suffer for it! Ohhh, mmmm, now your tongue, right inside of my pussy ... aaahhh, yes, yes, there-do you feel the little button inside my slit, Claire? Touch that with your tongue, rub it, push it back down out of sight. Oooohhh, yes, you bitch, now you're beginning to be useful. Ooo-hhh, faster now! Suck it! I want to hear your lips sucking my juice, my good, tasty pussy juice ... and maybe, if you're a very good girl, Claire, I'll give you my cream right in your bitchy mouth! Mmmmm, that's lovely. Oooohhh, I'm going to keep you busy all night servicing me. You'll see, Claire. Now put your hands under my bottom and squeeze it nice and hard ... yes. Now your tongue, scrape it all around, deeper, faster, scrape it all around inside my pussy. Ooohhh, aahhh-now I'm getting close ... oh, bitch, hurry now! Do me off, make me cream-Ohhh-ohhh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, je viens. Now, you bitch, suck me down like good wine! Ooohhhhh!"
Wild with unleashed Lesbian rut, Lucette Desage raked Claire's bare back pitilessly with her sharp fingernails as, alternately opening and smacking shut her thighs against Claire's tear-stained cheeks, she achieved a furious spend. And as she felt her juices ooze out of her matrix, she reached under her victim and grabbed for Claire's dangling, ripe titties, digging in her nails till Claire uttered a moaning scream of torment.
Outside, the Negro hunchback crouching at the door with an ear pressed to the crack, was jacking off with his left hand while he flicked the martinet aloft in his right. By this sublimation, he savored the time when, if the fates were good, and his two mistresses indulgent, he would be able to whip-fuck the blonde captive who was now a body-slave of precocious young Lucette. And perhaps that tasty redhead as well!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
With a peremptory gesture, Madame Desage swung open her bedroom door and. moving to one side, waited for Sally to crawl on all fours across the threshold.
Hopelessly crushed by her own suffering and the knowledge that she had delivered Claire into the hands of this domineering slaver, the redhead slowly obeyed. As she raised her head to look about, the door closed behind her and she heard the click of a lock-a sound that definitively pronounced the start of her enforced servitude.
Despite her anguish, she was startled at the luxuriousness of the room. It was as spacious as a salon and all four walls as well as the ceiling were mirrored. The wine-red carpeting was thick and yieldingly soft, and contributed to the total soundproofing of Madame Desage's private domain. Directly ahead of her and occupying almost half the width of the wall, loomed an enormous teakwood bed. Beside it stood a night table with a small, exquisitely wrought indirect lamp and a coiled black leather dog whip. On the other side of the bed was a teakwood tabouret on which lay a terrifying array of flagellatory instruments, ranging from a leather paddle shaped like a battledore to a thin whippy rattan cane.
At Sally's left, a long, red padded-leather divan extended almost the entire length of the wall, with a glass-topped table alongside it. Near the wall to her right, stood a tall heavy stool. To its legs were affixed heavy buckling straps, and on the rounded top there lay a foot-long flexible wooden ruler and a three-thonged martinet similar to that which had exacted her own surrender.
Still more frightening was the apparatus set into the floor about six feet from the left of the bed: A steel isosceles triangle with wide metal gyves soldered to its legs at the base; at its peak, a pair of steel handcuffs dangled from a chain about four inches long. Nearby sat a bucket containing birch rods soaking in brine. Sally's tear-blurred eyes were wide with terror as she scanned the remarkable bedroom.
Both the headboard and the footboard of the enormous bed were extremely low, rising not more than six inches from the surface of the quilted pink satin cover, which had been already drawn to reveal matching pink satin sheets. And there were pink satin pillows and poufs all along the head of the bed. There was also a curious metal panel set into the headboard with half a dozen pushbuttons which controlled a thermostat, a hidden air conditioner, an alarm bell to summon Pierre and Hercule, a piped-in background music system, while the fifth and sixth buttons respectively activated a tape recorder and an ingeniously concealed movie-sound camera.
The Negress watched her victim with a kind of gloating anticipation. Her nostrils dilated as she saw the redhead's face turn this way and that, gradually assimilating the bizarre accouterments of this unique den. Her eyes contemplated the reflections of that superb creamy naked body which the mirrored walls and ceiling so faithfully gave back, fixing again with greedy sensuality on the striped, livid ass of her beautiful captive. And when she spoke at last, her voice was husky with desire: "As you see, slave, disobedience can be promptly punished here. Now crawl to my feet and kiss them, and promise me that you will be my humble slave. After that, you may undress me. It has been a most strenuous day and I find myself in need of relaxation, which you will provide." Her lips curled in an ironic smile at this euphemistic remark.
Slowly the redhead crawled toward Madame Desage. With a visible effort, she slowly bowed her head till her trembling lips grazed the foot of the dominatrix. Then very faintly she murmured, "I w-will tr-try to be your humble s-slave, Mistress."
Madame Desage was radiant. "Now that is exactly how you are to address me at all times, my dear. I can be kind as well as cruel, as you will see. To prove this, I shall waive the spanking you have coming when you failed to call me 'Mistress' a little while ago. Now, take off my gown, and be very careful with it. It's a Balenciaga."
Avidly she watched the redhead rise to her feet, drinking in the sight of her jiggling firm titties, beautifully dimpling belly and the curly red curls that covered Sally's virgin cunt. Her nostrils flickered with lust as she felt Sally's trembling fingers ease off the narrow straps of her black satin gown. The redhead cautiously drew on the little silvery zipper on the back of the waist; then, carefully taking hold of the folds of the glistening sheath, stooped to draw it down from Madame Desage's hips. As she did so, she uttered a startled gasp-the dominatrix was naked under the gowns, standing imperiously in her gleaming high-heeled pumps.
Hers was the figure of a superb black Amazon, a reincarnation of regal Sheba or the Amazons' own legendary queen, Hyppolita.
Sally recoiled, her face scarlet before this sculptural vision whose chocolate-sheened opulence limned the walls and ceiling. As if hypnotized, she could not help regarding the magnificent high-set, round, tightly spaced cheeks of Madame Desage's ass, the long, powerful, vibrant columns of the Negress' thighs, the deeply hollowed spinal grove. As Madame Desage stepped out of the festooning gown, Sally's eyes were dazzled by the insolent thrust of her melon-round titties with their broad areoles and tumescently stiff and large dusky-coral tips. Like a jewel set in a neatly curved basin of warm, dark-skinned flesh, the wide shallow navel appeared; and below, the thick black triangular garden of love-hair burgeoning over Madame Desage's cunt.
"Don't stand gawking," the dominatrix reproved. "Pick up my gown and put it on a hanger in the closet."
The glass door was part of the mirrored wall; when Sally opened it, she discovered a dazzling wardrobe of velvet and satin gowns, silk frocks, and exquisite lace-trimmed negligees, hostess gowns and housecoats. When she closed the door and turned around to face mistress, she discovered that Madame Desage had already lazily stretched out on the bed, pillowing her head on her arms, her legs lasciviously sprawled so that the thick black fleece of her cunt was invitingly proffered.
"Come, Sally, lie here beside me," Madame Desage lazily ordered, and at the same time arrogantly planted her pump-heels on the sheets to arch up her knees and yawn them apart. Before Sally's disconcerted gaze, the plump pink labia of the Negress' slit peeped out from the thicket of black curls, already libidinously moist.
Haltingly, the redhead approached the huge bed, her cheeks flaming under the amused and sensual scrutiny of the dominatrix. What was worst of all, was that as she moved forward, she could not help seeing her own naked body in the mirrored wall before her, as well as from the sides of that spacious room where everything had been placed and created for the expressed purpose of lustful gratification ... and in turn for the degrading martyrdom of those captives who were summoned here.
"Does my nakedness embarrass you, Sally?" Madame Desage softly laughed. "I can see that yours is most painful to you. It is hard for me to believe that you are twenty-four and still a virgin and even more shy than a school girl. But this evening we will cure all that, won't we? Closer to me, move closer until our bodies touch. Do you see this little panel on the headboard, Sally? If I press one of those buttons, Pierre and Hercule will come immediately to take my orders."
"Ohh n-no, please don't call them-I ... I'll obey you, Mistress," Sally quavered. She forced herself to move until she could feel the Negress' naked hip against her own and at that contact, a shiver ran through her creamy body. Moreover, automatically looking up, she had just seen the tableau of the white and the dark bodies reflected from the ceiling. Out of exacerbated modesty, she covered her cunt with a trembling hand while her blushes deepened.
Indolently, the chocolate-skinned imperatrix drew her left hand from under her head and glided it over Sally's naked titties. The redhead caught her breath with a choking little gasp. "Ohh, pl-please!"
"Be silent! You are here to obey, not to favor me with your impressions. If you wish another lesson in obedience, it takes only a moment to press that button. Put your arms at your sides ... that's it. Now spread your legs ... no, wider than that! Very good. Now tilt back your head. I want those beaux tetons of yours to stick up nicely. Ah, perfect! Now do not dare to move," Madame Desage warned.
Her hand roamed over the rapidly swelling titties, grazing the nipples until they firmed and tingled with sensation. Sally, her eyes tightly shut, her nails digging into her palms, wished herself either invisible or a thousand miles away as the supple fingers glided over her bare skin, palpating and appraising. And these sensual touches now began to concentrate on the stiffening buds of her shuddering titties, until she felt her nipples swell and throb with mounting tumescence. The cords along her tender, quivering inner thighs jerked and tremored as wave upon wave of lascivious self-awareness crystallized, until it seemed to her that all her life was concentrated in the two ruby darts which achingly vibrated with every breath.
"You please me very much, Sally, just as I knew you would. Such velvety-soft skin, such firm, elastic titties!" Madame Desage crooned, her eyes half-lidded, turned to contemplate the quivering creamy body at her side. "Now be very still and don't move a muscle. I must verify your virginity for myself. If I had sold you to some amateur buyer, be very sure that you would have already suffered several even more disturbing examinations than this one."
And with this her left forefinger slyly rubbed the sensitive creamy flesh of Sally's abdomen. "Take your hand away at once! Obey me. or I'll have you bound to that triangle and given the whip exactly where your hand is covering up. Sally!"
With a cry of terror, the redhead drew away her hand, then covered her face and burst into tears as Madame Desage's finger moved into the thick fronds of dark-red cunthair, then swiftly and expertly disappeared between the fleshy, pink lips to delve down that intimate channel and lodge up against the rather tight, resisting seal of the hymen.
"Oh. d-don't do this to me, I implore you! Oh, you don't know how terribly ashamed I am. Please let me go, please have mercy!" Sally pitifully sobbed.
"Stop your crying! I will give you a good motive to do so if you persist! Keep your thighs spread as wide as you can. Now let us see just how sensitive you really are." With this, her prying forefinger moved back and brushed against the dainty nodule of Sally's clitoris. Involuntarily, the redhead arched her body and, uttering a strangled cry, grasped at Madame Desage's wrists with both her hands.
"But this is too much! I warned you to do exactly what I told you to do, didn't I? I'm feeling much too indulgent this evening, or I should ring that bell right now for Hercule and Pierre. Do you want me to?"
"Oh, n-n-no! Oh my God, oh no, pl-please don't do that, Mistress!" Sally sobbed, nevus' twisting her fingers in near-hysterical anguish.
"I will give you a last chance. I can tell that you are a virgin to the male, Sally. But. confess it now, have you ever amused yourself with one of your school chums? Perhaps some pretty young girl with whom you were infatuated?"
"Ohhh, no!" Sally's tear-filled eyes were wide with indescribable shame.
"As I said before, you're almost unbelievably naive at you: age. Well I will do my best to teach you. Now come crawl between my legs, Sally. Slip your hands under my bottom and put your mouth up against my slit!" the Negress huskily drawled. So saying, grasping her suavely dimpled knees, she drew them still farther apart to yawn open her moist cunt.
Sally sat up, a hand pressed to her quivering throat, her face scarlet. "Oh, no! Oh I can't! I won't-oh, don't make me, for God's sake! I couldn't ever do such a ... a horrid thing! In the name of Christian mercy, please spare me, oh, please let Claire and me go! I couldn't ever force myself to anything like that, truly, truly I couldn't! Surely you wouldn't want a slave who couldn't please you?" Her voice broke with pitiful little sobs as she imploringly stared at the lewdly postured Negress.
"You refuse?" Madame Desage's voice was icy. Sally, feverishly twisting her hands in her lap, could only bow her head and hopelessly sob.
The Negress touched the button summoning her servants. Then, nimbly, she rose to her feet, donned a scarlet satin robe, and strode to the door to unlock it. A moment later Hercule and Pierre entered. Pointing to the sobbing redhead on the bed, the Negress commanded, "To the triangle with this disobedient slave!"
Hercule and the hunchback seized Sally, who screamed and twisted and struggled while they dragged her to the steel device, quickly locked her wrists above her head and her ankles, leaving her spreadeagled, straddled and defenseless. Madame Desage turned to the grinning hunchback. "Go back to my daughter's chamber, Pierre. It may be that she will need your services before the night is over. Hercule, let Sally see how well equipped you are to service rebellious virgins!"
Once again and most reluctantly the hunchback hobbled away, glancing back at the writhing creamy body fixed to the triangle. When the door had closed, Hercule, who had answered his mistress' summons clad in only shorts and sandals, calmly unbuttoned his only garment. Before Sally's aghast eyes, his thick, hard prick thrust out. It was fully eight and a half inches in full erection, with broad meatus and dark blue veins angrily surging against the tight skin of the shaft. His huge, hairy balls contracted and twitched spasmodically, proclaiming the copious gismic burden they contained a burden understandably augmented by the breathtaking sight of the naked victim at the triangle.
Hercule bowed his bald head to his mistress with a deferential, "A votre service, Madame!" The Negress went into the closet and emerged bearing an oblong black leather case which she posed on the tabouret near the triangle. Opening it, she drew out a fleecy white heron's plume and a singular little whip composed of a beautifully wrought silver scepter about six inches long. From its end dangled two equally long filaments made of thin silver wire which terminated in a tiny knot. Handing the bizarre whip to the brawny and virtually naked Negro, Madame Desage murmured, "Donnez la petite quinze sur les tetons! Mais gentiment, compre-nez?"
"Bien, Madame." Hercule grasped the scepter-like handle and placed himself facing Sally, while Madame Desage knelt on a thick round cushion directly in front of the consternated redhead and slowly moved the downy feather toward Sally's widely spread thighs. Delicately she drew the tip of the feather from Sally's left kneecap upwards along the tender inner surface of rounded creamy column, up towards the hairy slit, its pink twitching lips poutingly opened to expose that virgin tract. The redhead shivered and moaned, startled by the innocuous beginning of her chastisement. But suddenly Hercule, judging his distance, directed a very light stroke of the little silver whip, sending the two thin wire strands around Sally's left tit so that the tiny knots flicked at the creamy chest just where the luscious globe was joined. The pain was scarcely noticeable, yet where the tips of the two filaments had bitten, tiny bright pink splotches leaped on the creamy skin.
Sally squirmed uneasily, her eyes nervously staring at the advancing feather that was now stroking the tender inside of her thigh just below the groin. Very delicately the tip brushed the dark-red fronds and then brushed over the pouting outer labia of her virgin cunt. With a stifled groan of shame, she lunged backward, just as Hercule delivered the second lash of the silver whip. But this was directed with considerably more vigor and also with a deft jerk of his wrist, which made the two little knots bite against the exquisitely sensitive aureole.
"Ahh! Ohh!"
Now the feather began to rim the quivering lips of her cunt, rubbing back and forth over a particularly sensitive spot, which the Negress determined by closely observing the spasmodic flexions of Sally's thighs and belly as well as by the faintly audible sighs and gasps which exuded from the victim's panting mouth. Meanwhile Hercule had moved to the girl's right, and her eyes followed him, observing the stiffly bobbing emblem of his prick as he moved. And before she could prepare herself, the lash attacked her right tittie with a downward-sweeping stroke that made the two knots bite against the nipple itself. An indescribably fierce little spasm of pain made her feel as if a red-hot needle had transfixed the tender bud; again she lunged back, this time with a sobbing cry, but both feather and whip followed her. Madame Desage had begun to caress the other inner thigh down to the knee and back, while Hercule visited her right nipple again with an even brisker slash of the little whip.
"Aiii! Oh, it hurts me there! Please, not on my b-breast, oh please!"
Her tormentors did not reply to her, each absorbed in the exquisite nuance of sensual sadism. The Negress, her eyes glittering, her nostrils flaring, watched the fleshy lips of Sally's gaping cunt perceptibly twitch and quiver, and then again drew the feather's edges back and forth over their sensitive rims. The bald, tall Negro moved back to Sally's left and applied two swift darting flicks with the silver whip, the knots biting against the lower curve of her heaving tittie each time. As she lunged and twisted from side to side, he made the knots smack against her left nipple.
"Oooouuuu!!! Not there, oh have pity, oh it stings, it burns, you will maim me there!"
The feather drew away from her twitching cunt for a moment, only to resume its lingering caresses over her left inner thigh, while Hercule paused to give her a moment's respite. Her eyes blinded with tears, her face restlessly turning from side to side, she tried to clench her naked legs against the inroads of that maddening feather, to lunge back away from the diabolical whip. At the same time, feather and whip besieged her; the knots stung the aureole, the feather suddenly probed between the yawning lips of her cunt up against her clitoris and began to ply it with rapid little touches.
"Aaaahhh! Ohoouuu!! Oh, stop, please stop, I can't stand this, I can't, I can't!"
Leaning forward now, Madame Desage circled her left arm around Sally's right thigh to control the victim's movements as she continued to tickle the redhead's clitoris. Sally's head tilted back, and through her tears she could see herself and her two tormentors reflected back from the ceiling. The soft down in her distended armpits was damp with acrid sweat. Spasmodic tremors rippled along her creamy sides, made her calf muscles jerk and writhe under the tightly drawn, finely grained skin. Low groans escaped her as the Negress brushed her stiffening tickler back and forth, now with the tip of the plume, now with the fleecy edges until waves of enervation began to make her hips jerk uncontrollably. During this time, Hercule had stood motionless, awaiting a signal. Madame Desage glanced up at him, and the whip resumed its insidious attack: having moved back to Sally's right, Hercule now slashed downward to make both knots of the little whip dance against her swollen, darkened nipple.
"Ohhhh God, oh have mercy! I can't stand so much, oh, I'm going to die, I'm going to faint, please, please, have mercy!" her voice was raucous, panting, while choking sobs assailed her.
The keen eyes of Madame Desage had perceived the telltale moisture around the stiffening little button, which had reluctantly emerged from its protective cowl of pink pussy-flesh. The virgin Sunday school teacher was on the verge of her first orgasm as a slave.
But now, having achieved this near-triumph over the chaste redhead, Madame Desage withdrew the feather and made a sign to Hercule. The remaining strokes of the silver whip, to the count of fifteen as exacted by the black dominatrix, were now applied without pause and with exemplary vigor over Sally's right tittie, the knots biting home against either the aureole or the throbbing nipple itself, drawing wails and hysterical screams from the tortured girl as she flung herself back and forth until the steel triangle creaked its protest.
The Negress rose now and, her left hand grasping Sally's neck while she advanced the tickling heron's plume towards the victim's heaving left tittie, declared, "You have received fifteen lashes. If you are not yet ready to carry out my last command, Sally, I will have Hercule give you double that number where you have just felt this feather. What is your answer?"
"Aahh ... ohh, m-my God! Ohh, M-Mistress, not ... not there ... oh, I'm so weak, it hurts me everywhere. I can't stand any more...."
"But that is not an answer! Will you or will you not put your mouth between my legs and service me with your lips and tongue? Or do you wish me to leave you to Hercule with the understanding that after he has whipped you in so sensitive a place, he will want to console you by sticking in that huge cock of his? Well?"
"Ohhh nooo!! Oh, I'll do anything, but don't leave me alone with him. Don't let him whip me between the l-legs, M-Mistress! Please!"
"Very well. Hercule, take Sally down from the triangle and carry her back to the bed. Remain outside in the event that she changes her mind."
The massive black bowed his head, trying to hide his look of disappointment. But the savagely swollen state of his prick spoke louder than words of his chagrin at being deprived of this golden opportunity to taste the tight hot sweetness of Sally Bannion's virgin cunt.
He carried her in his brawny arms while she wept hysterically, laid her down upon the bed and then left the bedroom. Slowly Madame Desage let the robe fall at her feet and moved in naked splendor towards her shuddering prey. Sally's soft trembling fingers were frantically soothing her smarting titties but Madame Desage smiled knowingly as she saw the redhead's hips squirm and twist, knowing that her feather-frigging had roused untold passions in those hitherto chaste loins.
Once again she took her place on the bed, grasping her knees and drawing them up and spreading them to gape her cunt to the lingual homage of her new slave. "Between my legs this moment, slave!" she hissed.
And Sally Bannion, groaning aloud in her agony of spirit, furtively and shamefacedly crawled between those sumptuous chocolate-sheened thighs and, at Madame Desage's terse instructions, sliding her hands under the dominatress' asscheeks, applied her revulsing mouth to the musky, moist, warm cleft....
Hercule, grumblingly thrusting his prick back inside his shorts and buttoning them with an effort, for he was still in almost full erection, smirked at the hunchback seated on his stool outside Lucette's chamber. "We do not seem to be in luck tonight, mon ami," he remarked. "It is a shame to have to use one's hand to relieve oneself when just behind that door one could enjoy such a con exquise."
"You needn't remind me, sale chameau," the hunchback growled, vindictively slashing the thongs of the martinet down on the carpeted floor of the hallway.
"But you give up too easily, mona ami. Now I have intelligence and I think I know a way so that you and I can fuck these two beautiful American slaves. What do you say to that, hein?"
"I am listening, Hercule."
"And listen well. You know how furious Madame would be if these pretty bitches should try to escape, don't you? You remember the little Dutch girl, Louisa and that Inez from Madrid, I'm sure."
"Well, what of it?"
"Only this, mon vieux. Suppose I pretend to help them escape. I will pretend to have pity on the and, for a price, see that they get back to their hotel."
"But Madame would flay you alive if you did!"
"Gently, gently, Pierre. Did I say that I would? The torture of your cock has made you witless tonight. Now this is my plan. I will convince that blonde one that I am their friend. She will tell the redhead, and they will both believe that I am going to help them. And of course, I will alert Madame. And then of course they will be punished. And I am certain that Madame, to reward such faithful service, will let us both fuck the juicy bitches. Now what do you say to that?"
"That I have underestimated you, Hercule. You have brains besides muscles. What a charming idea! Let us think about it while we wait here. It will be a long wretched night, I am afriad. My little mistress hasn't called me, and I don't think she will. And I don't think yours will either. Now. how do you think you can manage such a coup?"
"Well, Lucette, did you sleep well?" It was noon of the next day, and Madame Desage and her perverse young daughter were breakfasting, attentively served by Hercule. Melon, a mushroom omelet, strong Arabian coffee and a glass of vintage Chablis had been set before them. The Negress wore a scarlet satin housecoat and thong sandals, while the young mulatress was clad in a low-cut green satin negligee and matching pumps.
"Very well, dear Maman. My new slave was very helpful."
"Did you have much trouble with her, Lucette darling?"
"A little at first, but when I threatened to have Pierre tear out all the hair over her fat pussy and then use the martinet there, she took to her new duties as if she'd been servicing me for months."
The Negress indulgently smiled and patted her daughter's cheek. "Then you're pleased with my gift of Claire, darling?"
"Oui, mais certainement oui, chere Maman!" Lucette cooed, her slim arm circling her mother's neck as their lips met in a long and tender kiss. "How can I ever thank you enough for such a nice present?"
"I have been thinking about our little Sunday School teacher, ma jolie Lucette. I would like to know more about her family back in the States."
"You aren't going to sell her back to them for ransom, are you, Maman?"
"Not at all, darling. But at times I have business in the States, and I think I should like to visit Washington. Your uncle Ruben on my mother's side took a fancy to the business which Ernest and I had worked up. As you know, he went to Rio de Janeiro about eight years ago, and he has a string of bordellos which cater to wealthy clients whose tastes are not the usual run of the mill."
"Je le sais bein, Maman."
"From time to time I visit him and I bring him some of the slaves who are no longer in favor among my European clients. I sell them to him at a profit, and he has invested much of this money for me in a New York bank."
"I didn't know that, Maman."
"Yes, it's true. So our charming, ingenuous redhead is the daughter of a minister and, no doubt too, of a mother equally sanctimonious. I must find out more about them. What an amusing thing it would be to enslave not only Sally but the rest of her family!"
"Maman, you're a genius!" Lucette's eyes sparkled.
"We'll see, ma petite, we'll see. Have you finished your breakfast? Shall I have Hercule bring you another glass of Chablis?"
"No, thanks, Maman, I'm quite full. And so is Claire." Lucette giggled lasciviously. "She is going to get fat, she drank so much of my cream last night."
"I think your new slave may have a very interesting experience today, darling. Hercule has just told me of a most diverting idea which he had last night while he was waiting-in vain, alas for poor Hercule!-to be summoned back to help me with dear little Sally. She proved to be quite obedient after just one extra lesson."
"What interesting experience, Maman?"
"Well, you and I were to go shopping this afternoon. Only, we'll hide in the cellar, and Hercule is going to let Claire and Sally think he'll help them escape."
"I begin to understand. Why, that's delicious, Mamanl"
"They will be quite surprised to find their route of escape blocked. And of course they will have to be punished in a most exemplary way so they won't try that little trick again."
"Naturally, dear Maman! Oh, I can hardly wait to see the look on Claire's face when she finds out she isn't going to get away from me. I had to slap her and pull her hair a couple of times last night, she made faces when she was licking my little con. Well, tell me what I must do, Maman!"
Sally and Claire found themselves reunited as companions in misery during their first actual day of communal servitude, after each had experienced a night of demanding Lesbian debauchery. Both Madame Desage and Lucette, upon waking just before noon, had ordered the new slaves to shower quickly and then to dress in costumes which had already been laid out in advance. This was not strange, since the Amazonian Negress trafficked so frequently in slaves that she had at her disposal a vast wardrobe of lingerie and audaciously provocative customes to fit almost any new captive who fell into her clutches.
Under the threat of the whip, each beauty had to don her slave's attire under the watchful eye of her mistress. A sleeveless black satin tunic fitted Sally just to the waist. She also wore a skimpy pair of gold satin panties that exposed the base of her voluputuous behind, black mesh hose which were held up by two tiny gold tabs, and black leather pumps. For golden-haired Claire, a similiar tunic but of green, red satin panties which shaped out like a second skin around her lush asscheeks, charcoal-brown nylon hose equally held up by the pantie tabs, and red leather pumps comprised her livery of servitude.
Both captives helped bathe and dress their imperious mistresses, after which the grinning hunchback was summoned to lead them into the windowless room where Sally had tasted the martinet the previous afternoon. As he locked them in, he mockingly informed them that breakfast would soon be brought to them and that they would remain where they were until Madame Desage and her daughter returned from their shopping trip.
Breakfast consisted of bread and milk in a bowl and without silverware. It was Hercule who brought the two bowls and set them down on the floor before the weeping captives. Sally and Claire had flown into each other's arms when they found themselves alone together, commiserating over their wretched fate. The redhead had urgently begged Claire's pardon for having betrayed her, and she had explained just how she had been compelled to make that fateful telephone call which had lured the divorcee to the villa. In turn, Claire had bewailed her own stupidity for not making further inquiries after she had discovered that Sally had left the Louvre, as well as her thoughtlessness in the mild flirtation with the man from Cleveland. Hence, by the time Hercule entered with this frugal meal, both young women were preoccupied solely with planning an escape, for thought of remaining here in bondage was simply unbearable.
The brawny, bald Negro turned back from the door which he had been about to open, while they regarded him fearfully. He eyed them for a long moment, then murmured, "What a pity to see such beautiful faces streaked with tears on such a lovely day! Outside the sun is shining, Paris is at its loveliest!"
"Go away and don't mock us," Claire groaned. "What good does that do us, now that we're prisoners here?"
Hercule opened the door, made a pretense of glancing out into the corridor, then closed the door very gently and moved toward them, a finger to his lips. "Perhaps things are not so bad as they seem, mes petites," he confided.
"What are you talking about?" Claire angrily retorted.
"Freedom, Ma'am'selle. It is within reach, depending on your friendliness."
"What are you talking about?"
The powerful Senegalese approached, his thick lips wreathed in a lascivious smile. "Why, only this, Ma'am'selle. Madame and her daughter have gone out shopping and will not be back until late this afternoon. Pierre is in the garage attending to the limousine. I am the only one here who guards you. And if you were to escape when I wasn't watching, you would be free, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oh, Claire, if only he means it!" Sally exclaimed.
"But I do mean it. That is, to be sure, if your friend here will be nice."
Claire gulped, glanced nervously at Sally, then asked: "Wh-what do you mean?"
"Only that I find Ma'am'selle very much to my taste. I, Hercule, am black as you see, and I have never had the kisses and caresses of a white woman, though I have longed for them."
"Ohh!"
"Do not be alarmed, ma jolie blonde. I do not say that I want to faire zigzag with you-though it is true I should very much enjoy doing so. What I wish is to have you undress before me and let me kiss and feel your naked body, Ma'am'selle."
Claire's cheeks were flaming, and she cleared her throat to speak, her voice faltering. "You mean you'd let us both go if ... if I did what you wanted?"
The Negro nodded.
"And you won't try to ... r-rape me?"
"No, Ma'am'selle."
"You will give me your word of honor about that?" Claire hoarsely demanded. Again Hercule nodded, his smile deepening as he boldly detailed Claire's voluptuous ripeness with glittering eyes.
"All right, then I'll ... I'll do it. And you promise that Sally can go with me too? I won't tell the police about this, I'll give you my word on that. We just want to get out of here, that's all."
"C'est entendu, ma jolie."
"Oh, Claire, look what I've got you into! It's all my fault...." Sally began.
"It's worth it to get out of here, away from that filthy, nasty little bitch of a Lucette," Claire said fiercely, shuddering as she remembered the degrading ritual she'd had to perform on Lucette's cunt and asshole with her lips and tongue last night. Drawing a deep breath, she drew off the tunic, then took hold of the tiny silver zipper at the crotch of her skin-tight panties and drew it down. Seizing the hems of the sheath, she tugged at them while she squirmed and wriggled till at last it slid down from the breathtaking rondures of her magnificent ass. She let the panties fall to her ankles as she stood, eyes closed, arms at her sides, exposing herself in all her appetizing nudity, to which the gauzy hose added a most provocative nuance.
With an oath in his native tongue, the big Negro approached the divorcee. His hands clenched her I shoulders and his thick lips mashed one dainty, crinkly nipple back into its sensitive aureole. Claire dug her nails into her palms and compressed her lips to keep from crying out with her revulsion. Hercule had a strong, musky smell, and once again the terrifying fantasy of the nocturnal efreet leaped unbidden into her reeling brain.
Sally covered her face with her hands, not wanting to see her friend's humiliation. Hercule, panting with lust, had begun to knead the flesh of Claire's resilient ass with his strong black fingers, pulling open the cheeks and running a fingertip along the humid, quaking groove which separated them. Now his hands rose along Claire's naked sides up to her titties, which he squeezed and prodded as if he were a prospective buyer at that very Moroccan market with which Madame Desage had threatened Sally. Claire trembled violently, and she could not entirely suppress tiny whimpering gasps of revulsion a d terror and shame as she felt Hercule's strong, greedy fingers appraise and palpate her nakedness. Now his hands were at her belly, lowering to the thick, dark-gold thatch covering her pussy; and now with thumbs and forefingers, he had taken hold of the fleshy outer labia and opened them, and then begun to pry inside the humid tract with a forefinger.
"D-don't ... you pr-promised," Claire faintly stammered as she fought the mad urge to plunge her hands against his and force them away from her most intimate region.
"Let Ma'am'selle have no fear, Hercule will keep his promise. I will not rape you, ma jolie. But you must be nice, hein! You must let me find out what your con feels like. Then I will be able to dream what it would have been like if I had stuck my big black becque into it, tu sais?"
"G-go ahead-but for God's sake, please get it over with as quickly as you can!" Claire panted.
With his left hand bridging the cheeks of her ass, Hercule continued to forage inside Claire's cunt with his thick forefinger, scraping the sides of her vagina, and at last discovering the dainty nodule of her clitoris. She uttered a gasp and jerked her hips when this occurred, and he chuckled knowingly: "What a pity that we cannot faire zigzag now, ma joliel How you move about when I touch you there! You are a passionate one, ma belle!"
Finally his examination was over. But he did not end it till he had seized her by the bottomcheeks and applied a loud sucking kiss to each of her heaving titties. When he released her, tears of deepest shame ran down her cheeks, and she was shaken by an involuntary fit of trembling.
"Now that was very nice of Ma'am'selle. And you may cover yourself now, I am satisfied. Come quickly, I will show you the way out of the villa."
Claire needed no second invitation to pull the tight panties up over her cunt and bottom, to cover her panting titties with the gauzy tunic and to clamp the tiny tabs to the tops of her sheer stockings. Hercule strode to the door, opened it, peered down the corridor again and then beckoned. The two young women followed him, not daring to make a sound lest someone hear them and halt their flight back to safety.
He led them down a rear stairway towards the kitchen and into a large, well-stocked pantry. Kneeling down, he tugged at the handle of a trap door and lifted it, revealing a flight of solid stone steps. "That is the way," he explained. "It leads to the cellar; at the end is a door that will take you through the garden and out into the alley. When you have reached that, turn to the right and you will be out into the street where you can summon a cab."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Sally could not control her tears of joy. "Give him money, Claire-oh, they've taken our purses-we-we will mail you a check, Hercule, when we get back to the hotel, I promise we will!"
"Yes, yes, of course," Claire babbled. "But for God's sake, Sally, let's get out of here as fast as we can before that dreadful woman and her horrid brat of a daughter come back! Thank you, Hercule-I ... I won't forget your kindness!"
As she began to clamber down carefully, the brawny Senegalese laughingly retorted, "And I won't forget yours either, Ma'am'selle!"
"Hurry down, Sally. It's dark, but I think I can see a light down at the very end. That must be the place Hercule says leads out into the garden. Do hurry, darling!"
Sally made her way slowly down the stone steps till she reached the solid stone floor of the cellar. It appeared to be near a large wine storage area, with racks of dusty bottles in row upon row. "This way!" Claire exclaimed as she walked quickly forward, and Sally followed beside her.
The passageway narrowed towards that beckoning light, which seemed to filter under a door. Claire reached it first and discovered that a heavy metal ring was fixed into the solid wood to serve as handle. Grasping it with both hands, she tugged with all her might, and it swung open. Then she and Sally simultaneously uttered a shriek of horrified surprise.
The door had opened into a wide, high-ceilinged chamber, completely enclosed. And seated on a handsomely upholstered divan at the back, directly facing Claire and Sally, sat Madame Desage and Lucette, while the cackling hunchback Pierre crouched on a low padded footstool, clapping his hands with evil glee.
"Good afternoon, my beauties," he jeered. "Out for a stroll to get your exercise, hein? Well, you shall have more than you bargained for, eh, Madame?"
"Assuredly, mon vieux. Ah, Hercule, you have come just in time! A superb idea, and I compliment you. You shall have the reward I promised. Take the blonde and prepare her for punishment!" the dominatrix commanded.
Claire and Sally whirled, only to find themselves confronted by the grinning, brawny Sengales. "You ... you dirty nigger. You lied to me, you gave your promise, and I let you-" Claire cried, beside herself with fury at the thought of the humiliation to which she had submitted so willingly.
"But I did not lie to you, ma jolie. I did let you escape, I did show you the way to freedom. Of course I did not tell you that your mistress would be here waiting for you, or that there is a secret door which opens at the touch of a button. And you will also recall that I did not rape you, either," Hercule laughed. He now seized the terrified divorcee and shoved her towards the center of the chamber. Meanwhile Pierre had left his stool and hobbled over to the wall to the left of the door, where he pressed a white button set in a panel. There was a whirring sound, and from the ceiling there lowered a solid iron chain at the end of which were two nickel-plated handcuffs. When they were about the height of Claire's head, Hercule grasped her wrists and forced them up into the open cuffs, whereupon the hunchback touched a second button; there was a click and the divorcee found herself inextricably pinioned. "No! Let me go! What are you going to do? Oh, God, help me, help me!" Claire shrieked, all her courage and bravado giving way to the dreadful anguish of finding her hopes for freedom so cruelly dashed.
Sally had stood petrified with terror while all this had been taking place. But now Madame Desage reclaimed her with an imperious order. "Sally, kneel down, crawl to me and stay beside me to watch Claire's punishment. It will be a good lesson for you. I do not hold you guilty of this attempt to escape, so in my leniency you shall not share Claire's chastisement. But if you should ever try to escape of your own accord, this is what you may expect!"
Conquered, by the magnetic dominatrix, Sally Bannion sank to her knees and, weeping as if her heart would break, slowly crawled toward the couch. Lucette edged forward, clasping her knees with her slim, tapering fingers, her eyes blazing with anticipation. "Do it to her, Hercule!" she hissed.
Stepping back from his victim, the brawny Senegalese ripped off the tunic, then grasped the waistband of the panties and tore them from Claire's shuddering ass and loins, heedless of the tabs which ripped the sheer hose that molded Claire's voluptuous thighs and calves. Pierre touched a third button on the panel; again the whirring song was heard as the chain was drawn up through the hole in the ceiling, hoisting Claire by her handcuffed wrists till her feet dangled two or three inches above the stone floor.
Frenziedly she kicked and thrashed while the hunchback and the sturdy cook devoured her writhing nudity with avid eyes.
Then Hercule turned back to the wall at his right and from a panoply took down a five-thonged red leather martinet, which he flourished in the air while poor Claire, looking back over her shoulder, uttered shriek after shriek. "Oh, noo! Oh, God, not that horrible whip! My wrists are going to break, oh, it hurts me so! Have pity, have pity! Nooo!!"
"Make her dance in the air, Hercule," Lucette panted, reaching for her mother's hand while she slipped the other under the folds of her green satin negligee and began to tickle her cunt.
Sally crouched on her knees, hands clasped in futile prayer beside Madame Desage, her tear-blinded eyes upturned to entreat pardon for her friend. But there was to be none.
The five thongs of the leather whip cracked noisily as they clung across both jutting round asscheeks, and Claire uttered a piercing shriek of torment, lunging forward, kicking and twisting, glancing back at her sturdy executioner, who was already prepared to raise the whip again.
Five more times the martinet wrapped its burning bands over Claire's hips and ass. Then as she dangled, moaning and sobbing, her titties turbulently heaving, Pierre pushed up a footstool in front of her and nimbly mounted it. He was naked, except for sandals, and his penis was in gigantic erection. Panting and moaning, Claire slowly raised her head and opened her eyes, perceiving this new peril much too late. For as she uttered a cry of revulsion and tried to fling herself back, the hunchback sank his talon-like fingers into her succulent hips and dragged her to him, then dextrously jabbed his prickhead against the fleshy lips of her cunt.
"Oaahhh! Oh, no, kill me, I don't want you to do it, you horrible little beast! Take it out of me! Aahhhrrr! Oh, my God, oh, not the whip too! Am!"
As Pierre thrust his prick to the hilt inside Claire's quaking cunt, Hercule flicked his wrist and made the tips of the thongs bite against the lower curves of both shuddering asscheeks. Claire's body jerked and wrenched obscenely, her ringers clawing the air, her head flung back, eyes exorbitant.
"Superb," Madame Desage proclaimed with the judicious air of a connoisseur, as if she were attending a symphony concert or an opera. "I have never seen a better whip-fucking! Amuse us now, my loyal servants, and enjoy your just reward!"
And while Pierre fucked the shrieking divorcee, the martinet continued to crack over her thighs and bottom till the hunchback, clamping his lips over one of her nipples and greedily sucking at it, shot his bubbling spunk deep into her ravaged twat.
But her ordeal did not end with this violation. For Hercule now handed the martinet to the hunchback. Then he in turn stripped naked and, standing on a smaller footstool, ascended behind the moaning, half-conscious divorcee. His black fingers gripped the striped and trembling cheeks of her ass and yawned them to bare her virgin asshole. As he dug his meatus against the crinkly petals of her bung, Claire stiffened and, looking back, uttered a clamorous scream: "Not that, oh don't do it to me there, you'll kill me, you'll tear me! Oh, for God's sake, have mercy now!"
Once again the martinet was her answer. But this time, it was wielded by Pierre, and its kisses burned and bit her belly, titties, upper thighs and, when her frantic and convulsive gyrations angled her loins most vulnerably, against her swollen, spunk-stickied cuntlips themselves. Hercule buggered her slowly, prolonging the act with masterful self-control. But at last, when he gushed his jism deep into her rectal sheath, she hung almost inert from the handcuffs, her head drooping, her body only feebly starting under the strokes of Pierre's satanically directed martinet.
Only then did Madame Desage hold up her hand to signify the end of the chastisement. Nor was it pity that moved her. For as she rose, her eyes blazing and her titties swelling volumninously, she huskily ordered, "Sally, to my bedroom at once! Let us see how much you learned last night!"
And Lucette, not to be outdone, giggled as she moved towards the inert dangling body of the blonde divorcee, reached up to tweak Claire's se-men-stickied pussyhairs, and tauntingly remarked, "Yes, Claire, darling, let's see how much you have learned, after all. Pierre, Hercule, give that weak-kneed bitch some smelling salts, clean her and perfume her, and then bring her to my room at once!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
As Claire's ravaged, whip-welted body was at last lowered to the floor, her wrists freed of the handcuffs and her lolling nudity trundled off by Pierre and Hercule, Lucette exclaimed, "Maman, you're much too lenient, that's a sign of weakness. Haven't you always taught me to show no mercy to a disobedient and rebellious slave?"
"You're right, my darling. But to what do you refer?" Madame Desage smilingly inquired.
Pointing to Sally who wan preparing to follow the dominatrix, Lucette pursued. "I mean your own slave, Sally, Maman! She tried to escape too, remember that! Shouldn't she be punished just as much as Claire?"
The Negress frowned, glancing down at the crouching, shuddering redhead, pondering the question for a moment during which poor Sally's heart seemed to stop. "Yes, that's true enough. But don't forget that Hercule proposed the idea to Claire, and it was she who influenced Sally, who is much younger and obviously quite impressionable so far as the divorcee is concerned, to follow her."
Lucette was not to be put off. "Nonetheless, Maman, She oughtn't to get off scot-free. If she had been a well trained, obedient slave, she would have refused to go along with Claire, knowing that she would get punished for it. Well?"
Madame Desage shrugged. "Your logic is irrefutable, ma mie."
"And besides," Lucette purred, her pink tongue flicking her sensuous mouth, "I want to see Sally taught respect for Pierre and Hercule just as much as for you, Maman!"
"There I will draw the line, my darling. I don't intend to let Sally's virginity be given even to my faithful servants. I reserve it for myself, and I have my reasons."
"Then at least, since she's so afraid of them, let them have some fun with her, dear Maman!" Lucette urged.
Madame Desage smiled agreement. "Perhaps that can be arranged, Lucette. I'll admit that it would amuse me also to let Pierre and Hercule amuse themselves just a little with this shy Sunday school teacher. Besides, they have earned a little reward, especially Hercule for the ingenious scheme of his which has furthered Claire's training."
"Oh, mistress, mistress, what are you going to do to me? Hercule lied to us, you know he did! It seemed so certain that we could escape, and I don't want to be a slave, truly I don't!" Sally sobbed.
"You haven't even begun to know the meaning of slavery, ma belle," the Negress hissed as she bent down to cup Sally's trembling chin and to stare compellingly into the agonized, tear-filled eyes of the redhead.
Hercule and Pierre now returned, both grinning with pleasure. "Your slave awaits you, Ma'am'selle Lucette," the brawny Negro cook remarked. "We left her on your bed, with her wrists and ankles bound to the posts, and I took the precaution of blindfolding her."
"That's perfect, dear Hercule! And of course you put soothing salve on the whip marks."
"Of course, Ma'am'selle."
"Then I shall go see if she is more comfortable now and also more eager to get back into my good graces. But I think I shall wait a little while so that the salve can do its good work. You know why, Maman, don't you?"
Her mother nodded. Then she commanded, "I want Sally naked and hoisted as Claire was, Pierre and Hercule."
"Oh my God, what are they going to do to me? Oh please don't let them touch me, don't let them hurt me!"
Sally groaned, again clasping her arms around the Negress' sculptured thighs and staring up at her with the most poignant look imaginable. She could not know, naive as she still was, that such an attitude only intensified the sadistic desires of her despotic owner. Madame Desage nodded, and the hunchback and the tall Senegalese seized the pleading redhead, and in a few moments Sally found herself dangling from her wrists a few inches above the floor, naked even to her dainty toes.
Lucette, her eyes blazing, her titties swelling exuberantly, devoured that writhing, luscious body as Hercule retrieved the martinet which had At her mother's sign, the Senegalese wrapped the wrought such torment on Claire's shuddering flesh, thongs with an angry Clack across both tensing bottom-globes, and Sally uttered a piercing scream as she lunged forward, heedless of the obscene thrust of her furry slit as if responding to the cock-stab of an impassioned swain.
"Twenty will suffice, Hercule," Madame Desage pronounced sentence.
"Oh no! Oh, have pity! I have already been whipped so much, oh, I can't bear the pain, I-Aiii! Eeaaahhrrrowww!! Oh, Mistress, Mistress, let me off, I won't ever try to run away again, I swear to you that-Owww! Ouuuu!! It tears me, it burns so, it rips me! Oh God, don't let him whip me so hard, please, dear Mistress!" Sally cried hysterically, her tear-blinded eyes fixing first on the implacable dominatrix then turning back in an effort to regard her brawny executioner behind her.
The whistling thwack of the leather bands across Sally's twitching, huddling flesh roused the lust of the four spectators; Pierre and Hercule were already panting, their eyes glittering, their pricks swollen in full erection. As the leather bands clung to the redhead's inflamed asscheeks, she kicked, lunged, swung herself from side to side or forward, looking back with frantic anguish to implore Madame Desage to pardon her the rest of her count. But only the sonorous sound of the lash as it made impact against her dangling, helpless nudity, responded until the twentieth stroke had been laid on.
She whimpered and sobbed, her body uncontrollably twisting from the burning agony in her welted bottom and upper thighs. Madame Desage purred, "A beautifully inflicted thrashing, mon Hercule. You and you also, Pierre, shall have a little bonus for this afternoon's good work. But in advance, Sally's virginity will not be the prize. Yet tell me, each of you, what would you like to do to her, barring, of course, that which I will not permit."
"Me, I'd like to make her wriggle when she feels my tongue in that soft little con of hers," the Senegalese hoarsely declared.
"And I, Madame, would love to suck and pinch those big juicy tetons of hers," the hunchback cackled.
"Then both of you may have your desires fulfilled at once," the Negress decreed.
Pierre clapped his long bony black hands with savage glee as he hobbled to a corner of the stonewalled chamber and carried back a short ladder, which he set down beside the swaying redhead. Then he climbed it until his head was on a level with Sally's shuddering titties, and, digging his strong fingers into her sweating armpits, he bent his head and applied his lips to her right nipple, loudly sucking at it as a baby might do at his mother's pap.
Sally jerked convulsively from the pinioning handcuffs, her contorted face rose, her eyelids fluttered open and a look of aghast revulsion shadowed her beautiful eyes. "Ughh! Ohh, d-don't! Oh, M-Mistress, don't let Pierre touch me, oh, I don't want him to!" And, putting back her head, she desperately tried to wriggle out of his clutches, all her muscles flexing and rippling in her supreme repugnance.
But now Hercule had entered into the sadistic game; drawing up the little footstool, he knelt down on it, and, sinking his strong thick fingers into the swollen, welted cheeks of Sally's quaking ass, he fixed his thick lips to the red silken triangle of her cunt and implanted a lubricous, loud kiss on that delicious virgin gap.
Wild with shame and abhorrence, Sally exerted all her waning strength to break free of her two Negro tormentors. Her hysterical cries and babbled pleas filled the chamber with lust-whetting music in which not only Pierre and Hercule took greedy pleasure, but also the dominatrix and her precocious daughter. Kicking out sporadically with her bare legs, Sally managed to topple the ladder on which the hunchback crouched; with an angry cry, Pierre sprang at her, clamping his wiry legs around her waist and his powerfully muscled arms around her shoulders, while he continued to suck her turgifying nipple. The weight of his body added to her torture, supported as she was entirely by her wrists.
"Aaahhh! Oh, for God's sake, take him off me, take him off me, Mistress!" she shrieked. "My wrists are breaking! Oh my God, help me, Mistress, take him off me, please!"
"Kick me off the ladder, will you, nasty little slut," Pierre hoarsely panted as he raised his face to leer at the agonized victim. "I'm going to stay right here until you promise to be nice, comprends!"
And with this, he resumed his sucking of her now swollen, darkened nipple, nipping it with his jagged-edged yellowish teeth. Meanwhile Hercule, still kneeling on the footstool, tightened his grip on Sally's wealed ass, and now deftly inserted his tongue between the palpitating lips of the redhead's virgin cunt.
She thrashed this way and that, waves of searing agony torturing her shackled wrists, stressing the muscles of her shoulders and forearms, while drops of sweat rolled down her heaving sides and the valley between those luscious titties. The hunchback's legs wound ferociously around her fettering back, painfully cramping her. Despite all her suffering, she began to feel the titillating caresses of Hercule's adept tongue. He had begun to dig it back and forth like a prick between the pulsating outer labia of her pussy, and past the inner lips which guarded the sacrosanct channel of her vagina, almost up to the resilient membrane of the hymen. The hot rasp and the repeated thrustings of his thick long tongue had begun to stir quiescent longings, akin to those she had experienced that night before the trip to Paris, when Claire's inflammatory comments on love and marriage had made her seek appeasement with her own dainty finger.
Hence, even as her face twisted from side to side, congealed with agony and horror, as her shoulders violently jerked from the pitiless traction on her handcuffed wrists augmented by the hunchback's burdening weight, she could not control the convulsive squirming and jerking of her creamy hips nor the inarticulate little moans and gasps which Hercule drew from her.
Lucette was frigging herself again, her eyes glistening with avaricious lust. "Make her come, Hercule! Make her give it down to you, mon braval"
Pierre now transferred his attentions to the other nipple, leaning over to Sally's left breast while he shifted his hold on her shuddering naked torso. "Oh, please, please, get off, oh God, my wrists are breaking, it hurts so, oh please get off me!" Sally hoarsely sobbed.
"Of course, Ma'am'selle Sally," the hunchback sniggered, "I am always gallant when a pretty bitch humbly asks a favor. Beg me to give you a nice hot kiss, and promise that you won't kick over the ladder again, and you'll see how accommodating I can be!"
Hercule now drew his tongue out of Sally's seething cunt, and artfully prodded her clitoris with the tip of his thick lingual membrane. The redhead uttered a strangled cry. "Ooouuuaaahhh!! Oh, d-d-don't torture me so! Aaah, oh God, yes, kiss me, anything, but for God's sake get off me, please!"
"Zut alors," the hunchback growled, tightening his arms around her dimpled shoulders and viciously jabbing his knees against her tender sides until she cried out in pain. "That is not the way to beg Pierre!" Then, with a cruel grin, he sucked her left nipple into his mouth and clamped his teeth against the crinkly throbbing bud. Opening his jaws wide, he brought his teeth together against that sensitive tidbit with a snap.
"Eeeyeeowwww!!! Aaahhh, please, please, Pierre! I beg you-I implore you to give me a k-kiss and please don't bite me there! Oh my God, not there, not there!" Sally screamed as tears poured down her contorted face.
"Now that's much better, ma belle poule," the hunchback smirked. "Open your pretty lips wide, and put your tongue into my mouth when I kiss you, that is the French way, you know!" Greedily, his mouth merged with the half-fainting redhead's, and in her agonized desperation, Sally docilely opened her mouth to that odious kiss. Nausea swept over her as she felt his fetid, rasping tongue scrape her gums and mouth walls. But by this time Hercule's repeated tongue-proddings against her palpitating clitoris had produced a maddeningly demanding effect. Her inflamed, whip-streaked bottomcheeks jerked, yawned and squirmed against his digging black fingers, and her thick, red pussy-curls restlessly ground against his mouth and nose as her body was visited by innumerable hot waves of responsive carnal sensations.
"At last!" Lucette excitedly hissed, prodding her own swollen tickler with a speeding forefinger. "Our naughty little Sunday school teacher has a case of hot pants, as they say in her country! Make her give it all down, Hercule!"
The hunchback now slithered down to Sally's waist and then nimbly dropped to the floor, cackling in triumph. Righting the ladder beside the tortured captive, he quickly ascended it again and, stroking her sweaty armpits with his inordinately long fingers, he resumed his greedy sucking of first this nipple and then its turgescent twin, while the Senegalese accelerated his tongue-gouging of Sally's vibrating, stiffened tickler.
Her head rolled from side to side, her eyes glassily exorbitant. Her nostrils flared and shrank with uncontrollable rapidity and her mouth gaped, her teeth chattering, as hoarse, sobbing moans exuded from her. She felt her loins churning, bubbling with pent-up liquescence. The sirupy sweetness of her innermost secretions began to moisten both the inner and the outer lips of her tingling cunt. Her toes twisted and clawed the air, long spasms jerking her calves and thighs, rippling her inflamed buttocks which Hercule's fingers still savagely clenched. Then her head fell back, and a long wailing cry leaped from her congested throat "Oouuuueeeeyahhhr!" At the very moment when her body quaked in the tumultuous compulsion of this abhorrent orgasm, Lucette uttered an answering, high-pitched cry and sank down on her knees, her finger burrowed to the hilt in her own stickied cunt.
Fortunately for both Claire and Sally, Madame Desage and her daughter decided to grant their two new slaves a reprieve until the next day, although the slim mulatto, after returning to her bedroom to find poor Claire spreadeagled and nude and hysterical at the thought of further punishment, gloatingly taunted the divorcee with hair-raising threats of unspeakably cruel degradations. However, she contented herself finally by squatting astride Claire's haggard, tearstained face and compelling the mature captive to eat her.
Yet at the same time both the Negress and her daughter announced to Sally and Claire that they were to undergo a full week of the most rigorous training in submission and obedience. And each drew up a regimen for her slave. Claire, for example, was compelled to memorize a list of obligations imposed on her by this regimen and recite it without error while Lucette lolled on a deep low couch, toying with the ivory handle of a three-foot long eelskin whip. When the kneeling divorcee faltered in her recital, Lucette would flick the oval-shaped tip of this grayish, flat thing against Claire's pink-sheened shoulder or nape, wresting a piteous cry as well as a frantically accelerated recital of the memorized list from the victim.
It was required of the divorcee to waken her capricious young mistress every morning by kneeling humbly at the foot of Lucette's bed and sucking the teen-ager's toes and licking between each of them. Then, after kissing the floor a dozen times, she was required to crouch between her legs and eat her to climax. After this, she was to take her place on all fours just below the bed so that Lucette might use her as a footstool before going to the bathroom, to which she was required to accompany her mistress on all fours with head humbly bowed. She was then to be a toilet-slave, daintily wiping Lucette's pussy after she had urinated or her anus if she had defecated, and after this hygiene had been effected, Claire was required to pay homage to both orifices with her lips and tongue.
Five lashes across her breast would be her due if at any time she spoke to Lucette without receiving permission, which she had to supplicate by means of crouching at Lucette's feet with her forehead pressed against one of the girl's arches, her face turned to one side and both hands clutching Lucette's slim ankle. The list of obligations was lengthy and Claire had to memorize about ten different gestures that her imperious young mistress might make at a moment's whim, each of which indicated a particular desire that must be instantly fulfilled. When Lucette extended her left hand, palm downward, and crooked middle and forefinger, it meant that Claire was to serve as a human seat; she would thereupon crawl to a footstool, then kneel back and tilt her face up over the seat where Lucette would impose her naked ass upon the divorcee's suffocated and congested face, from time to time ordering her, "Lick my bumhole, Claire, if you don't want twenty lashes on yours!" or "Fais moi nette! Lick my pussy and gobble up all my cream!"
And for the slightest hesitation, or even the hint of a look of rebellion on Claire's beautiful heart-shaped face, Lucette would summon her over her lap, to endure a mortifying hand-spanking. The spiteful and precocious teen-ager had discovered the very first day of that infernal week of servitude that nothing so humiliated the divorcee as to find herself across the lap of a girl of sixteen, offering up her naked bottom for a stinging and humiliating spanking. And Lucette took particular delight in administering just such chastisement throughout the week, even when Claire had conducted herself blamelessly, for the sheer pleasure of crushing and subjugating the mature divorcee, and perhaps inciting her to some revolt which would permit a punishment of diabolical severity.
Sally fared little better under the domineering aegis of Madame Desage. But hers was a more passive nature, and once having been crushed so effectively by her very first flogging and finally by the obscene love-play to which Hercule and Pierre had subjected her, she accepted her fate without much more resistance than occasional crises of tears and pathetically ingenuous pleas to be spared from especially odious tasks. What she did not realize was that the cunning Negress had begun to indoctrinate her to sensual pleasure; though she groaned and shuddered in revulsion when she lay entwined with the sculptured naked body of her imperatrix, she found herself responding to the lustful touches and kisses and cunt-rubbings which weighted all her latent erotic ardor. Often, when Madame Desage had fallen asleep and she was left to lay on her back at the "foot of the bed to be there the next morning when her mistress would awaken, she would sob quietly in the knowledge of her own shameless and wanton behavior, persuading herself by rationalizing that if she had not obeyed, she would have been put to unspeakable torment.
Madame Desage made certain that her two new slaves would sink to the very nadir of degradation by putting the hunchback Pierre in change of their morning and evening ablutions. At ten in the morning and eight in the evening, Sally and Claire were required to go to a huge luxuriously furnished and beautifully tiled bathroom at the end of the hall on the second floor of the villa. There, naked as the day they were born, they had to kneel on their palms and await Pierre's entry. He would then begin with Claire and have the divorcee stand under the shower while, himself naked and his huge prick in monstrous erection he would soak Clare's pussy and titties as well as the shadowy groove between her ass cheeks, then towel her and assist her in putting on the prescribed daily costume of tights and tunic, sheer hose and pumps. And under these salacious touches and rubbings, occasioned by these twice-daily showers both Claire and Sally gradually found themselves in a constant state of sexual enervation ... which would be relieved only by each captive's mistress that night. By way of ironic reminder that their fate was in her hands, the Negress compelled Claire and Sally to write letters back to Reverend Bannion and his wife, gaily describing their stay in Paris. Often she did not find these letters informative or carefree enough, and then each slave received a hand-spanking across her formidable lap with her gloved hand, after which a new version of the letter was attempted. It was amusing to her and Lucette (who always attended these letter-writing sessions) to discover how much imagination and ingenuity the captives could bring to their feverish pens.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Much to the surprise of both Claire and Sally, on the Sunday night which marked the end of the first week of training into servitude, their mistresses permitted them to spend a restful night, unbroken by no sexual demands whatsoever. Indeed, they were sent to bed at nine and informed that they would shortly be visited by the hunchback for the purpose of giving them a special massage to tone up their skin.
On this particular evening, the Negress assigned both her victims to a single guest room which had a large double room, thick rugs and ornate tapestries, but not a single window.
When Claire and Sally found themselves alone in the room, they fell into each other's arms and began to sob. "Do you think we'll ever get back home, Claire dear?" the redhead groaned. "She makes us write those awful letters and I'm sure my parents think we're having a wonderful time here in Paris. But she certainly can't keep us here indefinitely, they'll get worried and try to find us through the American Consul."
"I don't know," Claire gloomily shook her head. "That filthy little hunchback keeps hinting that we're going to make a trip. And of course he won't tell me anything else." She shuddered and bit her lips. "You don't know how my flesh crawls when he comes near me, the hideous little beast. We've just got to wait and see and pray for an opportunity to get away from this horrible place. Oh, for the life of me I don't see how we possibly can, the way we're guarded all the time. If only I'd dreamed-oh, God, someone's coming in!"
They moved apart just as the door was unlocked by the grotesque and malevolent hunchback. In his left hand he held a large silver jar, while his right clutched the solid wooden handle of a five-thonged red leather martinet. Sally and Claire shrank back, their eyes widening with apprehension.
"Don't be afraid, this time, my beauties," he cackled. "I've just come to give you a massage, that's all. Now strip naked and be quick about it. And lie on your tummies to start with. I'm saving your cunts for the last, that's always the best part, ha, ha ha!"
Scarlet with shame, eyes lowered, trembling uncontrollably, Sally began to remove her slave livery, and Clair at once emulated her. They clambered onto the big wide double bed and stretched out, their arms at their sides, closing their eyes and grinding their teeth in anticipation of what they knew would be a mortifying and obscenely demeaning experience.
"That was very good," he commended them with a nasty little snigger as he hobbled towards the bed. "It's really a pity you didn't disobey or dawdle, because then I could have given your bottoms a fine thrashing. And they're so smooth and tender, with hardly a mark left on them. Why, you'd think they'd never felt the bite of a whip. All right, now, lie very still, I'm going to massage you with this special cream. It's going to make you very lovely. I might go so far to say you'll be queens at the beauty festival." And with this he broke into lewd laughter as, laying down the whip, he opened the jar, covered his fingers with a thick, grayish, sweet-smelling cream, and began with Sally. Starting at her ankles, he massaged the cream up her left leg and in the tender inside, moving to the right leg. Next, with more lingering and persuasive touches, he applied the cream to her twitching, huddling asscheeks, at times playfully applying a smack of his bony hand on one or the other satiny globe to urge her to relax her muscles and to stretch her legs a little wider. Sally groaned and sobbed as she felt his wiry fingers rubbing the cream along the sinuous cleft separating her nether hemispheres and even into her dainty asshole itself, but she knew better than to protest. And when his hand slid down and then forward to rub the cream into her groin and even over the lips of her cunt, she turned her face restlessly from side to side, unable to prevent sporadic surgings of her hips and thighs, proof that her latent sensuality had been so expertly attuned all this dreadful week that she could not help responding to these knowing, perversely erotic caresses.
Next came her back and shoulders and arms, and finally her neck. He hobbled back to the tabouret on which he had posed the silver jar, scooped up p handful of the floral scented ungent, and proceeded to massage Claire exactly as he had done the redhead. There was, nonetheless, a discernible difference in his attitude towards the divorcee; not only because she was more mature and hence more an object for his gloating mastery over her, but also because he knew how secretly she detested and feared him, did he prolong her ordeal, to go back repeatedly to her buttocks and to the groove between them, to administer several extra squeezes of her upper and inner thighs, to yawn open the cheeks of her behind and playfully prod his cream-stickied finger around and into her crinkly asshole. And as he did so, a gleefully expectant look made his deformed features still more hideous; he was waiting for the slightest sign of Claire's revolt. Only the divorcee's greater fear of the consequence than of the ordeal she was presently undergoing enabled her to suppress her shuddering rebellion as his long, thicker knuckled fingers slid into her asshole or her cunt time and again during the operation.
But it was worse when both captives had to roll over on their backs, straddle their thighs, and pillow their heads on their arms, thus offering themselves as if to be fucked by their sadistic little tormentor.
Pierre began with Sally again, massaging the cream into her shuddering titties, giving a special attention to the nipples and aureolas while the redhead screwed her eyes tightly shut and clenched her fists, her body rippling with the tension of trying to diminish her nakedness under his lecherous gaze and cunningly prying fingers. And she couldn't help the flaming blushes that surged into her cheeks and forehead, even to the lobes of her ears and creamy throat. Claire, impelled by a kind of hypnotized fascination, stared, her nostrils dilating and her eyes wide and shadowed with mingled loathing and shame.
Pierre slying glanced at the divorcee and cackled, "Getting impatient, ma jolie?, I know, I know. You're wishing that right now your little friend wouldn't be here so that you and I would have a nice hot time together, hein? You're just dying to feel my big stiff becque in your hot itchy con again, aren't you? Just between the two of us, and it's our little secret, isn't, you talk a lot about hating Pierre because he's a nigger and a cripple, but deep down inside of you, that tight whorish con of yours knows it's met its real master!" And he burst into a peal of sinister laughter while Claire groaned aloud and finally twisted her face to one side, her bubbies turbulently rising and falling.
The agony of it all for Claire Downing was that Pierre's diagnosis was all too terribly true. The obsession of her nocturnal fantasy about the domineering efreet had come true at the villa of Madame Desage. And though her flesh and mind and spirit crawled at the isolated thought of being subjected to fucking and buggering, fondling and flogging by a Negro, nevertheless her deep-rooted sensuality was aroused to the fullest by this miscegenatory cohesion and domination.
When Pierre had at last finished rubbing in the cream all over Claire's magnificent titties, belly and thighs, he lecherously surveyed her palpitating body for a long silent moment. Then in a hoarse, lust-throbbing voice, he wheedled, "Oh, I can read you well enough, bitch! I can see the hate and contempt and disgust in your eyes because I'm a hunchback and I'm black and I was born with this harelip. And so, just for that, though I could make you give me a good fuck right now, I'm going to content myself with proving that you really want me to give it to you."
"N-no, oh please, n-no!" Claire quavered, shrinking back against the bed, her fingers restlessly twisting in the sheets.
"Sally, watch how easily I can make your friend get sexy for me," Pierre chuckled. Then he bent over the bed, and, pulling his left palm over Claire's quivering belly, he applied his right forefinger to her citoris and began to tickle it with lingering, persuasive, delicate touches.
Claire sucked in her breath, closed her eyes, and round lovely neck bulged against the smooth pink skin. Her toes twisted and clenched savagely as with all her might she tried to hold herself aloof from this odious humiliation. Sally stared, petrified with horror and disgust, and Pierre maliciously added, "That's it, ma petite! Watch and learn, because one of these days, you'll be begging Pierre to make you come, too!"
He roared with laughter at the look of anguish which sprang to Sally's sensitive, lovely face, as he pursued his frigging. Claire fought the dawning tit-illations of lust which began to crystalize in her innermost recesses. She drew in her breath deeply, her nostrils twitching, beads of sweat standing out on her forehead as she summoned all her powers of self-control. He paused, then flattened the stiffening button back into the pink pussyflesh which concealed it when it was normally dormant, only to resume again with slow circular movements of his fingertip just over the surface of the nodule.
Once again he stopped, his long bony hand grazing along first one inner thigh and then the other, making Claire fitfully jerk, evidence that she was being stirred against her will. Then his forefinger darted back to the clit, this time speeding the cadence of his frigging. Claire's head rose, her eyes dilating and shouted, her nostrils flickering, as an inarticulate moan surged from her: "Aaaahhh!" Her fingers clawed the sheets and she ground her bottom against the bed to dissemble herself before the insistent and compelling summons which his finger was making upon her carnal reflexes.
Sally could not help seeing his enormously swollen prick which bobbed between his hairy, sinewy black thighs. Intercepting her gaze, he smirked and glanced down at himself proudly. "Not tonight, little one! Madame Desage is saving you. You'll just have to content yourself with using your finger after I've gone, I'm afraid! Or perhaps, if you're very nice and ask your friend Claire sweetly, she'll accommdate you, won't you, you yellow-haired bitch?"
"Ohhh-aahhh! Oh, pl-please!" Claire whimpered, her face turning restlessly from side to side as her thighs began to shake and flex with uncontrollable neural and muscular spasms. And then, at the very height of this lascivious arousal, the hunchback stopped and, turning his back on the two naked slaves, hobbled out of the room, calling back over his shoulder, "Sleep well, my dears! Tomorrow, there's to be a festival in your honor!"
"Oh, God, my poor darling," Sally groaned as she turned to the divorcee, groped for Claire's hand and squeezed it in compassion. But Claire, her face contorted and flushed, her teeth chattering, turned her face away and with her free hand, began to frig herself, shamelessly, feverishly, seeking assuagement from the maddening pitch to which the hunchback had so diabolically brought her....
"Claire and Sally, you'll sit on either side of me on the back. Lucette will ride up front with Pierre," Madame Desage commanded. "If you're thinking of attracting the attention of some gendarme, you'd best forget it. The curtains will be drawn and no one will see you. And I needn't mention that for even trying anything like that you'll earn the whipping of your life. There. Now sit quietly, your shoulders straight, like perfect young ladies. You mustn't rumple your fine new dresses. You must look especially nice to meet my friends this afternoon."
Sally and Claire docilely got into the limousine and took their places beside the magnificently gowned Negress. If a passerby had seen them, he would never had dreamed that they were the slaves for they looked more like fashionable young women en route to a ball.
Claire's golden hair had been done up in her customary coronet braid circling the top of her elegant head, giving her a most appealing maturity. The lush ripeness of her body was accentuated by the blue satin short-sleeved frock whose hems modestly descended to mid-calf. She wore blue suede pumps with rhinestone buckles on the instep, charcoal-brown nylon hose, and white calfskin gloves to her forearms, while a dainty blue felt toque perched atop her lovely head.
Sally was exquisitely demure in a yellow satin frock with full, puffed sleeves, with tiny seed pearls sewn along the modestly cut bodice which did not quite reveal the top of her bosom-valley. A long full skirt was pleated down to mid-calf, accentuating the mouthwatering curves of her bottom and thighs. She wore smoke-hued nylon hose and red leather pumps with rhinestone buckles at the insteps. To add an extra feminine touch, Madame Desage had enveloped her coppery-red pageboy cascade in a gold-net snood. She wore black calfskin gloves to the forearm.
The limousine drove swiftly towards the opposite end of Paris, arriving at last in the suburb of Cournoies, the wealth of whose residents was obvious from the elaborate mansions and villas enclosed by grilled iron fences, the elegant little parks and flowery lawns of fine estates. At last the limousine stopped before a three-story red brick house on the corner of a side street, with a quaint Gothic attic and spacious eaves, then turned into the hedge-framed driveway towards a massive garage about three hundred yards at the rear, which had living quarters, evidently for the servants, atop it. The driveway was already crowded with cars, so Pierre parked the limousine and scrambled out to come around the other side and open the door for Lucette. The mulatress wore a breathtakingly provocative strapless cocktail frock of green satin, matching her mother's black satin ensemble. Madame Desage wore her famous ruby pendants and the pearl necklace which emphasized the long warm chocolate tint of her smooth, glossy skin. Lucette promptly grasped Claire by an elbow and hissed, "Now you walk with me and smile and bow your head when you're introduced, bitch, or I'll make your bottom smoke for you when we get back home!"
Madame Desage took possession of the redhead the same way, murmuring, "We've come to visit some very dear friends of mine, Sally. You are to be on your very best behavior, remember. And needless to say, you will obey as humbly and as swiftly here as you do back home. Otherwise, Pierre will give you the whip when we get back. Now come along."
"Will you need my services, Madame?" the hunchback obsequiously inquired.
"I don't think so, Pierre. Madame Yvonne has capable assistants, even if they are amateurs," the Negress softly laughed. "But don't look so downhearted, mon vieux! I prevailed upon my dear friend to let you spend a few delightful moments with her pretty new maid, Irinalla. She's no older than my own Lucette, but I warrant she will drain you like the most accomplished courtesan. She's of fine Dahomey stock, and exceptionally passionate. Go in at the back of the servants' quarters, and you'll find her waiting in the kitchen."
"Madame is much too kind," the hunchback bowed and scraped, a hideous smirk of lustful anticipation rendering his features still more terrifying to the quivering white captives held in tow by their imperious mistresses.
Madame Desage leisurely walked along the mosaic-tiled pathway which led to the entrance of the house, and pressed the bell. Presently the door was opened by an adorable young girl, about seventeen, whose golden hair was cut short like a Joan of Arc, of medium height, clad in a red satin bolero jacket which exposed the upper halves of stunningly opulent, closely spaced titties, and a clinging knee-length white satin skirt under which it was evident that she was naked. She wore the lace cap of a sou-brette, a ridiculously tiny lace apron tied about her middle, and her feet were shod in spike-heeled red leather pumps.
"Good afternoon, Laura," Madame Desage maternally patted the girl's cheek. "Pray announce us to your mistress. Have all the guests arrived?"
"Mais oui, Madame Desage! They are all in the recreation room. Madame Yvonne awaits you in the salon. Do come this way, if you please."
The Negress turned to Sally and whispered, with a sarcastic little smile, "Laura had been with my friend Yvonne only a month, but you see how admirably she is trained. I may take some pardonable pride, since Yvonne purchased her from me. She's from Boulogne, one of those rare blondes from that warm region. Come along now!"
The charming subrette led them into a magnificently furnished salon, of the style of Louis Quinze, with marble statuettes, rococo tapestries and paintings on the walls, chairs and tables of that embellished period, a huge low brocade-upholstered divan, and chaise longue on which their hostess reclined awaiting them.
"You are prompt to a fault, Victorine," she exclaimed as she rose and came to embrace the Negress and to kiss her on the mouth while Claire and Sally gaped with surprise.
She was in her mid-thirties, about five feet seven inches in height, her dark auburn hair styled in a thick chignon, and her breath-taking figure was almost transparently seen through her clinging white faille frock. Her waist was boyishly slim, her hips and thighs equally sleek and compact, but her bosom was opulent, almost as much as that of Madame Desage herself. Her oval face was almost oriental, with almond-shaped cat-green eyes, very short lashes, thin, plucked brows, and her mouth was thin and small, incisively cruel. Her rose was dainty and snub, with thin but very broadly flaring wings, and her cheekbones were slantingly set. Her voice was vibrantly contralto, and her entire manner one of arrogant poise and domination. She might indeed be said to be a perfect counterpart of the Negress and obviously they were friends of long standing and recognized each other as equals, for Madame Desage prolonged the boldly familiar kiss by gliding her gloved hands over Yvonne's tightly spaced oval bottom.
"But I'm keeping your guests waiting, ma cheri." the Negress purred when at last they had disengaged themselves. "What do you think of my new slaves?"
Yvonne (whose last name the Negress did not once mention throughout the afternoon) stepped back to scrutinize Claire and Sally, pursing her thin lips, her eyes narrowing as she considered them. Finally she pronounced, "Sensational! I have present this afternoon three very notable matrons who are dying to purchase a slave from you."
"I regret, Yvonne, that Claire and Sally are not for sale. However, in view of the honor you do me by devoting this meeting of the Birch and Rod Club to my little demonstration, I will permit these ladies and of course your other guests and members as well-to bid for the services of Sally and Claire after our little seance. And since I am in a benign and charitable mood, let the sums of the lucky bidders be donated to a home for wayward girls."
"Victorine, tu es merveilleuse" the auburn-haired hostess laughingly exclaimed. "But come along, then, for our little club is dying of impatience to meet you and thse two delicious apprentices of yours."
The interchange hardly reassured the blonde and the redhead, who anxiously eyed each other. They had had little chance to express their feelings, for Madame Desage and Lucette now led them through the salon behind Yvonne, who had headed down a long, narrow passageway to the very end of the house. Stopping at a door to one side just before the wider entrance to the kitchen, she turned the knob, opened it, and descended a flight of velvet-covered wide steps, beckoning to the Negress and her daughter to follow.
"Go ahead, Sally and Claire," Madame Desage ordered.
"What is it, mistress?" Sally faltered. A stinging slap across the face was her answer as the Negress hissed, "If you disgrace me down there before my friends by senseless arguments and pleas, I will have Hercule and Pierre put you on the rack and stick heated pins into your big titties and bottom! Now get along down there, girl!"
Trembling with fright, Sally descended the stairway, with Claire beside her. They both stopped short, uttering a simultaneous gasp of incredulity and terror.
They found themselves in an immense chamber, made of stone, yet as luxuriously furnished as any elegant salon. Wide, invitingly soft, richly upholstered, pictures, divans and loveseats, a buffet table with appetizers and decanters of fine wines and cognac, contrasted with the gloomy gray stone walls and floor of the room. In the exact center of this enormous room, there was a circular carpet of black velvet, about three feet wide and very thick. At the center of the ceiling, there lowered from a thick round steel shaft a circular metal ring with a diameter of about six feet, woven with garlands of flowers like the top of a Maypole. And from this ring there dangled two chains, spaced at equal distances apart, at whose ends were fixed a pair of silver handcuffs.
But what struck even more terror into the hearts of Sally and Claire was the sight of the audience awaiting them, lounging on the divans and couches or the loveseats, or standing at the wall and volubly chatting till the moment when all of them, catching sight of the blond and redhead, suddenly stopped so that an oppressive silence fell upon the chamber.
There were some thirty in all, among them young girls no more than fifteen (the daughters, nieces or cousins of adult members of this singular and exclusive society), as well as exotically beautiful young women, handsome matrons and gray-haired dowagers in their fifties. And all of them were clad in belted, filmy negligees of lace and nylon or of the sheerest and most expensive silk, some of them elaborately fur-trimmed in mink and sable, and pumps. Beside one of the largest divans stood a long rectangular table on which were placed objects that made Claire and Sally shrink back with justifiable apprehension ... dogwoods, martinets, thin leather straps ending in sadistically notched tips, long handled bath brushes with stiff bristles, leather paddles. And in buckets full with brine, placed beside this table, were bundles of varying sizes of birch rods, some long and slender and ferociously whippy, others comprising a dozen or more withes, tied with cords and garnished with a cloth wrapper to serve as handle, as well as bouquets of nettles whose stems had been equally bound together and cloth-wrapped to facilitate their wielding.
To the right of this velvet-carpeted circle was a wooden podium and beside it, a low, square, solid mahogany block. The exotic auburn-haired hostess approached the podium, rapped with a gavel for attention, and addressed the eager audience: "Dear sisters of the Birch and Rod Society, I, your president, Yvonne, bid you welcome. As was announced to you last week, our biweekly meeting this afternoon is held in honor of one whose thrilling exploits and ability as a trainer of female slaves is far too well known to need mentioning here. I refer, of course, to Madam Victorine Desage, who has most graciously brought with her two apprentices, young women from the United States, Ma'am'selles Sally and Claire."
The members began to clap their hands and to call out, "Bravo, dear Victorine!" Yvonne held up her hand for silence, then continued: "As a proof of her devotion to our society, I am happy to tell you that she had consented to allow you to bid for the services of these delightful slaves. Alas, not permanently. But after our little welcoming festival, they will mount the auction block and you may bid, depending on your enthusiasm. The proceeds will go to the Clairmoier Home for Wayward Girls, which as you all know is a project dear to all of us." At this, a ripple of amused laughter was heard.
With this preamble, the hostess stepped down from the podium and inclined her head toward the Negress. The latter replaced her, inclined her head and thanked the members for their kind applause. Then, turning to the aghast young women, she coldly ordered, "You will both of you strip naked and, when you have done so, go stand on that velvet carpet. At once, slaves!"
"Oh God," Claire's voice was low and trembling. "What are you going to do to us?"
"Why, as Pierre himself told you," was the Negress' ironic reply, "you are going to be queens of our festival. You will be the very center of attention and of interest." Then, her voice severe, her face stern with authority, she repeated, "Obey me at once. I think you can guess the alternative!"
The two victims stared hopelessly at each other, trembling as they heard the murmur of gleeful anticipation from this bevy of sadistic females. For, indeed, every member of the Birch and Rod Club was Lesbian by nature. Some of the matrons were married, but continued to pursue their penchant for the exquisite games of Bilitis through the medium of this secret club; and there were incestuous relationships to be found among the roster, such as a mother and her daughter, an aunt and her niece, and two lovely young cousins in their early twenties, one of whom was engaged to be married at the end of this very week, and whose husband-to-be fully understood that she would share his bed with her beloved cousin whenever she wished.
"How long have these slaves been trained, Victorine?" Yvonne superciliously inquired.
The Negress' eyes were baleful as she retorted, "A week, Yvonne. But you must remember it is their first time in public, so to speak." Then she advanced towards the cowering victims. "I will give you two minutes to be naked," she pronounced, her voice shaking with anger, "otherwise, my friends here will aid you."
Several of the younger matrons moved to the table, seizing whips and martinets, ready to intervene. With a groan, Sally submissively began to remove her frock. Claire hesitated only a moment more, then followed suit. Now again there was silence as the blond and the redhead tremblingly stripped, unhooking their garterbelt tabs, stooping to drag down their stockings, and finally cower, side by side.
"Over to the carpet!" Madame Desage hissed, and Sally and Claire reluctantly obeyed.
The president of the Birch and Rod Club now resumed her role as mistress of ceremonies. At the wall at the end of the largest divan was a panel with pushbuttons, one of which she touched. The central rod lowered several feet from the ceiling, bringing the handcuffs to the level of the victims' bosoms. Approaching Sally, whom she sensed to be the more submissive of the two slaves, Yvonne swiftly locked the silver handcuffs round the redhead's wrists, and then fettered Claire in the same way. Each young woman was thus posed with a distance of about six feet between her and her neighbor in misery and shame. And pain also, for with squeals and cries of anticipation, the members of the Birch and Rod Club hastened to the table and procured the flagellatory instrument of their choice, while several of them selected from the sheaf of birch rods soaking in the brine-filled buckets.
They then stationed themselves around that terrible velvet circle, and Yvonne now addressed the unfortunate naked captives: "You are going to walk in a circle, my beauties. If you step off the carpet at either side, you will be urged to return to it in a most uncomfortable manner. Are we all ready now?" this to the eagerly waiting members, who shouted an impatient assent.
Yvonne returned to the panel, pushed the first button, the central pole ascended till Sally and Claire found themselves standing on tiptoe, dragged up by their shackled wrists. Waiting a moment to judge the effect and to make certain the victims were properly placed, she now pushed the second. There was a whirring sound, and the gleaming steel shaft began to turn, forcing Claire to step forward with its consequent traction on her wrists. No sooner had she taken two straining steps when the whistle of a thin birch rod lunged through the air as a pretty brown-haired petite fifteen-year old (the niece of Yvonne herself) directed the supple switches straight across both opulent asscheeks. With a cry of pain, Claire stumbled on, with her cries echoed by Sally, whose voluptuous posterior a gray-haired, fat woman had just slashed with a sharp, knotted rubber dog-whip that made the redhead execute a ludicrous hop and skip as she tumbled forward on the velvet carpet.
It was seen that about five of the members in that cruel circle gripped bouquets of nettles. And a moment later, Yvonne's cryptic explanation of the "rule" was atrociously illustrated on poor Claire herself. As the divorcee, who had just shrieked in pain under the spank of a leather paddle in the hand of a supple, black-haired young matron, saw her next executioner lift a birch in the air and prepare to swing it against her titties, she lunged madly to the left, her left foot just quitting the velvet carpet. At once a tall, bespectacled teenaged brunette with very small titties but a sumptuous bottom left her place in the circle, hurried up to Claire and slashed her across the titties with the nettles. Claire uttered a maddened, hoarse cry, tears running down her flushed cheeks as she stumbled back down to the carpet.
"Now you see why it is well not to set your feet on the bare floor, bitch," Yvonne giggled, her bosom swiftly rising and falling. She had finally joined the circle, selecting a fine-thonged leather martinet with which she now striped Sally's writhing asscheeks with a deft backhanded cut that wrapped the tips of the things round to sting the redhead's tender groin.
Round and round the infernal maypole moved, and the shrieks and sobs, the babbled pleas and hysterical supplications for mercy were accompanied by the sinister and lascivious music of the whips and martinets, the paddles and the birch rods, attacking those two shuddering, twisting and weaving naked bodies. Nor were those strokes confined to the bottoms of the two victims; often one of the young girls or an old dowager would sadistically apply her dogwhip or birch across Claire's or Sally's titties or belly, and once Yvonne's niece cut well up between Sally's legs, attacking her pussy with a fiendish stroke. In her desperate agony, the redhead stumbled off the carpet and the niece promptly moved alongside her, circling Sally's waist with her left arm as she pitilessly rubbed the nettles right into Sally's furry cunt!
An electric timer controlled the movement of this infernal Maypole; after what seemed an eternity of hellish torment to the two sobby, stumbling captives, a bell range and the shaft slowly stopped rotating.
Their bodies gleaming with sweat, the marks of their flogging marring the satiny glow of their titties, their bellies, thighs, bottoms, backs and shoulders, Claire and Sally lolled in their bonds, their heads bowed, moaning faintly, almost unconscious from their ordeal. But the hellish penalty of the nettles had kept them from fainting throughout this moving gauntlet; their nipples were swollen and darkened from the nettles, as were the lips of their tender cunts.
Yvonne touched the pushbutton which lowered the steel shaft and circle, and two of the matrons hurried up to unlock the handcuffs, taking advantage of their opportunity to fondle the shuddering bubbies of the blonde and redhead, slyly running their fingers against those inflamed and twitching cunts.
"And now for the auction," Yvonne huskily exclaimed. "Let's have the blonde first! Hortense, Felicia, bring her to the auction block!"
Hortense, a florid-faced, fat dowager, and Felicia, a tall, mannish-looking brunette, seized Claire by the elbows and dragged her onto the square block, maintaining her by standing on it beside her, their arms around her waist. Mounting the podium, Yvonne picked up the gavel and struck it three times: "Now, attention, my dear friends! What am I bid for an hour with this exciting Claire? She is thirty, she has been married, but I suspect that our kind of admiration will be new to her."
"A thousand francs!" called a deep-voiced stocky brunette in her mid-thirties, raising her leather paddle to identify her bid.
"Fifteen hundred," snapped a gray-haired dowager, who glared at the mannish Lesbain.
After a few other bids, the sale narrowed between these two women, and finally the stocky brunette won her with a bid of four thousand francs. Yvonne, taking up a flexible riding crop, tapped Claire across the titties and commanded, "On all fours, and crawl after your new mistress Magda!"
Pitifully pattering as she crawled, Claire followed the Lesbian through a door at the extreme right of the huge room. She found herself in an exquisitely furnished boudoir-like chamber whose walls and ceiling were completely mirrored. A chaise longue, a dressing table, a sideboard with wine and fruit and cheeses, added a note of intimacy. But in the center of this unique chamber was un upraised wooden platform, circular and about two feet off the floor. Metal rings were fixed into the wood, and Claire was bidden to crawl upon the platform, whereupon her pro tern mistress fixed her ankles and wrists in the gyves. "Wait there, my beauty," she said in a hoarse, low voice. Then she disappeared through a narrow door in one of the mirrored walls, which led to a luxurious bathroom which had just off its entrance a large wardrobe cabinet. She emerged five minutes later clad only in thigh-length red leather boots, a red leather jacket, and shoulder-length gloves of the same gleaming hue ... with a dildo strapped to her naked loins.
Approaching the boudoir table, she pressed a button set on the surface of the table, and the platform began to revolve. Claire uttered a cry of terror, having seen the dominatrix reflected back to her in the mirrored wall ahead. She was turned inexorably to face her purchaser, who regarded her with a crooked smile, and murmured, "You will call me 'Mistress Madga,' bitch!"
Mounting the platform, she now knelt down behind Claire, who uttered a shriek as she felt the hard rubber dildo prod against her swollen cuntlips. The Lesbian panted with delight as she stared first at the ceiling, then at the walls all around her, while the platform revolved, watching herself fuck the helpless divorcee.
The door of this erotic boudoir opened, and a pretty fifteen-year old girl with long honey-colored hair, naked except for thigh-long black leather boots and shoulder-length gloves entered.
"Come, my darling, my sweet Iamb, my delicious little Cousin Dorothea," the Lesbian crooned. "Claire is going to faire minette with you, my darling!"
The exquisitely formed, pale-skinned adolescent clambered onto the slowly revolving platform and took her stance in front of the kneeling divorcee. Cupping Claire's tearstained, swollen cheeks with both hands, she lifted Claire's face towards her dainty cunt, the hair of which had been depilated and the dainty pink lips tinted scarlet. "Kiss and lick me there, worship my core!" she purred. And then, twisting Claire's earlobes between thumbs and forefingers, she compelled the groaning divorcee to eat her while the mature Lesbain continued to fuck Clair with deep eviscerating digs of the dildo.
And after Claire had mouthed the adolescent girl to orgasm, writhing and groaning under the vigorous ploughings of the Lesbian's dildo in her cunt, what was her anguish to hear her pro tern mistress command her, "Now, bitch, you'll give her a delicious feuille de rose!" At which the booted, naked adolescent turned, wantonly spread open her own buttocks to present agonized Claire with the dainty pink orifice of her bumhole; and while the divorcee rubbed her trembling tongue over the girl's nether crevice, the intrepid Lesbian sodomized her with the dildo.
Sally was auctioned off for thirty-five hundred francs to a sophisticated matron of twenty-eight, named Leonore and the latter's cousin, a piquantly plump golden-haired girl of not quite seventeen named Mireille. Leonore claimed her by compelling the redhead to crawl on all fours while she clamped a thin metal ring against Sally's nasal membrane; the ring was affixed to a dog leash, and thus Sally was led off to a private chamber with Mireille riding on her back as if she were a human pony and enthusiastically bouncing up and down in gleeful anticipation of the erotic orgy to follow.
By comparison with what Claire had endured, Sally's martyrdom was relatively innocuous, though assuredly shameful. She was obliged to lie between Leonore and her cousin and to frig their pussies with her forefingers, while they alternated French kissed her till each achieved climax. Then Leonore crouched over her loins and ate her, sticking a forefinger up Sally's dainty asshole, while Mireil'e lowered her plump, thickly-furred pussy to Sally's mouth. Opening her older cousin's buttocks, she bestowed on Leonore an exquisite feuille de rose. Finally, the two women changed so that Sally sucked Leonore who licked her younger cousin's asshole. And despite the excruciating torment of the nettles and the whip, the redhead was unable to prevent herself from responding to the ardent Lesbian attentions of her hour-long purchasers, and groaned and wept with deepest shame when she was twice brought to involuntary orgasm.
Finally, when the time was up, Sally and Claire were taken by Yvonne, Hortense and Felicia into a luxurious bathroom, there showered and salved, dressed and returned to Madame Desage and Lucette. Pierre sat at the wheel of the limousine, beaming with pleasure. He had spent a memorable afternoon in the embrace of the nymphomaniacal Dahomey maid, and was so sated that he only yawned and glanced casually at the haggard white captives whom Madame Desage helped into the back of the limousine.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
For a week after the "debut" of Sally and Claire at the Birch and Rod Club, Madame Desage and Lucette continued their slaves' training in exactly the same way. However, when Sally was alone with the Negress at bedtime, the latter exhaustively interrogated her on her background, demanding physical descriptions of her mother, her father, and her brother. Learning that Reverend Allen Bannion usually took a two-week vacation from his pulpit in the month of August, at which time he turned over his church to his sober thirty-five year-old assistant Frederick Porton, the Negress determined to put into action the impulsive whim which at first leaped into her fertile brain the moment she had learned that Sally was the daughter of a minister. She had never forgotten her betrayal by the Belgian divinity student, and her ambitious and almost incredible project seemed to be a kind of poetic justice. But much more than that, the idea of enslaving an entire family, of corrupting the high morality of a minister, his wife and chaste son enormously appealed to her.
She was busy during the day sending cables to her agents along the Atlantic seaboard, and she awaited their replies with the greatest impatience.
Several times a day, indeed, during that taxing week, poor Sally found herself upended over Madame Desage's lap, her tights rucked down and her naked bottom subjected to a furious manual or hairbrush spanking, seemingly without justification. But on Friday afternoon, just after lunch, her Amazonian mistress turned to her at the table and with an indulgent smile declared, "Sally, I've good news for you. You and Claire will be going back home the last week of July. I've made the arrangement to sail from Cherburg on the S. S. lie de Bretagne. I've taken separate cabins for Lucette and myself, and a large third one for the two of you along with Pierre and Hercule."
Sally was thunderstruck, and could only sit there speechless and stare at her domineering mistress, while Claire, who knelt beside Lucette's chair, uttered an incredulous gasp. "Oh God, is ... is it really true? Are we going home at last?"
Lucette, to whom her mother had imparted the details of her ambitious plan, gave the divorcee a malicious smile. "Yes, Claire, we're going home. But don't forget, once you're on the ship, you'll still be my humble little slave. And since Pierre and Hercule are going to be with you every hour of the day and night, you'd better make up your mind to being a very good little girl, you hear?"
The S.S. He de Bretagne was on its second day out of Cherbourg. When Claire and Sally had been taken to the stateroom that they were to share with Madame Desage's Negro aides, they discovered that all their baggage, which had been left at the hotel on the day of their abduction, was there awaiting them intact. The dominatrix had, the same night of her subjugation of Claire and Sally, telephoned the Parisian hotel manager to inform him that the young women would be staying with a dear friend for several weeks but that they wished to retain their room and that the hotel would receive a check each week to cover the rental. This expert dealer in female flesh had overlooked not the slightest detail in making certain of her conquest.
The weather was serene and the air was warm. After lunch, which was served to the two young women in their stateroom by Pierre and Hercule (who now exacted tribute from Claire and Sally by having the scarlet-faced captives kneel down and first kiss their feet and then their cocks in token of gratitude). Madame Desage gave orders that they be taken out on deck and given a chance to enjoy the air and perhaps to exercise at playing shuffleboard.
They were allowed to dress in the clothes they had bought for the trip, so that they in no way resembled slaves. Claire in her blue cotton dress, flesh-colored nylons and white sandals, and red-haired Sally in her blue cotton short-sleeved frock, charcoal-brown nylons and brown pumps, immediately captured many a male eye as Hercule escorted them out on deck. The brawny Senegalese was dressed in a tuxedo, and looked very natty. Madame Desage had already slyly informed the purser that she and her daughter were travelling with their "pupils", giving the ship's officer to understand that Sally and Claire had come to Paris to study dramatics with her and were now returning home. Hercule, she informed him, was the stage manager at her workshop. And the purser readily accepted this explanation.
But what Claire and Sally didn't know was that Madame Desage had given Hercule an explicit order which had made him roar with laughter when he had understood it. Aboard the S.S. He de Bretagne, there were quite a number of adolescent males, the sons and wards of wealthy passengers returning after several months in Paris or the Riviera. Madame Desage had studied the passenger list with great care and made some astute inquiries before embarking. She had discovered that several of the youths had their own cabins and in several instances were travelling with only a family friend or an elderly uncle and hence not vigilantly supervised. It was certain that they had plenty of money to pay for "special entertainment." And Madame Desage had capriciously decided, at the spur of the moment, to furnish them with precisely that ... in the form of Sally and Claire!
The two unsuspecting beauties presently accepted a game of shuffleboard with two portly English businessmen, partners in a large garment factory in Sheffield. Hercule attentively watching them to make certain they did not attempt to appeal for help. Finally satisfied himself that this innocuous game presented no problems, he promptly moved off toward a part of the deck where a group of six youths were conversing. They ranged in age from fourteen to seventeen, all of them came from wealthy homes in Long Island, and Hercule hovered by long enough to overhear some of their conversation, which convinced him that he could very easily carry out the orders of his despotic mistress.
One of the boys, a gangling towheaded youngster in an expensive tweed suit, was boasting to his cronies: "I bet you guys never even saw one of those stag shows they have down on the Place Pigalle."
"I suppose you did, though, Jimmy," a short, fat, bespectacled youth of sixteen, jeered.
"You're damn right I did, Ben! Not only that, I bought me a set of sizzling dirty pictures. Wanna see 'em?"
"Sure, sure!" the other boys chorused. "Come on, Jimmy, give us a look!"
The pimply-faced youth in the tweed suit warily glanced around, then drew out of his lapel pocket a flimsy envelope, dirtied with many fingerprints and torn in several places to indicate how often he had referred to it, and cautiously drew out a set of four-by-fives. The boys crowded around him, snatching at the photos, while he peevishly exclaimed, "You be careful, you guys! Dontcha lose 'em, or you'll hafta pay me plenty. And I can't replace 'em."
"Hey, Jack, get a load of this," fat Ben gasped, as he turned to a sullen-faced curly, black-haired boy of about fifteen. "He's doing it dog fashion!"
Hercule chuckled to himself and cautiously approached. Then he cleared his throat. "Excuse me, young gentlemen-"
"Hey, watch it-gimme back those pictures fast!" Jimmy anxiously exclaimed. "Wh-what d'ya want, huh?"
"Don't worry, Jimmy," Hercule said in a confident tone, "I'm not after your pictures. But I must say you could do a lot better than that. That is, of course, if you've got a little money to spend."
"What're you talkin' about anyhow?" Jimmy suspiciously demanded. "Who are you, Mister?"
"As it happens, I manage a couple of very charming artists, boys. They like American men a great deal, and they told me they wouldn't mind having a little fun-if I could find young gentlemen who know how to keep a secret."
"Fun?" Jimmie echoed. "What kind of fun?"
Hercule shrugged, and gave the pimply-faced youth a knowing wink, as if he were dealing with a man of the world. "Why, doing what that picture shows, naturally, Jimmie," was his suave reply. "Do you see that blonde and that redhead over by the shuffleboard game?"
"Yeah, I sure do! Wowie!" the youth gave a salacious whistle of admiration. The pleasant Atlantic breeze was making the young women's skirts cling tightly against their thighs and bottoms. And as Sally now bent to push the disc forward, she revealed in profile the magnificent jut of her titties.
The sullen-faced boy moved closer to the Senegalese servant of Madame Desage. "Lemme get you straight huh?" he muttered. "You mean those two babes playin' shuffleboard over there, they give out for cash?"
"That is precisely what I mean, young man," Hercule said gravely. "Now, mind you, they are not prostitutes for a living. I mean, they don't take on any man, so you've got no chance of catching a disease from them. But they just enjoy boys like you who are young and strong and can satisfy their needs. Do you understand me?"
"Man, I dig you one hundred per cent," Jimmy exultantly chortled. "How much?"
"Why not make an offer? Would you like the redhead or the blonde?" Hercule was playing the role of panderer to perfection.
"Let's buy 'em both, what d'ya say, guys?" fat Ben panted, glancing around at his fellows. The five youths hurriedly dug into their trousers pockets for their wallets, consulted among one another and then Jack told the Senegalese, "We can put up about a hundred bucks. Is that enough?"
"More than enough, young man," Hercule smiled as he pocketed the money. "Now, where shall I bring the young ladies for your pleasure?"
"Hey, the stateroom next to mine is vacant, I happen to know that 'cause the steward said so this morning," Jimmy excitedly spoke up.
"Excellent. Why don't you and your friends take it over, and I'll bring Claire and Sally right along," Hercule suggested. He then strolled toward the shuffleboard game just as Claire was about to shoot, and, tapping her on the shoulder, murmured, "Come with me, slave. And tell Sally to follow at once. It is the order of Madame Desage."
Sally gulped and turned red. mumbling an excuse to her stuffy British partner and then moved over to whisper agitatedly to Claire, who also excused herself. As the two young women walked toward Hercule, Claire whispered, "What's it all about, for God's sake?"
I don't know, Claire dear, but I'm scared. I saw Hercule over there talking to those nasty boys. You know, I recognize two of them from our own crossing. The ones that made those perfectly vulgar remarks about us. That pimplyfaced boy and that short fat one with the glasses."
"Come to think of it, you're right, honey. Oh, Lord, I wonder what Madame wants now. Just when I was beginning to feel a little bit like a human being again." Claire groaned.
As they approached the Senegalese, he caught them each by a wrist and muttered, "You know what will happen if Madame hears that you disobey her order."
"Why, yes," Sally gulped nervously.
"She has ordered that you entertain those boys who are going down the gangplank. I am to take you to a stateroom, and there you will do whatever they wish, is that understood?" he glowered.
"Wh-what do you m-mean?" Claire stammered, wide-eyed.
"Precisely what I have said, slave! Perhaps you would like Pierre and me to treat you as we did in the stone cellar that time, do you remember?"
Claire shuddered and closed her eyes. No, she hadn't forgotten, she would never forget. "I remember," she said faintly.
"It is well that you do. You and Sally have been purchased by these estimable young men. Amuse them in any way they ask. If they wish to make love to you, you will permit it. After all, they have paid well for the privilege."
"But you can't-oh God! You mean they think we're ... we're-" Sally couldn't finish, her voice choking with anguished shame.
"They think you are girls who enjoy a little pleasure for money, yes," Hercule finished for her. Then, scowling, he repeated, "I will take you to them. Don't let me hear that they aren't pleased with what they've bought, or Madame Desage will be very, very angry! Come along now!"
Jimmy had hurried ahead to the stateroom which adjoined his, tried the door and found it open. He waved enthusiastically to his cronies to follow, and behind them, their faces red with shame, came Claire and Sally with Hercule beside them to make certain they did not try to escape.
"Here we are, young gentlemen," he said with a great show of politeness. "They have promised me they will do their very best to please all of you. The blonde is Claire, the redhead is Sally. Take all the time you wish. But I'd advise you not to make too much noise, in case one of the stewards should be suspicious."
"The only noise that's gonna be heard is when we stick 'em," Ben sniggered, grabbing Sally's wrist and dragging her across the threshold of the stateroom. "C'mon, Red, I gotta yen for what you've got, baby, I sure have!"
"Oh, Hercule! Oh, please!" Sally wailed as she stumbled along in tow. Jack, the black-haired youth, had an arm around Claire's waist and was pushing her into the stateroom, muttering thickly, "Boy, are you stacked! I wanna see whatcha look like when you're peeled down!"
"But-Oh, this is all a dreadful mistake, please let me-" Claire began. She had no chance to finish. The stateroom door was banged to and locked behind her. Hercule chuckled, and, the picture of strength and dignity in his immaculate tuxedo, moved slowly down the corridor....
"Now then you guys, let's not rush things and ruin everything," Jack took charge. "What we're gonna do is have these broads peel off their things and then we'll have a lineup. C'mon, gals, get with it. Take off those cute dresses and let's see whatcha got underneath!"
The other two members of this precocious group were a stocky red-haired youth of sixteen named Fred and a fourteen-year old tall lean boy named Kenny.
"Boys, please, you're making a terrible mistake," Claire expostulated, struggling against Fred and Ben who had grabbed her by the wrists and were dragging her over the large double bed. "We paid our good dough to that nigger who's running the show, Claire, baby," Fred drawled. "So quit acting and let's have some action instead! Now you just haul off that dress before we get nasty, see? We paid a hundred smackeroos for you two broads, and we're gonna get our money's worth!"
"Oh, what are we going to do, Claire?" Sally groaned, trying to break away from Jack's clutches; the surly youth had grabbed her round the waist with both hands, and was rubbing his cheek against her heaving titties, while she vainly tried to push him away.
"We ... we've got to remember Madame!" Claire gasped, then backed away with a cry; Fred had stooped and rucked up her dress to her waist with a broad grin. "Quit that! I'll take it off, if you'll just give me time!"
"Sure, baby, but not too much time, see? You've got us all hot and bothered now and we don't wanna go off in our pants," the stocky youth bawd-ily retorted.
"Yeah, that's a damn good idea! Okay, you broads, get moving or we'll take over," Jack growled.
Claire and Sally stood trembling side by side up against the foot of the bed, while the five boys formed a vigilant semi-circle around them.
There was no help for it. With a groan of despair, blushing Sally Bannion falteringly drew off her dress and then her slip. Claire emulated her, and loud wolf-whistles greeted this deshabille.
"Jeez, pet a load of Sally's tits! And that nifty white skin she's got. Boy, is she a piece of ass!" Fred panted.
"Yeah, man, but me, I'd rather shag that sexy Claire!" the precocious Kenny piped up.
"Take off those tittie-covers next," Jack commanded. He had unbuckled the black belt of his trousers, and now swept it through the air menacingly. "Do what we say, or we'll beat ass on ya both, see?"
"My God!" Sally panned in a low voice to her companion. "I can't believe this is happening to us! Such young boys, and ro ... filthy, so awful!"
"Better them than Pierre and Hercule." Claire grimly whispered as she reached behind her to unhook the bra and let it fall to the floor. But she couldn't help blushing like a veritable schoolgirl as the excited boys called out their praise of her breasts. "Cripes, willya pipe those bombers Claire's got!-You said it, man, I could hang on them all night and suck her milk till my belly burst! They sure look real, that's not silicone!" This last from Jimmy, who had sneaked away from school in San Francisco one afternoon and bribed an usher to sneak him in and let him see the topless waitresses in a Broadway Avenue dive.
"Now the pants," Fred said hoarsely. "And don't take all day doin' it," Jack warned with another nourish of the belt.
Sally and Claire groaned aloud as they slowly began to tug down their nylon panties, stopping so that their bubbies dangled temptingly. Fred moved closer, reached out and squeezed one of Claire's luscious love-cantaloupes, just as the divorcee had her panties down to her upper thighs. With a cry of pain, she stumbled backwards and landed on her back on the bed.
"See, you guys?" Fred exulted jerking down the zipper of his fly and liberating a surprisingly thick, swollen penis. "She wanted me first. You other guys have fun with Sally till I git done! Okay, Claire baby, let's you and me fuck!"
He flung himself upon the astounded captive who tried to push him off, but in vain. She couldn't kick because her tangled panties fettered her thighs, and before she knew it, Claire arched and gasped as the clumsy but unerring thrust of the stocky youth's prick pried apart her fleshy cuntlips and crammed deep into her vagina. "Jeez, I'm in, I'm in, you guys," he grunted, his face twisted with ecstatic lust.
"Bo", is she nice and tight and hot! Okay, you sweet piece of ass, I know you love it, 'cause the nigger said you did! Now hold on tight and let's go for a fucking ride!" Fred exulted.
With this, burying his face against Claire's heaving titties, slipping his hands under her squirming bottom, the youth began to hump the squirming divorcee.
Sally had paused in her own disrobing to watch, her mouth open in stupefaction, her friend's dilemma. But Ben and Jimmie seized her wrists, and Jack, tucking his belt under his left arm, reached out, grabbed the waistband of her nylon panties and ripped them off.
A clamror of hoarse boyish voices rose. "Goddamn, look at that snatch, wouldja? Lemmie give it to her first, I gave that nigger all a'twenty bucks!"
"Listen, you guys, we got two broads and all afternoon, so keep your voices down, you want to have us thrown outa here and lose the best shagging we ever got?"
At last some semblance of order was restored. Ben and Jimmy knelt on the wide bed holding Sally's wrists above her head, while Jack, who seemed to have won the argument, tugged down his zipper and bared a long lean taut prick, whose fiery-red head bespoke inordinate excitement.
"Oh, no! Ohhooo!!!" Sally screamed, trying to kick out at her ravisher with her feet.
"Grab one of her legs for me Kenny, if you wanna go next," Jack panted. The youngest of the group eagerly nodded and adroitly grabbed Sally's left leg with both hands and pinned it to the bed. Jack reached out, grabbed her right leg with his left hand and then flung himself atop her.
"Claire! Oh my God, help me-no, don't do it to me-oh please, oh no, I've never-Arrhh-oooh, you're hurting-"
Twisting and writhing, arching, clad only in her garterbelt, hose and pumps, beautiful Sally fought desperately to save her maidenhead. But Claire, vigorously mounted and furiously fucked by the stocky Fred, could hardly intervene. Squirming and twisting, poor Sally managed to avoid the first few random digs of Jack's stiff young cock against her maiden citadel; but suddenly he plunged his hands under her bottom and squeezed the cheeks cruelly, making her scream and arch, and at that moment he rammed his prick home and with a single violent lunge, skattered her cherry.
Her head flung back, her eyes revulsing. Sally announced in a long agonized and heart-rending wail the loss of her cherished maidenhead!
Excited bv the sight of this violation. Ben and Jimmy reached out their free hands to cup and squeeze Sally's panting titties, while Kenny, shuddering with pentup lust, quickly dragged his zipper down and pulled out his own admirably adequate weapon to be ready for his turn.
Fred uttered a cry of rapture as with a sporadic flurry of rapid thrusts he exploded his vital juices in Claire's quaking cunt. Then he pulled out and staggered to a seat, uttering a sigh of content. "Boy, can that bitch fuck! Okay, who's next?"
"Me!" pimply-faced Jimmy cried as he abandoned Sally to her fate and crawled over to fling himself upon the still stunned and groaning divorcee. Before she could try to twist away or fend him off, he had grabbed her by the titties and, wriggling over her, excitedly crammed his bursting prick between the stickied lips of her pussy and then hilted himself with a long savage dig.
Jack's sinewy lean buttocks jerked and contracted as he sent himself plunging back and forth inside poor Sally's ravaged sheath. The redhead sobbed and groaned in pain, for the twinges caused by that brutal and thoughtless laceration were excruciating. But Jack's excitement at being first with this mature and beautiful young woman overcame his desire to prolong his conquest. "Hey you guys, she's cherry, she's cherry!" he bellowed out, and then his face twisted and he uttered a cry of disappointment as he felt himself shattered with a wave of lust that made his jism spurt deep in Sally Bannion's womb.
Feeling the hot spurt of her ravisher's spunk against her matrix. Sally uttered a desolate, choking cry, and twisted her face to one side crushed by the knowledge that she was now forever sullied. All her twenty-five years of strict moral upbringing obliterated by this one detestable act; she felt herself unclean, like someone who had been healthy until suddenly a taint of leprosy had evinced itself. And she began to sob, deep racking sobs that made her body shudder and jerk.
Jack, panting with his thwarted appeasement, pulled himself out of her cunt, and stared down at his limp cock, bloodied by this unexpected consummation. He grimaced, dug into his trousers pocket for a handkerchief and then hastily mopped himself.
"C'mon, Jack, fer Crissake," tall young Kenny gasped gripping his throbbing cock with a trembling hand, "I gotta go so bad I'm gonna lose it if you don't hurry it up!" Kenny's guardian didn't know it, but the precocious fourteen-year old had got his ashes hauled for the first time two weeks ago in Paris. He'd talked the old man into letting him go on a bus tour with a family group out of the same hotel, and the old geezer had been feeling under the weather from too much champagne the night before, so he'd let Kenny off by himself. Only, he'd gone down the street and found a cab driver who spoke a little English and shown him some good old greenbacks from the States and told the guy he wanted to make it with a broad. So the driver had taken him to a house, and there a beaming, fat old dame had led him into a living room where six sexy bitches were lolling around, and he'd picked a tall, svelte brown-skinned Moroccan hooker by the name of Nadia.
"Take it easy, Kenny," Jack disgustedly growled as he clambered off the bed."I didn't think she was cherry, not after what that nigger told me. Look, she's bleedin' like a stuck pig. You better not try to shag her now, Kenny. Wait, I'll go get a wet towel and sponge her up. She won't be no good to you like that, that's for sure."
The surly-faced youth hurried to the bathroom and returned a moment later with a damp cloth. Bending over the prone and still pitifully sobbing redhead, he awkwardly patted and rubbed the blood-smeared fleece of her pussy, and then rubbed her upper thighs and abdomen to remove the stigmata. Meanwhile, Jimmy was vigorously fucking Claire. His face between her panting bubbies, his left hand up under one of her buttocks, and his forefinger edging into the crinkly orifice of her anus, his right hand under her nape, he was energetically thrusting in and out. Claire, her fists clutched, her face twisted towards the porthole of the stateroom, lay passively, but as the shock of this first assault waned, she began to feel the compulsion of friction along her tight wet sheath.
Grinding her teeth, she tried to hold back, humiliated of being brought to climax by a mere boy. But Jimmy, who had more control than his predecessor, was no typro to sexual endeavors; he had already sucessfully seduced his pretty thirteen-year-old cousin and blackmailed his attractive English governess (whom he had caught fucking with the chauffeur) into coming to his room late at night whenever he felt like it. Now squirming about, he edged his forefinger between the lips of Claire's anus and began to synchronize both finger and prick in her sensitive canals.
It was too much. The attunement of her enforced servitude under Lucette and her own maturely developed potential for passion defeated all the divorcee's attempts to hold herself back. Suddenly her head rose from the bed, her eyes staring, as she convulsively flung her arms around her assailant, uttering a raucous groan. "Ohh-oh my God, I can't help it! Ohhhh!!"
"Jeez, oh, lookit that blonde hooker shake her ass!" Ben gasped, as he pinched the head of his aching prick between thumb and forefinger, awaiting his own turn. If he didn't get one quick, he was going to have to jack off, that was for sure.
Flinging all pride and control, Claire arched and weaved, and her thighs clutched Jimmie's trousered legs as she felt the explosion of hot, seething love-juice inundate his delving tool. Jimmie clenched his teeth and with a last savage poke, joined her in furious climax, his finger rammed up to the hilt in her asshole, groaning aloud in his rapture at feeling the walls of both channels clamp and contract against his finger and cock.
"Hey," Kenny whined, "I gotta shag Sally, I can't hold it much longer!"
"Oh, pl-please don't! Oh, I'm so sore. Please don't d-do it to me again, I beg of you, b-boys!" Sally tearfully pleaded, covering her inflamed pussy with a trembling hand.
"Hey, we paid to shag these bimboes, didn't we?" Kenny angrily demanded of anyone that would answer. "How come she's begging off?"
But the youth who had taken Sally's prized cherry seemed suddenly to have developed a kind of grudging compassion. "Aw, she can't be much of a hooker to be cherry," he said disgustedly. "Anyway, you can hurt a bitch poking her when she's bleeding like that. Won't give you no fun either when she feels sore. Tell you what you guys, we'll make her French us, all of us. That way, we'll get what we paid for and she can't have any complaints. Now that's fair, isn't it?"
Ben and Fred agreed that it was. Kenny, greedily staring at the creamy body shuddering on the bed before him, was reluctant, but was finally convinced by his older cronies. "Aw right," he at last agreed. "But she's gonna take me now and set me off good, I'm burstin'!" And without more ado, he crawled to Sally and knelt astride her titties, presenting his inflamed penis to her shrinking lips. "Now start suckin'!" he hoarsely commanded.
Jimmy had pulled himself out of Claire, to lay sprawled and quivering, her bosom rising and falling with violent turbulence after the explosive fury of her unexpected come. His place was taken by Ben, who grunted as he clambered over Claire, "I'm gonna fuck you till my jism runs outa your ears, baby! Let's get to work!" Seizing her titties with both hands, he gouged his stiff ramrod between the wet twitching lips of her pussy and thrust himself to the balls inside her still fluttering sheath.
Sally cringed at the sight of young Kenny's formidable, throbbing weapon. "You're gonna do it, Sally," he gasped. "Or us guys gonna smack your ass good and hard!"
"That's right," Jack didn't want his friends to think he had gone soft all of a sudden. "I'll use my belt on your tail, baby, because you're getting off easy, see? So take care of my pal Kenny, and do it good, or else!"
Sally had endured many a spanking and whipping since that memorable morning in the Louvre, and each time, quite apart from the physical pain and suffering, she had felt herself atrociously shamed and degraded. But the thought of being whipped by these boys was absolutely intolerable. And so, whimperingly, closing her eyes, she acceded. Her trembling lips opened, and the overjoyed Kenny, pinching her earlobes with his thumbs and forefingers, steered his aching cock into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged and she gagged, but he pinched her earlobes and snarled. "Now suck it, like a lollipop, baby! And do it right if you don't want a sore ass!"
Thus coerced, Sally began to obey. The wet slushing noises of fellation rose to Kenny's entranced ears, and his eyes rolled with ecstasy. But after only a moment or two, he uttered a wild yell, his head falling back and his mouth gaping as the tension became unbearable and his spunk shot into Sally's mouth, choking and gagging her.
Ben, glancing over at his friend, panted, "How was it, Kenny, great, huh?" as he continued to cram his ramrod deep into Claire's cunt.
"Oh hell, it didn't last long enough." Kenny complained, and Jack, Fred and Jimmy burst into laughter at the rueful look on Kenny's face.
"Well, you had your turn, kid," Jack said, "so make way for the rest of us. Fred, you're about next, I figure."
"So do I," the stocky youth chuckled as he crawled beside Sally's squirming body and, seating himself on her heaving titties, clutched the back of her head with both hands and pulled her towards his reinvigorated cock. "Okay, Sally, let's us see if you can do a better job on me." he urged.
As the redhead tearfully commenced her odious task, Ben was just completing climax with the moaning divorcee. He made way for Jack, who took out his bloodstained handkerchief and sponged Claire's cunt, remarking, "I don't much care for a buttered bun. But by now blondie here ought to be worked up for fair. Let's see how she is."
He eased himself down on Claire's naked body, slipping his hands under her waist and drawing her to him as he rubbed his stiffening organ against the moist, swollen lips of her pussy. "Ohhh, not so soon again, please! Let me rest a little! Please no!" Claire groaned as she felt the taker of Sally's cherry dig himself in brutally to the hilt, pull back, then hilt himself again.
After Jimmy had been Frenched by the tearful redhead, Ben replaced him despite poor Sally's quavering protests to be allowed to go to the bathroom and wash out her mouth. When she tried to pull away, Jimmy and Jack seized her by the shoulders and forced her down on the bed and held her while Ben knelt over her, pinched her nostrils shut with left thumb and forefinger, forcing her to open her mouth. Hopelessly resigned by this show of force, the redhead groaningly complied.
Claire endured a fucking from each of the five avid youths, and was brought to climax twice more before the boys declared themselves sated. But Jack decided on a humiliating finale. "We're gonna have a swap line, you guys," he announced. "They're gonna crawl on their hands and knees through our legs, suck and kiss our cocks and thank us for spend-in' all this dough on 'em, and we're gonna spank their rear ends good!" This suggestion met with enthusiastic favor. The haggard and exhausted captives were pulled from the bed and ordered to get down on all fours, Jack's belt being an effective argument to enforce compliance.
Claire started the improvised gantlet in front of Jack, kissing and applying a suck or two to his stickied limpid cock, then trying to scramble between his straddled legs to escape punishment. But two whacks with the belt drew tearful cries from the divorcee, and then, the next in line rlamned his legs around her waist as he admonished her for her lack of homage to his cock into her mouth before being permitted to continue. Sally fared little better, Jack being unable to resist the temptation of raising bright red marks on her creamy bottom with his leather belt.
By the time it was over, Sally and Claire crouched on their knees, rubbing their bottoms, tears running down their cheeks. There was a knock at the door. "Hey, who's that?" Kenny gasped, turning pale.
"I'll go see," Jack volunteered. Unlocking the door of the stateroom, he cautiously opened it a crack. "Oh, it's you, huh?"
Hercule stepped into the stateroom with a knowing wink. "I came back to collect the young ladies, if you've finished with them by now. They have a little rehearsing to do for a show," he blandly explained.
"Okay, sure. Say, they were pretty good. But you didn't tell me that redhead was cherry," Jack swaggeringly remarked, with a glance back over at the softly sobbing redhead. "I sure popped it for her, though."
"You're to be congratulated, young man," Hercule chuckled. "I'll tell you confidentially, she wanted to lose it to a nice clean-cut fellow like you. So you did her a real favor. All right, Claire, Sally, hurry up and dress. Madame is waiting to talk to you."
While Claire and Sally falteringly put their clothes back on, their five "clients" stood around making lecherous comments and, with the boldness of familiarity, occasionally moved closer to squeeze a tittie or a bottom or even to rub a finger against Claire's dark-gold pussy curls or Sally's red thatch.
"Now, suppose you thank these nice young gentlemen for engaging your services," Hercule sardonically commanded.
And this was the mal nuance of humiliation for Claire and Sally.
As Hercule led them back down the corridor toward the stateroom of the dominatress, they were silent, eyes swollen with tears and cheeks red with shame.
Sally told herself that Jackson Meredith would never want to marry her now, even if she did somehow escape this nightmarish bondage.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Up to the very last, Sally and Claire had desperately hoped that when the S.S. lie de Bretagne docked in New York, they could save themselves by breaking away as they came down the gangplank, begging one of the customs officials to help them escape their terrible bondage. But unfortunately for their ingenious plan, the wily dominatrix had already anticipated such a maneuver. On the last night out, she had Pierre inject them with a drug that produced a deep somnolence. Next, she had the ship's radio operator cable a private sanitarium on the outskirts of the city to have an ambulance ready and waiting when the vessel docked the next morning. She then notified the ship's captain and the purser that the young women had suddenly been taken ill and that she was arranging to have them taken to the hospital upon arrival at the pier. After the ship's doctor had examined Sally and Claire and found no sign of contagious illness, he confirmed her story.
The two beautiful captives were carried in stretchers down the gangplank and out to the waiting ambulance. The vehicle swiftly drove to a garage on the East Side, where the Negress had her victims transferred to a Cadillac limousine which Pierre drove to the toll way leading to the nation's capitol.
Madame Desage used her influential American contacts to rent a sumptious house in Maridale, an exclusive little residential suburb some twenty-four miles south of Washington.
It was a two-story house, with a brick wall enclosing the grounds. At the sides and around the back of the house, the walls rose to a height of ten feet, a protective device against intruders or the merely curious. There was a large garden at the rear, with a summerhouse. Madame Desage intended to make use of these recreational facilities in a manner which the original owners and the architect would surely never have envisioned!
By nightfall, Sally and Claire awakened from their drug-induced coma to find themselves locked up in one of the beautifully furnished guest rooms on the second floor of this mansion which was to mark the headquarters of Madame Victorine Desage and where this imaginative and unscrupulous dealer in white slaves proposed to enslave Sally's entire family.
She had chosen this house well, for there was only one other house on that side of the street, and it was at least three hundred yards from the two-story mansion, which would be Sally Bannion's new home, as well as that of her mature friend and chaperone Claire Downing. The same agent who had arranged the rental of this house (with an option to buy) had also, at the Negress' order, hired two Negro male servants, Bob and Tom, eminently qualified for their new posts as aides and trainers. Bob was a heavy-set brawny Negro with the face of a pugilist: flattened nose, cauliflower ears and thick, twisted lips which had been often smashed to a pulp by the fists of his professional opponents, since he had never been much more than a good club fighter. He was thirty-four and had been working as a bouncer in a Baltimore whorehouse. Tom, as tall as Hercule, but rangier, with a lean, lantern-jawed face, long gangling legs and arms, and an unreasoning hatred for whites in his nature (his mother had been raped and beaten to death by four white men when he had been only ten years old), had served a year in a reformatory from a trumped-up charge of theft when he had been fifteen, and had been working as a garage mechanic in Washington at the time of his being hired in absentia by Madame Desage.
And while the two unfortunate young women remained locked in their room, Madame Desage interviewed her two new assistants, with Lucette, Pierre and Hercule taking part in the interview, and pronounced herself highly satisfied with their qualifications. She explained in detail precisely what she planned to do and informed Bob and Tom that they would be well rewarded for their services if they carried out her orders to the letter.
Tom grinned crookedly and spoke for both of them: "Sounds lak to me we got us the sorta job a nigger kin only dream about, Madame Desage m'am. Hell, I'd almost be willin' to work for nuttin' jist for the chance to shag and whup dem cute white bitches. I'd sorta feel I was evein' the score foah what dem ofays did to ma mother, 'n dat's a fact!"
"I thought you might feel that way, Tom," the Negress smiled. "Very well, then. Your wages already started a week ago when my agent contacted you. And tomorrow afternoon, unless I miss my guess, you will have your first opportunity to exact a little revenge." With this, she leaned forward and quickly detailed her plan. At its audacity both Bob and Tom gasped, then exchanging a greedily lustful glance with each other, enthusiastically nodded....
"Oh, Mistress, for God's sake, don't make me call my poor mother! Oh, I just can't, I can't do it to her!" Sally sobbed as she knelt before her imperious owner.
"Still argumentative, still not yet resigned to service, I see," Madame Desage ironically retorted. "Perhaps you would prefer having Claire tied to a steel triangle and violated at the same time by my two new Negro assistants, while Pierre and Hercule prepare to flog her smartly after that and then enjoy her charms after she has been whipped to the blood?"
"Oh, dear God, no! Oh, Mistress, Mistress, don't torture me so, I've already been a Judas, don't make me do it to my own mother, have pity!" Sally sobbed.
"And perhaps," Madame Desage relentlessly continued as if Sally had not even uttered a word, "since you showed such aptitude aboard ship with that group of young customers, you would enjoy spending a month in a Baltimore whorehouse frequented only by Negroes of the lowest economic order, with photographs taken of you plying your trade being mailed to your fiance Jackson Meredith?"
Sally Bannion was thunderstruck; she recoiled on her knees, her mouth gaping in stupefaction.
"Your friend Claire was gracious enough to tell my daughter the name and identity of the man to whom you are to be married in September," the Negress smiled savoringly. "I hardly think he would look with favor on an ex-prostitute as his wife-to-be. Now are you going to make that call, or as a further inducement, shall I tell you that if you still refuse, besides what will happen to Claire and to you during that month of service in Baltimore, I propose to leave you alone with Bob and Tom for two hours and give them absolute carte blanche as regards enjoying you in any manner they prefer?"
Unreasoning terror seized the red-haired captive, and bowing her head, she at last stammered in a fainting voice, "Oh, I ... I couldn't bear all that! It's too much! Oh, Mother, Mother, forgive me! I can't help myself!" And then, raising her tear-swollen eyes to the impassive Negress, she plaintively appealed: "At least promise me that you won't hurt her, that you won't let her think I got her into this! I love her so much, and now I have to betray her as I did Claire!"
"I give you my word that I won't lay a finger on her," the Negress deceptively smiled. "I have my reasons for inviting her here, and after all, Sally, you do love her enough to want to see her, I'm sure."
"Oh yes! Oh, you don't know how much!"
"Pierre will take you back to your room, and you'll be informed when your mother has arrived. First, of course, he'll take you to the phone and stay with you while you make the call. You're to invite her over here at once. You'll say that you and Claire are staying with a dear friend you met in Paris and who has accompanied you back to the States to take up residence here. You'll tell her that the two of you came back at my invitation and my expense, and that it's a kind of surprise. You understand?"
Pierre had silently entered the salon, summoned by a buzzer on a wall panel which the dominatrix had pressed unbeknownst to the weeping redhead. "Ah, here's Pierre now. Go along with him, my dear, and do just as I told you. Pierre also is informed on what's expected of you, so don't try to change the message in any way, you understand?"
Hopelessly, Sally rose and stumbled out of the salon, the hunchback following behind her, cackling with evil glee.
"That must be Mrs. Bannion's cab now," Madame Desage peered through the Venetian blinds of the bay window of her living room, then turned to Pierre. "Now remember, mon vieux, when you hear me say, 'Let's go find your daughter, my dear Mrs. Bannion,' you will have Bob and Tom carry out my orders."
"Rest assured, dear Madame, it will be done magnificently," the hunchback sniggered, gleefully rubbing his long, thickly knuckled fingers, "I have, with your permission, chatted with these American compatriots of ours and they have a feeling for this kind of work, you may believe me."
"Excellent! Then, let me have about five minutes after they have carried out the order, and you will bring Sally to the garden."
"Bien, Madame." The hunchback deferentially inclined his head. "And should Claire be brought along too?"
"Not today. Tomorrow, Claire will play her most important role. To her I'm going to entrust the task of seducing a man of the cloth."
"Madame, you are a genius! And to think that all this goes on in a sedate suburb of their own natal city without anyone the wiser!"
"My lamented husband served his purpose, I will admit. He had influential contacts and reasonably loyal friends. I have made them still more loyal by helping them make profits beyond what even Ernest could have gleaned for them," the Negress commented. "One last question: are you quite certain that the people who inhabit the house nearest us are out of town?"
"Assuredly, Madame. And there are almost never any passersby. Moreover, with your permission, I shall station myself on the sidewalk and whistle 'La Marseillaise' should anyone approach the house."
"You are my estimable, valuable and loyal aid, mon vieux. I promise you that you shall have ample opportunities to enjoy the charms of our guests. And perhaps later," she added coyly, patting the hunchback's cheek with a finger, "and perhaps later I shall engage a pretty maid for our little establishment who will be entirely at your service. Perhaps a girl as pretty as my own daughter, and of the same warm sepia color?"
The hunchback bobbed his head, his deformed face twisted in rhapsodic excitement. He seized the hand of his benefactress and passionately kissed it. "Oh, Madame," he hoarsely exclaimed, "you shall be served by me beyond my abilities, I swear it! Ah, there is the bell! But the sight of me might scare the worthy Mrs. Bannion. Shall we let Hercule answer the door?"
"Yes. Now go find Tom and Bob and have them ready."
A few moments later, the Senegalese cook, resplendent in the livery of a red one-button frock coat, white trousers and black shoes, ushered Edith Bannion into the living room where Madame Victorine Desage had risen to greet their redhead's supberbly handsome mother.
The Negress could not suppress a little gasp of admiration, for though Sally had praised her mother's beauty, Edith Bannion in the flesh was even more temptingly attractive. Indeed, judging from the glitter of Hercule's eyes, he would have been quite content then and there to indoctrinate the organ-playing wife of Reverend Allen Bannion into the principles of original sin.
He ceremoniously withdrew, shutting the door to a faint crack, which would permit Pierre to hear the fatal cue. Bob and Tom, dressed in corduroy trousers and short-sleeved shirts and sandals, waited beside the little hunchback.
Edith Bannion did not look her forty-two years of age. Her chestnut hair was warm and showed not the slightest streak of gray, coiffed in a rather prim chignon at the back of her head. Her face was round and soft, with eloquently large, widely spaced brown eyes, dimpled cheeks and chin, a ripe yet firm mouth, and a delicately snub nose with thin, sensuous wings. Her body was sumptuous, a regalia for erotic delectation: large firm round breasts, hard as gourds, set closely together and perched high on her chest, a gracefully lissome waist that curved into solid, round, sinuously separated bottomcheeks, ripe from thighs and well-rounded calves. Her skin was a soft pink, and to the practiced eye of the Negress, there appeared to be hardly a wrinkle or crow's nest. She wore a blue cotton dress, chaste of cut with a lace-trimmed bodice that moved in a semi-circle from the middle of her bosom to her throat. Since the weather was extremely warm, she carried a light cape, and wore a wide-brimmed soft felt hat. The hem of her dress lowered almost to mid-calf; from what Madame Desage perceived of those calves and those finely chiseled ankles sheathed in modest flesh-toned nylons, gave the dominatrix an impatience to see all of this succulent mature female, and as swiftly as possible.
"I'm Edith Bannion," Sally's mother introduced herself in a clear sweet voice tinged with the vibrance of maturity and the dignity of her status as a churchwoman and minister's wife. "I believe this is the address, and she telephoned me that she was staying here."
"That is correct, Mrs. Bannion. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Victorine Desage. I had the privilege of meeting your charming daughter and her dear friend Claire in Paris, you see. As my business affairs directed me back to the States, I proposed to Sally and to Claire that I accompany them. I found their company so charming I could hardly bear to part with it."
"Why, I'm sure that is very kind of you. Then it was at your villa that my daughter stayed during her sojourn in Paris?"
"It was indeed. My daughter Lucette and I, as well as all of my servants, outdid ourselves to show Sally the warmest kind of hospitality, as of course we did for Claire."
Outside, his ear glued to the crack of the door, the hunchback was nearly doubled up with gleeful amusement over this double entendre.
"I am surprised," Edith Bannion resumed, with a slight frown as she glanced about, ascertaining that there was no one else in the living room, "that Sally should have come straight home instead of staying here with you her first day back."
"Well, the fact is, Mrs. Bannion, your daughter and I formed such an attachment for each other that we found it difficult to break off. I'm sure you'll forgive her in time."
There was a stifled sound on the other side of the door; Pierre had plunged both hands to his mouth, but he couldn't quite manage to silence the gurgling laugh that welled up inside of him at this casuistic speech.
"I see," Edith Bannion sighed. It was evident that she was hurt by her daughter's impulsive caprice. The Negress approached, and soothingly remarked, "But I'm sure she didn't mean anything wrong by it, and you must forgive me if I, a perfect stranger, seem to have had first claim on your lovely daughter. Let's go find your daughter, dear Mrs. Bannion."
The door was flung open and Bob and Tom seized Edith Bannion by the elbows, Bob clapping one hand over her mouth, and dragged her to the garden. Pierre, meanwhile, hobbled down the hall and up the stairs to the room in which Sally and Claire were locked, quickly unlocked the door and brusquely ordered, "Sally, Madame wants you to follow me at once!"
"Oh, dear God," the redhead groaned, turning to her blonde companion. "It's my mother! Oh, what have I done, what have I done?"
"Quickly, or else you'll be punished," Pierre snapped. And helplessly Sally Bannion followed the hunchback down the stairs and out into the library where he paused before the curtained French doors leading out into the garden, waiting for the precise dramatic moment which Madame Desage had already so craftily planned.
Lovely Lucette, wearing a green silk mini-dress, charcoal-brown pantyhose and sandals, had followed her mother to the garden, where the two seated themselves in wicker-backed lounging chairs. Not a sound came from the residential street, and the ten-foot brick wall hid what was about to take place.
The two Negroes had gagged Edith Bannion and, forcing her against a sturdy oak tsee, tied her wrists together with a rawhide thong, so that she was pressed against the tree as if embracing it, her sumptuous titties and belly mashed against its rough bark. Her head flung back, her eyes rolling in their sockets, her face contorted with horror and stupefaction, Sally's beautiful mother twisted and jerked in a mad effort to break free, to the delight of the dominatrix and her perverse daughter.
Madame Desage made a sign, and Bob and Tom set to work at once stripping the handsome matron. Her hat had already fallen off in the struggle, and now, while Tom grabbed the hem of her cotton dress and yanked it upwards, Bob clutched the neck of the dress with both hands and viciously ripped downwards. A frenzied, muffled cry testified to Edith Bannion's consternation at this rude treatment. Now that the dress was ripped and tattered, it gave way easily, and the two Negroes swiftly tore away the chaste white slip. Mad with shame, Edith Bannion tried to kick, to jerk at her tethered wrists, twisting her flushed face back toward her supposed hostess and the latter's daughter, her eyes absolutely incredulous that such a thing could be happening to the wife of Reverend Allen Bannion.
Edith Bannion's opulent body was now revealed in a strap-on bra with wide bandeau, a solid elastic pantie-girdle, her hose and pumps. Bob amused himself by squatting down now and deftly unhooking the stocking tabs of the sheath, despite Edith Bannion's clumsy, sporadic kicks to prevent this insufferable assault. But even as she twisted her face to look down at the grinning Negro, Tom ripped off the straps of the bra and then expertly unhooked the bandeau, and Edith Bannion found herself bared to the waist, her luscious firm titties pantingly mashed against the rough bark of the oak tree which was to be her stake of martyrdom. Her cries were so definitely hysterical at this affront to her matronly modesty that even the gag could not entirely muffle them. Violently tugging at her wrists, twisting her congested face back to appeal to the Negress and her daughter, Edith Bannion now ground her loins with all her strength against the tree because the two Negroes in unison, now, had taken hold of the pantie-girdle and, after discovering and dragging down the tiny zipper, begun to shuck her of this final protective veil.
With supreme strength, Sally's mother arched herself against the tree, trying to prevent this supreme disaster. But Bob lecherously pinched her thigh, and her convulsive wriggling maneuver gave him and his companion exactly the opportunity needed to tear the sheath down to her calves, effectively preventing her from kicking.
Her magnificent bare bottom was revealed under the sunlight which dapoled its pink satiny contours with a warm luster. Aware of her nakedness, the poor woman tightened her sphincter muscles and wildly ground herself against the tree, heedless of the painful rubbing of the bark against her cunt.
Madam Desage smiled triumphantly, then clapped her hands three times. On cue, Pierre opened the French windows onto the garden, and Sally beheld her mother almost naked, bound to the oak tree and the two laughing Negroes standing on each side of her caressing her back and bottom, slyly curving their hands round to palpate the sides of Edith Bannion's shuddering titties!
At the sound of her daughter's voice, Edith Bannion turned her agonized tearstained face to the right, her eves enormous with disbelief. But now the brawny Hercule appeared behind the tortured redhead and grasped her from behind holding her forearms in his brawny grasp, while Pierre quickly hobbled out to take up his vigil outside the door of the mansion and make certain that no trespassers should interrupt this dramatic reunion between mother and daughter.
"Don't scream, Ma'am'selle," Hercule whispered to Sally. "Otherwise Madame will give you to Bob and Tom, and then Pierre and I will enjoy you. Be very quiet, little one!" Sally twisted in his grasp, chocking back her sobs, realizing her utter helplessness. She wore a sleeveless white silk blouse, deeply cut to show the valley of her panting creamy titties, and skin-tight black silk panties that just covered the base of her enticingly curvaceous asscheeks. Her legs were deliciously bare, her feet shod in high-heeled black leather pumps. Under blouse and panties, she wore only her own quivering white skin. And as he held her with her delectable bottom grinding convulsively against his crotch, within a very few moments poor Sally felt the responsive and salacious jab of Hercule's stiffened cock.
"Now, then, Edith," the dominatrix purred. "You see that your daughter is safely back from Paris, and in my charge. I will quickly brief you on what has occurred. She and her dear friend Claire have humbly agreed to become my personal slaves. Sally, tell your mother whether this is true or not!"
She turned to stare at the sobbing redhead, with so cruelly gloating a look that poor Sally shuddered, bit her lips, then faltered, "Oh, Mother, M-Mother, forgive me, forgive me, yes, yes, its true ... we couldn't help ourselves, believe me, dearest Mother!"
"There, you hear, Edith? And now there remains but for you to share your daughter's happy state. I know that it is much too soon to expect an answer from you, seeing that all these years you've led such an exemplary Christian life of modesty and sanctimoniousness. But perhaps Bob and Tom can persuade you to look at things differently, now that your daughter has so willingly accepted her bondage." With this she lifted her hand and nodded.
Bob and Tom strode to a stone bench on which there lay martinets, dog-whips, a cloth-wrapped birch rod, and an oval-shaped leather paddle. Bob selected the paddle, while Tom chose a swishy, long and flexible birch. The two Negroes, who wore only khaki shorts and sandals, now stationed themselves at either side of the frantic naked matron. Tom mockingly patted Mrs. Bannion's contracting bottom with his birch, then drew back his arm and dealt her a stinging slash which spread the fantail across both huddling pink-sheened globes.
With a convulsive lunge forward, Edith rubbed her belly and loins against the rough bark, her head tilting back, her tear-blurred eyes upturned toward the serene blue of the sky. At the same moment, Bob dealt a backhanded swat over her upper left buttock. The sonorous impact was instantly echoed by a muffled wail of pain as the naked sufferer at once turned her face to gaze on her new tormentor with poignant appeal in her bulging eyes.
"You shall be whipped, Edith," Madame Desage calmly intoned, "until you are ready to agree to accept, and on the same terms that your daughter has already accepted the status of a slave. Continue with the good work!"
Patting her lower buttocks with the flexible birch. Tom drew back his arm and then held it in midair, purposely torturing the unfortunate matron with the agony of waiting. As she glanced back, emitting a muffled, sobbing groan through her gag, the birch whistled through the air to kiss her pink behind with vivid crimson striata, and once again she twisted and rubbed herself frenziedly against the chafing bark. Bob's paddle authoritatively swept across both of her bottom cheeks while she still writhed under the birch; and a prolonged wail tore through the gag as Edith executed a ludicrous dance from foot to foot, her titties jiggling against the excoriating surface of the oak tree. Now, alternating for the first ten strokes, the birch entered into play with broadly horizontal cuts, immediately followed by the crisp thwack of the paddle. Madame Desage held up her hand after these twenty lashes had been administered, watching Edith twist, kick and feverishly tug at her bound wrists, her agony-twisted face turning this way and that in piteous appeal. Sally had closed her eyes, and tears were running uncontrollably down her cheeks.
"Well, Sally, haven't you anything to say at your mother's suffering? Don't you have some wise advice which a devoted daughter ought to give her mother?" the Negress ironically demanded.
"Mother ... Mother, they'll keep it up until you do what they want-I know. Oh, forgive me, I'm such a coward, I can't bear to see you suffer like this! Do what they want-Oh, God help us all!" the redhead hysterically groaned.
Madame Desage now commanded: "Try to cut up between her legs with the birch, Tom! Bob, use that paddle on her thighs, and the sides of her hips, those are sensitive places for a woman of her build and years!"
"Oh no, don't whip my mother any more-oh, dear God, Mistress, have pity on her, have pity!" Sally burst out. Hercule clamped a hand over her mouth. He savored Sally's agonized squirmings in his grasp, for her voluptuous, firm bottom rubbed back and forth against his tumescent prick.
Lowering his arm, Tom watched his opportunity and suddenly flicked the tips of the birch up between Edith Bannion's shuddering thighs. A piercing yell of agony tore through the gag as the frenzied matron flung back her head and strained with all her might against her bound wrists. The paddle now landed with an angry crack over the top of her right hip, then with a dextrous turn of her executioner's hand, flattened against the other hip. Edith Bannion's face was scarlet and bathed in tears, as she wrenched at her wrists, her titties and belly and pussy rubbing against the rough bark.
As she danced from foot to foot, Tom took careful aim again and flicked the flexible switches between her dancing thighs to attack both asshole and cunt as with a shriek of intolerable agony the naked matron tightened all her muscles and twisted back and forth against the oak tree. Now the paddle added its sonorous impact and burning sting across her angrily splotched hips, first left, then right; again the birch cut up between her jerking legs. Unable to endure such merciless torture, Edith Bannion turned her face towards the Negress, her eyes glazed and bulging, and nodded, while inarticulate cries surged against the gag.
"Wait! She's trying to say something! Take out the gag, Bob!" the dominatrix ordered.
Sally could bear no more. Head bowed, her body shaking with tumultuous sobs, she slumped in Hercule's grasp, realizing with morbid self-loathing that her own virtuous mother had been delivered up to the diabolical and lustful cruelty of Madame Victorine Desage.
"Well, Edith?" the Negress ironically pursued, "would you like some more or are you ready to join your daughter in my service?"
"Ohhh ... Why are you doing this? It's inhuman to treat a poor woman so-have mercy ... let us go ... what do you want of us?" Edith hysterically panted.
Again Madame Desage lifted her right hand. This time, moving round the side of the tree, Tom lashed out with the tips of the switches to nip the side of one ripe full tit, which had suckled Sally twenty-four years ago. At the same moment, Bob, lifting the paddle on high, swept it down with all his strength across both asscheeks at their ripest curves.
"AIIIH! Eeeyeowww!!! Oh, stop, I can't bear it! Yes, yes, only have them stop!" Edith screamed as her body sagged and trembled against the oak tree.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Twenty-four hours had passed since Edith Bannion's fateful visit to the mansion of Madame Victorine Desage. This time it was Claire who had been ordered to telephone Reverend Allen Bannion to induce him to drive out to the mansion for a reunion with his daughter. The divorcee, coerced by the most heinous threats of punishment by Pierre and Hercule as well as by the two new Negro aides, had had to explain to the puzzled minister that his wife had come out to visit Sally and had decided to accept Madame Desage's hospitality for the night. "Everything's fine, Reverend Bannion," Claire tried to force a smile to her lips as she sat between Pierre and Hercule who both lecherously grinned at her and vigilantly listened to her every word. "You see, Reverend Bannion, your wife was invited to dinner by Sally's new friend and when the evening was over, it was too late to think of going back home. Now you be sure to hurry over, won't you?"
As she tremblingly replaced the phone on the receiver. Claire bowed her head, covered her face with her hands, and began to sob desolately. She was as appetizingly arrayed as Sally; her golden hair was once more coiffed in an aristocratic coronet braid circling her lovely head, and she wore a sleeveless low-cut red silk blouse, green silk pantie-tights, and red leather highheeled pumps.
"That was well done, ma petite," Pierre cackled, cupping one of Claire's heaving bubbies with his wiry hand and smirking at her tauntingly. "You keep up obedience like that, and if you're a very good girl, I may let you feel my becque in your fat hot con tonight!"
The prospect did not stop Claire's muffled sobs, but only increased her uncontrollable shudderings, for now Hercule had begun to fondle her other tittie and kiss her soft neck with his hot thick lips. And while both of Madam Desage's aides thus handled and degraded the unfortunate divorcee-though they had instruction not to fuck her on this particular occasion-Reverend Allen Bannion got into his car and started on the forty-five-minute drive to the villa.
"Madame Desage?" Reverend Allen Bannion doffed his felt hat, and his mild blue eyes were quizzical behind his spectacles as Hercule ushered him into the living room where the superb dominatrix awaited him. She had never been more alluring than in the chic green satin housecoat which shaped out the opulence of her bosom and hips and thighs. She had sprayed herself with a costly French perfume. Her ruby pendants dangled from her earlobes, and the seed pearl necklace accentuated the rich warm chocolate hue of her ripe throat.
"How good it is to meet you at last, dear Reverend Bannion!" the Negress purred. "I imagine you're surprised to meet someone like myself and to learn that your lovely daughter and your very gracious wife have become my very dear friends already."
"I must confess, Madame Desage," he admitted in a mildly reproachful tone as he nervously glanced about, "I just couldn't understand why Sally hadn't come directly home from New York. And then to come home late yesterday afternoon-I had been asked to deliver a lecture on morality at a womans' college-and to find that my wife had come here without leaving any note of explanation. In fact, I was so alarmed that if I hadn't heard from our mutual friend Claire, I think I might have even called the police."
"Well, you see there's no need for that," the Negress smiled. "Let me explain quickly, Reverend Bannion. I have business here in the United States, though I am from Paris. I met your daughter in the Louvre and took an immediate liking to her. She's such a warm, generous girl, with so much to give and so unselfish, you've no idea!" Behind Reverend Bannion, Hercule's impassive face momentarily twisted in a ferocious grimace as he strove to hold back an applauding smile at this deceptive remark.
"You're very kind, I'm sure," Reverend Bannion glanced around again, "but I thought that my wife and daughter were here."
"They are, oh, they are. But I wanted to talk to you first. Sally has told me so very much about you, Reverend Bannion, your good work, your dedication to your parishioners. I am quite rich, you see, and I want to express my gratitude for the friendship your daughter has extended to me, which made our voyage such a delightful experience.
Would you be inclined to accept a gift of several thousand dollars in cash, Reverend Bannion?"
"Why, my gracious, Madam Desage, you overwhelm me!" he smiled. "It's very good of you, I'm sure. Now, I don't mean to seem ungracious, but after all, Sally has been away for several months and-"
"Excuse me, Reverend Bannion. Hercule, will you bring us two little apertif glasses of Benedictine?"
"Oh, no thank you, Madame Desage, I really couldn't-"
"But surely, Reverend Bannion," the Negress persuasively cajoled, "you won't refuse to drink a toast with me to the donation I propose to give you? I thought that perhaps the money might go towards recreation grounds for underprivileged children."
"Why, that is a delightful thought!" his gently wistful face expressed surprise. He had no way of knowing, of course, that Claire had been induced to tell Madame Desage something of his aspirations for his parish, and building a playground for children of the poor was foremost on his list of goals.
"And then, after we've drunk the toast, I shall take you to see your wife and daughter," she concluded. Hercule had gone to the other end of the living room to a sideboard. Glancing quickly around to make certain that the unsuspecting ecclesiastic wasn't watching, he opened a little silver humidor, took out a grayish pill and dropped it into one of the glasses. Then, removing the stopper from the decanter, he expertly poured each glass full to the brim. The gray pill swiftly dissolved, without leaving the slightest sign of any adulteration to the liqueur. Posing the two glasses on a little salver, he moved forward to the Reverend and his mistress, offering the salver between them. Madame Desage took the glass nearest her, and Reverend Bannion, after a moment's hesitation, accepted the other.
"To your good health, Reverend Bannion, to the happiness of your family, and to the realization of one of your dearest aims, the playground!" The dominatrix cheerfully lifted her glass in salute, then sipped it daintily. Seeing him still hesitate, she added, "But actually, I shouldn't put a price tag on the friendship I have conceived for your wonderful family. Besides, a few thousand dollars would hardly begin to pay for such a project. I will put up ten thousand dollars. Will that be sufficient to help you carry on your work?"
"Why, it-why, this is wonderful of you, Madam Desage!" he gasped. His lips seemed to tremble with joy, and then, glancing down at the glass in his hand, he put it to his lips and tentatively sipped it, "Why, it's exquisite! I fear I'm not a drinking man, as you can understand, Madame Desage."
"But this, Reverend Bannion, is a liqueur made by the Benedictine monks and passed down from generation to generation. It is therefore certainly not inappropriate to your calling," she wittily remarked.
Thus encouraged, and overjoyed by the unexpected gift the Negress had just cited, Sally's father drained his glass and set it down on the little tabouret beside his chair.
"That will be all, Hercule, thank you." The Senegalese inclined his head, turned on his heel and left the room. Madame Desage leaned forward clasping her knees with her jeweled hands. "You're such a distinguished-looking man, Reverend, I find it hard to believe that you aren't in some more glamorous profession, such as an actor or an artist. You've such elegant features, and such character."
"You flatter me, Madame Desage. I'm just a humble minister attending to my flock, that's all." He uttered a nervous little self-conscious laugh and shifted uneasily on the edge of his chair. Then, after a hesitant pause, he added: "This is really a beautiful house. You say you are planning to live here for a time?"
"Oh yes. I have business interests that will keep me here for quite some time. In fact, I may say that I have fallen in love with this part of the country, and particularly with those who served to inform me about the area. Why, if I hadn't met Sally and Claire, I might have gone on to New York or perhaps even to Chicago. So you see how fortunate it was for me."
"Yes, indeed. Er ... it seems to be getting a little warm in here."
"Oh? I hadn't noticed, Reverend Bannion. But do go ahead and loosen your collar, if you like. At my house, one should always be at one's ease."
"Th-thank you. I ... I believe I will." Reverend Allen Bannion's face had begun to perspire and was slightly flushed. His fingers trembled as they rose to his collar, which he fumblingly unbuttoned. He drew several deep breaths, glanced around again at the doorway as if expecting to see Sally, Edith and Claire come through it. Then he licked his lips and cleared his throat. "It's really warm. I wonder if the air-conditioning has broken down. I hadn't noticed it when I first came in."
"Well, Washington is always hot in summer, you know. Unbutton your coat, too. That's it. And lean back. You'll feel better in a moment. The trouble is with you, Reverend, you've been working too hard, you need a vacation, just like your lovely daughter and wife."
"I just don't understand what's come over me. I'm so very warm." He passed a trembling hand over his perspiring forehead. Madame Desage's eyes glittered with secret amusement as she leaned toward him. The scent of her exquisite perfume wafted to his nostrils, and he could not help seeing the jut of her big firm bubbies straining against the bodice of the satin housecoat. "You know, Reverend Bannion, you are an extraordinarily good-looking man. Before you put on that white collar, I'm quite sure you must have been a very devil with the ladies," she intimated in a husky voice as she leaned still closer to him.
"Good heavens, what are you saying? Why, not at all. My wife was my first and only love. Could we have a window open, please? It's terribly stuffy. I feel a little faint."
"What you need is another glass of Benedictine. Let me get it for you. Lean back. That's it. Now close your eyes. It will pass in a moment." Swiftly the Negress strode to the sideboard, filled the empty glass which she had taken up from the tabouret, and came back to him. Standing beside his chair, she slyly put her left arm around his shoulders and proffered the glass to his lips with her right hand. "Take a sip, and just relax."
"Really, I'm dreadfully sorry, I must apo'ogire. I don't usually-well, it is very good, isn't it? I don't imagine a drop or two for medicinal purposes can do any harm." He sipped at it gratefully. Her left hand stroked his hair. He was slim and well built, and she found him quite prepossessing. The ironic game she had been playing appeared now to have additional zest for her. She walked over to the window and raised it a few inches. "There. You'll be feeling better very soon. Yes, you're a very good-looking man, Allen."
"You ... you really shouldn't say things like that to me, Madame. Goodness-I don't understand this."
"What don't you understand?"
"I seem to feel so very curious. I know it's warm, and I've got the insane notion that I want to take off my clothes. I must be really very ill. I don't understand it. I must apologize to you."
"But there's no need, Allen. Come, take my arm. You said you wanted to see your daughter and your wife again, didn't you?"
He was blinking his eyes, passing his hand over his forehead, and drawing one long breath after another. Madame Desage studied him, a faint smile of amusement playing on her sexual lips. She held out her hand to him. "Here, take my hand, Allen. I'm strong, you can lean on me if you feel weak.
"Th-thank you. But this is ridiculous to feel this way! I've been in perfect health all my life except for a cold or two. And I've never really experienced any kind of heat prostration. Today was only 82, after all."
"Come with me, Allen," she murmured huskily as she drew him by the hand from the chair. "That's it. Now put your arm around my waist, and I'll put mine around yours. Fine. Now, let's go slowly. You'll be all right as soon as you begin to move around."
She paused at the threshold of the door to reach up and deftly and swiftly remove the white collar of his ministerhood. Reverend Allen Bannion scarcely noticed. His eyes had begun to blaze and his chest to heave.
"You're just not used to a strong liqueur, that's all. There's so much in life you've never experienced, Allen," she crooned. "This way, to the right and down the hall. I've got you safely, you won't fall. Just hold on to me."
"You're very kind."
"I want to be kind to you, Allen. Here, through this door. Here we are at last. Now you can be comfortable."
She closed the door of an ornate bedroom behind her, and helped him to a low wide loveseat which faced a wall. Then, studying him carefully, she turned away and drew the zipper of the house-coat down nearly to her waist, so that the bodice gaped and the luscious gourds of her chocolate-sheened titties surged temptingly forth. She came to perch on the arm of a chair, an arm around his neck. "Do you feel a little better now, Allen?" she murmured.
"Well, it's hard to explain. I feel so funny. It is as if I were light as air, and there are hot flashes in front of my eyes." His voice was unsteady and low.
"In a few moments you'll be amazed how well you feel, Allen. You just relax there, I'm going to adjust the lights so that you can see better."
Rising, she paused a moment to stare at him again, her lips deeply curved in a sensual smile of anticipation. Then she moved back toward the door. Set in the wall just beside it was a switchbox with three levers. She pulled down the first, and the room was suddenly muted in a kind of hazy darkness. Her fingers reached for the second and drew that one down too. A section of the wall in front of him slid away, revealing an opaque glass panel. She paused a moment, and then pulled down the third and final switch.
Allen Bannion uttered a chocking cry and leaned forward, his eyes huge behind the spectacles. The glass was no longer opague. As clearly as if he were in the same room, he could see beyond. It was a bedroom also, and indeed the entire room seemed to be taken up by the enormously huge wide bed. On the bed lay Edith Bannion, naked as the day she was born. She lay on her back ... or rather over Tom whose black wiry hands were greedily squeezing her panting titties, while over her, his throbbing prick bored deep into her cunt, Bob humped, grasping her wrists and forcing them up beyond her head on the luxurious lace-trimmed pillows of the enormous bed. She was being double-holed!
And now, as clearly as he could see, Reverend Allen Bannion could hear also.
"Aaahh, oh my Lord, please, you're hurting me! Oh take it out of me! Oh, you're tearing me to pieces, the both of you! Oh, help me. Oh, Allen, where are you? They're making me do dreadful things-Aiii-oh my poor bottom, please take it out of me there-oh, oooh-ohhoowww!! Oh, my spot-my poor sp-spot-you're jamming it into me so cruelly-oh, please have mercy and let me go! I'm a decent wife and m-mother! Don't do this to me-Aahhh!"
"How her l'il honeyhole feel to yer, Tom?" Bob grunted as with steady and vigorous digs, he continued to plow his prong deep in Edith Bannion's aching cunt.
"Feel lak to me she was cherry there till oh gib her a piece, Bob boy," the Negro under Edith Bannion gasped out. "She shonuff a scrumptious piece ob ass, and dat a fac'!"
Reverend Allen Bannion, with a great effort, steadied his hands on the arms of the loveseat and drew himself to his feet. His face was congealed in a look of aghast incredulity. It was as if, after all these years denying the existence of the devil because heaven was the only true fact, the devil had suddenly appeared before him in dazzling imagery.
"It ... it can't be-" he hoarsely croaked.
Madame Desage was studying him intently, the smile on her sensual lips deepening, excitement racing in the pupils of her narrowed eyes. "But it is, Allen." she huskily murmured. "Don't you recognize her body, her voice? Don't tell me that a strong handsome man like you in his prime isn't aware of what his wife's naked body looks like? Or have you denied sex by putting on that white collar?"
"You-this is a nightmare! Stop that filthy-oh my God, oh my God-" his voice broke and he swayed, but he couldn't take his eyes from the lewdly explicit scene. He stood as if paralyzed, his eyes gangling at that huge bed, at the ripe pink body sandwiched between two gleaming coal-black bodies in the obscene consummation of making Edith Bannion's two love-holes one.
"Let's roll her over, whaddya say?" Bob panted.
"Suits me fine. Okay, I'm ready, one, two, three-"
"Aaahh-oh, you're hurting me dreadfully! Oh please take it out of my b-b-bottom-oh, Allen, help me, won't anyone help me? Eeyeeeyouwww!!!" Edith wailed as the two new Negroes rolled her over between them, so that she now lay face down atop Bob, who promptly silenced her by mashing his thick lips against hers, while Tom, mounted over her back, with a lustful gasp forged all the deeper inside her rectal sheath with his stiff organ. Edith turned her contorted face to her left, and her petrified husband saw the frenzied appeal in her supremely dilated, tear-glazed eyes. At that moment, Bob cupped the matron's face in his black hands and forced his mouth against hers, grumbling, "Pay some 'tenshun to me, you sweet piece'a cukemeat! Boy, is you tight! Betcha your old man ain't done much pokin' in either youah twat or youah bung lately! You feels lak cherry to me, babydoll!"
"Dat shonuff be de truf!" Tom grunted as he continued to bottomfuck the mature victim.
"Why, Allen, your manhood's showing!" Madame Dessage giggled as she approached the love-seat. It was true. Reverend Allen Bannion's virility could no longer be questioned: it thrust out massively against the fly of his trousers.
"Goodness me, you're excited, aren't you, Allen darling?" the Negress crooned. "And how you must be suffering, you poor boy! Don't you wish you could be there in place of Bob and Tom? Where would you rather be, where Tom is or where Bob is? Tom's the one on top right now, you know."
"You ... you hellcat, you demon! Fiend! It's a nightmare, it's an evil, hideous dream, it can't be true!" his voice broke with the emotion seething in his being.
"It's very true. And don't try to deny that you're getting excited by watching it, yes, Allen, and wishing that you could do to Edith what my Negro servants are doing to her now," the dominatrix purred. Her right hand stealthily advanced, took hold of the zipper, furled it down, and then her supple ringers disappeared inside the opening, emerging with the solid, throbbing, swollen emblem of Sally's father's potency.
"Don't touch me, you Jezebel-oh, I'm weak ... why can't I find the strength to strangle you, to put those beasts to death?" he groaned.
"Because, dear Allen, for the first time in your life you're acting like a human being, not one of those holier-than-thou Sunday sermonizers. But then, cannabis usually works that way, especially in a person of very narrow morality."
"Cannabis?" he croaked. Turning his head with an effort, he stared into her luminous greedy eyes.
"Of course. It's also called Spanish fly, but the dose that I gave you in your Benedictine, Allen, is not quite so crude. Pierre used to work in a chemist's shop years before he came to me. He did a good deal of experimenting, and he devised some amazing effective potions. What you imbibed, for example, had the power of what we call Spanish fly, but it has no harmful effects. It rips away the veneer of polite and smug conscience, and it lets your flesh take over, as should always be the case. Come with me, Allen, come closer to that glass wall so you can see your beautiful wife. Come, Allen!"
Her soft hand had grasped his shaft, and now she moved forward, drawing him by it. Reverend Allen Bannion uttered a choking cry, his forehead furrowed, his eyes staring and glazed. His nails dug into his palms and his lips were convulsively working as he took a step forward, then another, stumbling and panting, as the dominatrix led him to the wall which had become a one-way mirror, a canvas on which was depicted now all the riotous, unbridled carnality that Mephistopheles must have used to tempt Faust and win his soul forever.
His hands grasped her wrists, and she felt the dig of his nails, but she tightened her grip around his swollen penis, smiling mockingly at him, as with her left hand she tugged down the zipper till at last her housecoat yawned open from neck to knees. "Look," she whispered, "look at your wife, what a passionate woman she is, able to manage two vigorous Negroes at one time! You must really have neglected her, Allen, to have made her so hungry for fucking! Watch and learn!"
"God help me-oh, my poor wife, my poor darling Edith! You fiend! Oh, I'm weak, I feel as if I'm going to fall-that damnable drug-oh, Edith!" he moaned.
By now both Negroes were furiously nearing their climax. Tom, his fingers dug into Edith's pink-sheened sides, was furrowing his cock rapidly in and out of her distended, aching bumhole, while Bob, exultantly groaning with his approach to climax, clutched Edith by the titties and, despite the superimposed weight of his colleague over her shuddering body, jabbed back and forth inside her quaking cunt.
Reverend Bannion stood like a man transfixed, like a man who had been suddenly plunged from heaven into the nethermost regions of hell and yet could not turn his eyes away from the ghastly scenes of the vilest sinners. And Madame Desage felt his penis throb and quicken, galvanized not only by the soft sly clutches of her satiny chocolate-hued fingers, but also by the ferocious lust-awakening rioting through his mind and through his drugged body as he saw his wife's eyes roll in their sockets under Bob's slavering kisses, saw her hips twist and jerk as Tom's deep eviscerating gouges crammed his rigid cock back and forth inside her torturously distended asshole.
The specially prepared cannabis was now taking its full insidious effect upon the minister. He was panting, his lips working and uttering inarticulate moaning sobs. His forehead was bathed in sweat, and his fingers were twisting back and forth as he swayed, his eyes riveted to the glass panel. His penis was long and thin, with a sightly oblong head whose taut pink skin was now visibly inflamed, and the lips of the urethra spasmodically contracted as with the urge to burst forth his semenal burden.
Tom, with a last energetic dig, fitted himself between Edith Bannion's spacious satiny pink bottomcheeks, and bit her neck in the throes of his expulsive jet, The matron uttered a strangled wail, muffled by Bob's avid kisses, as he too, with a final hilting of his weapon, lashed her matrix with his viscous gobbets of hot spunk.
Before the glazed, incredulous eyes of her husband, Edith Bannion seemed to have partaken of the same perfidious drug; her face twisted toward him, her eyes huge, her forehead deeply furrowed as with the most intense concentration. And then her mouth gaped in a hoarse sobbing cry: "Oh, I can't help myself! Oh Allen-ohhh-aiiieeowww!!!" Her body jerked and bucked between her two black ravishers as she tasted the fury of this involuntary spasm.
Tom drew himself out of her clenching anus and knelt up with a long gasp of appeasement. "Man, oh man, if dat wasn't somepin'!" he breathed.
"We gotta change holes now, Bob boy! Roll Edie over and let's hose her out, Tom, 'cause neither you nor me wants a buttered bun, ha ha ha!"
"I'se wid you, man, all de way!" Bob grunted, as he rolled the still shuddering, half-fainting naked matron onto her back and pulled out of her dripping cunt, his tool still gleaming and stiff with surprising virility despite his furious ejaculation.
"Now, do you believe?" Madame Desage's voice was triumphantly vibrant. "Your wife is my slave. And so is your daughter Sally. Oh yes, don't look so amazed, Allen dear. She's been my slave since her first week in Paris, you know. And I want you as my personal slave, too."
"N-no! What are you saying, you devil, you Jezebel! Oh, what have you done, what have you done?"
"What perhaps in secret you always longed to do, Allen," was the mocking reply. "They're not the sweet pure darlings you believed they were all these years. But then, look at yourself now. Your face is red and your eyes are gleaming-and your cock, Allen, shame on you! If only your parishoners could see you now! Because you're longing to be in bed over there with that luscious piece, Edie. You're dying to prove to her that you're just as much a man as those two niggers who've enjoyed her, aren't you, Allen?
"Yes, Allen, you're going to be my slave. Because if you refuse, I'm going to take your daughter and your wife and string them up by their thumbs outside in my garden, stark naked, with a rope around their waists. And then Bob and Tom are going to whip them till in their pain they rub against each other and get excited ... do you know what I mean, Allen? Yes, they'll rub their pussies together until they fall in love with each other. And after that, Bob and Tom will do to Sally what you've just seen them do to your lovely Edie, and then they'll do Edie again the same way. Would you prefer that?"
"You ... you wouldn't, you couldn't be such a demon!"
"You're in my mansion, you're not Reverend Bannion now, Allen. You're just Allen Bannion, a man who's crowded back all his sexual longings. But I've taken off your white collar, so that you can be Allen, virile and lusting, able to realize all the secret dreams the devil has brought to you at night when you thought you were asleep."
"No, it isn't true. On no!" he sobbingly shouted.
But he could not tear his gaze away from the scene beyond him, and Madame Desage's fingers still slyly tickled and pumped and squeezed his aching prick.
"Shall I give the order, Allen? Shall I let you see your daughter Sally and your wife Edie tied face to face and dangling in the air from a tree? Shall I make you see them kiss each other and rub their pussies together in their uninhibited lust which the whip will inspire in their naked flesh, Allen?"
"No! Oh, spare them, spare them!"
"Then obey me. Kneel down now and say. T am your slave, Mistress!' "
She released his cock and stepped back, her eyes flaming, her jutting titties swelling with triumphant lust. The lips of her pussy were moist with her own avid sensual fever, engendered not only by achieving the degradation and soul-destruction of this man of the cloth but also from the stimulus of the lubricious scene between his wife and her two new Negro aides.
He turned to her, broken, enervated, all his life now concentrating in the stiff, inflamed weapon that thrust out of his opened trousers. And he sank down on his knees like a puppet controlled by the string of the master puppeteer, and his head bowed before Madame Victorine Desage.
She drew a long shuddering breath of triumph as she moved closer to him, till the folds of her yawning housecoat seemed to cloak him, as the raiment of a demon enfolds its newest acolyte. Her furry cunt was inches from his tear-stained, haggard face.
"Put your arms around my legs and kiss me, Allen," she intoned, her left hand palming the top of his head and forcing his congested face against her furry mount. And as he hesitated, she added sibilantly: "Do it, or Sally and Edith will suffer before your eyes as you have just seen Edith suffer!"
The drug was a fever in his veins now. The scent of her flesh, her sweat, the subtle emanations of her femininity, and the ferocious lust-images leaping through his disordered brain, compelled him to this final act of renunciation of his prized ethos. With a choking sob, conquered by the demon of lust that had overcome the righteous angel in his psyche, the Reverend Allen Bannion groaningly flung his arms around the firm lush thighs of the dominatrix and buried his face against her cunt.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The triumph of Madame Victorine Desage over the Bannion family was very nearly complete.
After the cantharide-induced minister had cunt-sucked his beautiful, mature black imperatrix, she took from the tabouret beside her a tiny hypodermic springe and, just as he was completing his mouthing of her quim to orgasm, slyly pressed the plunger into the back of his neck. The needle was tiny and the action so quick that he scarcely felt it. But what he did not know was that this was a supplemental drug formulated by the sadistically inventive hunchback and which furthered the action of the cannabis already teeming inside his veins.
This second drug, which Pierre had named "superagenatrix," not onlt completed the unleashing of moral and psychic inhibitions, but also induced a kind of amnesia, which made the former condition possible. Madame Desage, in her experiments with white slaves through the years, had found that hypnosis and drugs, while they could lower moral resistance and weaken the ethical fibres of the individual, could not entirely succeed in destroying all barriers, only in those who initially were not strongly bound by contemporary codes of conventional morality and prudery.
But when the individual found his or her awareness of identity and status completely or temporarily destroyed then she attempted to rip away all veneer of reluctance before ordinarily intolerant acts of lecherous behavior, could be successful.
And so it had been with Reverend Allen Bannion. About half an hour after the syringe had been admmistered the suoerb Negress la" naked on a chaise longue with his head bowed between her sculptured thighs. At her order, he had stripped himself naked, and now her precocious daughter Lucette was amusing herself with lashing his lean buttocks and back with a thin switch, sitting astride him as if he were a framed human pony. And when Lucette ordered the dignified ecclesiastic to leave her mother and to attend her in turn and suck her to orgasm, Sally's father unhesitatingly obeyed. Yes as Madame Desage had said, the drugs he had taken, with the symbolic doffing of his white collar, had turned him back into the predatory male, who had for long years held in leash his own sexual fantasies.
When the session was over at last, Hercule and Pierre led Reverend Allen Bannion away to a private room on the second floor of the mansion. Pierre had his orders from his despotic mistress: her newest victim was to be given a dose of cannabis with his dinner and then, the next morning, with his breakfast. This drug, to be sure, was not the raw, crude "Spanish fly," the indiscrimate use of which is sometimes known to produce death in convulsions; it had been highly synthesized through Pierre's ingenious skill as a chemist.
And so, the next day, after lunch, the dignified minister was led back, naked except for sandals, to the presence of Madame Desage.
For a few moments she amused herself by giving him servile commands, and the promptness with which he executed them convinced her that the skillful application of the drugs had achieved precisely the effect she desired. Bidding him kneel up, she leaned towards him, her naked titties temptingly dangling before his face, as she evoctively whispered, "Tell me, Allen, how would you like to make love to Claire? She's a superbly beautiful woman, you know. I'm sure that you must always have wanted to go to bed with her, even though you couldn't admit it to yourself. But now we are together, you are my slave, and there is no need for secrecy between us any longer. Tell me, Allen, wouldn't you like to see her naked and in your arms?"
He stared up at her, his mild blue eyes behind the spectacles glassy and dilated from the effect, of the subtle drugs, and his lips twitched as he stammered, "Yes, she's beautiful ... what a magnificent body ... when she was divorced, I had the shameful thought that I wanted to be her lover, but of course I couldn't ... Edith wouldn't let me ... Edith's terribly strict and prissy about sex. It's such a shame, too, Mistress."
She cupped his chin in her hand and she stared deep into his eyes, greedily savoring her absolute triumph over this righteous pillar of the community. Yes, revenge against the accursed divinity student was very nearly complete now. It would take only a little longer.
"If I bring you to her, Allen, and let you see her naked, will you make love to her in front of me? And in front of your own wife Edith, too?" she demanded in an excitingly vibrant confidential tone.
"Yes! Yes, I'll do it! I want to have her-she's got such gorgeous breasts, such a magnificent backside! I've had to punish myself for the lewd thoughts I've entertained toward her whenever she came visiting. I wanted to go to Paris with her, but my daughter went instead. I wanted to be with her and to have her and to make love to her and to force her to do things to me ... things that the devil inspires in a man's flesh and mind when he's weak, Mistress," he hoarsely avowed.
"Then come with me, Allen, and this time you shall have your desire."
She rose from the chaise longue and led him by the hand down the stairs to one of the cellar rooms which had been furnished to her specifications. She unlocked the door, and they stood in a narrow lobby where a wide oak panel barred the way. Touching a button in the wall, she made the panel slide back, and the naked ecclesiastic uttered a cry of maddened joy and disbelief.
It was a stone chamber, not unlike the one where his own daughter and Claire herself had expiated their luckless attempt at escape in Paris. Attached to a steel triangle, Claire Downing was presented facing him, not a stitch of clothing covering her opulent, desirable body, her arms stretched high above her head and fixed to the peak of the apparatus, her ankles fettered to the base of each of the legs and hugely straddled so that the pink lips of her cunt gaped through the dark-gold ringlets of her pussy fur.
On a footstool to one side of the divorcee, Lucette perched, wearing only mauve satin tights and gold cloth high-heeled pumps. She leaned forward now, a long white feather in her right hand, absorbedly tickling Claire's inner thighs and rimming the twitching lips of the divorcee's cunt, while poor Claire, her head fallen back and her eyes rolling, groaned and sobbed as she dragged on her fettered wrists.
"Allen! Oh good Lord, Allen, you're-you're naked! Oh, Allen, save us, in heaven's name save us!" Edith Bannion shrieked.
The minister's eyes slowly turned and then widened as they discovered his wife's whereabouts. Edith stood on tiptoe, equally stark naked, her thumbs bound with thin but strong braided silk cords drawn through a pulley set in the ceiling. Hercule stood beside the Reverend's naked wife, his arms folded across his chest, his only covering a jockstrap, already bulging with ferocious virility at the delightful sight before his eyes.
"There you are, Allen," purred the dominatrix. "There's Claire all ready for you. See how her legs yawn widely apart to receive you! And I can tell just by looking at you, Allen, that you're eager to grant her request!"
It was true. Reverend Bannion's cock was turgid with savage tumescence. He licked his lips, blinked his eyes, his chest heaving. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His lean sinewy body seemed to vibrate with rut. And Edith Bannion, aghast at this transformation of her gentle, mild, cultured husband, uttered a clamorous shriek and tried to break the bonds that stretched her thumbs so torturingly.
"Reverend Bannion! Oh my God!" Claire groaned as her feverishly dilated and tear-filled eyes fixed on his nakedness. "You've got to save us, oh please, I'm so shamed! I don't want to be like this before you! Oh, get away while you still can, call the police, save us!"
"Shut your mouth, bitch," Lucette giggled as she inflicted a sadistic pinch to Claire's inner thigh, drawning a strident yell of pain from the victim.
"Claire ... I've never seen you like this before ... you're beautiful ... I want you ... I've got to have you, Claire ... if you only knew how I've wanted you...." Allen Bannion hoarsely panted as he moved unerringly forward.
Madame Desage clapped her hands with glee as she foresaw realization of her most outlandish fancies. "Yes, Allen, she wants you, she's begging for you. See that pink soft yawning pussy of her, begging for your big stiff cock! Give it to her, Allen, do it to her good and hard!" she urged.
He had reached the triangle now and Claire with a wild shriek, flung herself backwards, straining herself to escape this final degradation. "Oh my God, no, no, Reverend Bannion! She-oh God, what has she done to you You're not yourself ... she must have drugged you! Oh, you horrible woman, you're insane!"
"Punish that blonde bitch for insulting your mother, Lucette dear," Madame Desage purred. "Punish her too, for her shameless lust in trying to corrupt a man of the church!"
"With pleasure, maman!" hissed Lucette.
Quitting the footstool and drawing it to one side so as not to interfere with the coupling between the divorcee and the minister, Lucette seized a leather paddle from a nearby tabouret and, placing herself behind Claire, applied a vicious swat across both jutting round asscheeks, making the divorcee lunge forward with a plaintive wail of torment.
In that constrained move, Claire's furry cunt rubbed against the stiff projecting prick of the drugged minister!
With a raucous cry, Bannion clutched Claire's sweat-gleaming waist, and thrust himself against her.
"Oh don't do this to me! Oh no-Aiii!" Claire cried. Even as she struggled to evade this blasphemous coition, Lucette regaled her with a furious spank across the base of both her shuddering bottom-cheeks, forcing her again to lunge forward ... and to impale herself on the turgid weapon of the man who had originally married her to George Downing!
Edith screamed with horror at this atrocious adultery committed before her very eyes. But Hercule bawdily consoled her by fondling her titties and bottomcheeks, muttering lustful words in her ear." Don't be jealous, ma mie! I'm here to take care of you if watching your husband and the blonde fuck excites you so. You know my prick is stronger and bigger than his, ma belle!"
Claire closed her eyes and ground her teeth, believing now that she had come to the very nadir of her ghastly nightmare of bondage and degradation. It just couldn't be-no, Reverend Allen Bannion couldn't be this man who was fucking her ... thrusting his prick in and out with massive, cruelly rasping lunges, making her jerk and twist ... it wasn't possible ... it was part of this horrid dream, a dream which had begun with the efreet that now seemed centuries ago.
But even as she strove to obliterate from her mind and her senses and her flesh the sullying contact of her body to the flesh of a man ordained to uphold righteousness, Lucette behind her increased the tempo and the vigor of the spanking. The leather paddle flattened viciously against Claire's weaving, dancing asscheeks, and the flaming pain that invaded her bottom made her know only too wretchedly that this was no dream.
His lips sucking one of her nipples, his fingers digging into the small of her back, his body grinding to her, the minister fucked Claire with prodigiously violent penetrations. And then to her own abysmal horror, she felt the liquefying tides of her innermost emotions churn within her vaginal sheath, and just as the paddle again furiously collided with her swollen, burning behind, she uttered a wild scream and felt herself explode in answering his own savage, orgasmic jet.
In this chamber, an artfully concealed movie-sound camera recorded a scene which Reverend Allen Bannion's parishioners would never in all the world have believed, but could not help believing if they were ever to see the film!
And Madame Desage, when the last furious shaking spasm made his body sag as he clutched Claire, murmured, "You've done it, Allen! And you needn't feel guilty because Claire's only a slut at heart. She wanted it even more than you did, if you'd only known! Come away, my slave, I'll show you what a tramp this dear friend of the family really is!"
The chemical in Pierre's syringe had rendered Allen Bannion meekly docile, once his insatiable urge to rut had been momentarily appeased. He nodded, whimpering incoherently, and released the panting, moaning Claire whom Lucette was still spanking with energetic thwacks of her leather paddle.
Madame Desage led the naked man to a leather-padded couch against a wall at the other side of the chamber, and there cradled his head against her swelling bubbies, stroking his cheek as she would that of a child. Then she nodded to Hercule.
The Senegalese left the chamber, and a moment later Bob and Tom brought in Sally Bannion, blindfolded and naked. At the sight of her daughter in the hands of the men who had double-holed her the day before, Edith Bannion uttered a horrified shriek and then sagged in a merciful if only temporary swoon.
"Release Claire from the triangle," Madame Desage said crisply, "and make her lie down on her back on the floor. Now then bitch, you're going to make love to Sally, or the two of you will be given to Bob and Tom to amuse them in any way they like, you understand?"
Hercule advanced to the triangle, untied Claire's wrists, and then her ankles, seizing her with an arm around the waist and pulling her stumblingly toward the blindfolded redhead who stood between her two Negro guards, gasping and terrified, not realizing that her own father and mother were in this very room.
Madame leaned forward, pointing a forefinger at the horrified divorcee. "Not a word about what's happened to you, bitch, or you'll bite out your tongue under the tortures I have in store for you! Now lie down and spread your legs, and welcome Sally!"
Sobbing like a lost soul, the divorcee obeyed. The two Negroes forced the blindfolded redhead toward her intended Lesbian partner, then pulled her down to her knees and finally laid her atop Claire, not without squeezing and pinching her titties and bottomcheeks.
"Now, Sally, let's see you make love to Claire. And you, Claire, put your arms around her and wind your legs around hers and show us how two girls in love can act to amuse their mistress!" Madame Desage commanded.
Reverend Allen Bannion stared, his mouth agape, at the sight of his daughter's creamy, voluptuous body wriggling and rubbing over Claire's. He saw Claire's arms and legs lock around Sally's quivering body, and saw the lascivious, rhythmic movements of the two naked bodies emulating Sappho and Bilitis on the Isle of Lesbos eons ago.
Lucette knelt down and hissed into Claire's ear. "Be more passionate than that, bitch, or tonight I'll have Pierre stick pins in your nipples and your pussy, yes, and your asshole, too!" And under that diabolical threat, Claire groaned and redoubled her efforts to seduce the one chaste and virginal daughter of Reverend Allen Bannion and his wife Edith.
Edith, still unconscious, did not see or hear, but Allen did: soon moaning and gasping, kissing passionately, their hands fondling each other's straining flesh, and Claire rolled over and over as spasms seized them and their pussies wetly rubbed together in frenetic climax.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Among the intimate details of her own sexual past, Claire has been compelled to reveal to Madame Victorine Desage the abortive attempt she had once made to seduce Donald Bannion, the prudish, reserved and inordinately shy twenty-year-old brother of Sally.
Donald had been going to a college summer school and, absorbed as he was in matters intellectual, had not taken it amiss to find his mother and father absent from their house. Moreover, specially during this time of year, it was their custom to go off together on a short vacation. So, when Claire telephoned him the morning after her "command performance" scene with his beautiful red-haired sister, he unsuspectingly drove out to the mansion.
The Negress was intoxicated with her triumph. Of all the members of this hitherto circumspect family, Donald Bannion intrigued her perhaps the most of all, because he most closely resembled that detested divinity student who had started her on her own early life of servility and degradation to the male By conquering Donald, not only would she pronounce finis to her project of enslaving Sally's entire family, but she would also symbolically come to the end of her vengeance against that abominated male, who, too, had worn the cloth of a religious order, so many years ago!
It was Lucette who received the studious, bespectacled brother of Sally Bannion in the living room, dressed in a provocative low-cut green satin evening gown and silver cloth pumps, wearing her mother's famous ruby pendants affixed to her dainty earlobes, her body scented and oiled and naked under the evening gown.
Claire had told Madame Desage how impervious young Donald had been to her seductive efforts, but the Negress had laughingly remarked, "You used only the simplest of weapons, Claire my dear. I wager you a sound flogging to the blood that within half an hour Lucette will have that satisfied male virgin panting to go to bed with her!" And Claire, knowing only too well by now the scope of the black imperatrix's cruel powers, shudderingly shook her head and refused to make such a risky wager!
"Er ... I wonder, Miss, if I could see my parents now?" Donald stammered. He shifted uneasily on the divan, moving away from the teenaged mulatto. The cloying French perfume she wee had begun to make him feel extremely ill at ease.
"Don't be in such a hurry, honey. It isn't every day I get to see such a nice handsome young fellow. You'll see them pretty soon I promise. But I want you to do me a favor first, Donald," Lucette crooned, wriggling over to him and putting her slim hand on his trousered knee.
Bannion's cheeks flamed with embarrassment as he glanced down at those supple fingers. Lucette gave him her most engaging smile. "You'll do it for little Lucette won't you, Donald darling?" she cajolingly pursued.
"Whyer-what do you want, Miss Lucette?" he quavered.
"Why, not very much really, Donald. I'm thirsty. See that big decanter over there with the brown liquid in it? It's a cordial Maman likes me to have, good for my system and very quieting to the nerves. It isn't alcoholic at all really. And I want you to share a glass with me too. Then I promise you'll see your parents."
"All ... all right," he uneasily agreed as he rose and walked to the sideboard. Rather clumsily, for Donald Bannion had rarely had occasion to exercise the amenities and social graces with the opposite sex, he poured out two glasses and brought them back to the divan. Lucette took hers with an enchanting little moue, "Thank you, Donald dear. Now drink up."
"You're sure this isn't alcoholic, Miss Lucette?"
"Of course not, you silly dear. My, you're blushing! You've no idea how cute you look when you blush, Donald!" she teased. She leaned closer to him, so that he couldn't help seeing the deep cut of her evening gown which showed off the valley between her perky tan-hued titties. He gulped and turned his eyes away, then took a quick sip of the glass. Lucette seized the opportunity to lean round and pour the contents of her glass over the back of the divan, and swiftly put it to her lips as if in the act of finishing her drink just as he turned back to glance nervously at her.
"There! Now wasn't that nice?"
"Yes. It was rather tasty," he grudgingly admitted.
It was, to be sure, Pierre's own ingenuous concoction of root beer, a dash of Cointreau and bitters, fortified with some old Oloros sherry. It was also fortified with the same drug that Reverend Allen Bannion had imbibbed in the form of a gray pill some twenty-four hours previously....
Within half an hour, Donald Bannion's face was flushed and perspiring, and his lips had begun to tremble. From time to time he adjusted his glasses, and each time Lucette cuddled a little closer to him, her left arm tightly around his waist, rubbing her satiny, perfumed cheek against his. He felt as if he were paralyzed, and yet a pleasant languor had taken hold of him. This delicious girl, this captivating little vixen was really amazingly intelligent. She looked to be awfully young, but it felt delightful to be with her. Still, he really ojght to find his parents, they would probably be worrying about him by now.
"Lucette. Can we go see them now?" he asked, his voice slurred. The drug which Pierre had put in the decanter was so much stronger than his father had taken, that Madame Desage had in mind an incredible denouement as the final step of her carefully laid plans.
"All right, you naughty boy," Lucette panted. "I know, you want to get rid of me. And here we were getting along so nicely. At least, give me a little kiss first, just to show me you're not mad at me."
"Of course I'm not mad you're awfully pretty and you smell so sweet but-"
"But what, lover?" Lucette crooned, her cheek rubbing against his, holding him tightly around the waist, and letting her right hand wander along his thigh till she gradually approached his crotch. A glance of her expert eyes confirmed her supposition: the drug was already working. There was a suspicious bulge at the fly of his trousers. Donald Bannion was in vigorous erection, and although he might be virginal and embarrassed and blushingly shy, there could be no doubt that he was very much a male.
"I don't really know you well enough-to be so bold, Lucette," he stammered hoarsely.
"Well, I can see you're a gentleman. That's so rare, Donald dear. I tell you what, I'm going to kiss you instead. Turn your face around, that's a good boy. There we are!"
Lucette leaned forward and fused her warm, moist lips against his. He uttered a gasp, and shuddered. At the same time, her supple fingers crept toward the zipper of his fly, disengaged it, and stealthily crept inside the opening. She felt him stiffen and writhe against her, as her fingers took possession of his hardening young prick. He tried to disengage his mouth, but she relentlessly and expertly pursued him, and now her tongue dove between his lips to galvanize him and to add sexual stimulus to that of the drug now racing violently through his nervous system.
"Ohh. L-Lucette," he moaned. By now, she had liberated his prick into the open air, and was delicately frigging it from scrotum to tip between thumb and forefinger pads, creating the most evanscent patterns of tactual sensation.
"Do you want to see them now, darling?" she breathed.
"Yes, Lucette-oh, what are you doing to me-oh, Lucette!"
"Come along, Donald dear. I'll help you get up. That's a lamb! Now, put your arm around my shoulders, and I'll steady you. That's a good boy, Here we go!"
Her left arm around his waist, her right hand still slyly fondling his aching, jutting cock while he slung his right arm around her shoulders and haltingly moved forward, Lucette guided Donald Bannion to that very room in which his father had watched his mother being double-holed by Bob and Tom! With a difference: he would enter the room on which that one-way glass panel looked, and his father would be the voyeur.
"Here we are at last, darling. Now go in and say hello to your Mummy! Just like you are, Lucette wants you to!" She unlocked the door, and shoved him across the threshold, and quickly closed and locked the door again, bursting into sensual laughter.
Donald goggled at what he saw as he stood swaying, breathing hard, beads of sweat gleaming on his forehead, the drug over-whelming all his inhibitions, all his shy restraint. For on that huge bed lay his mother, divinely naked, her brown hair combed out and mantling her pink flesh down to her titties, and she lay squirming and gasping ... for she had unknowingly partaken of that fiendishly compulsive drug.
"Oh, M-Mother-oh!" was all Donald could croak, in the stupefying sensually titillating languor of his drugged state. He moved to the bed as if compelled by an invisible magnet. His eyes laved the deeply dimpled basin of his mother's belly, in which he had been housed and fed as an embryo during that gestative period of her fecundity. He saw the thick brown fleece over the orifice from quivering plump thighs, saw the rosy tips of her bubbies stiffened and darkened by the cantharide that dominated her own erogenous system.
"You ... you're so beautiful! Oh, Mother-" he gasped. He ascended the bed, and moved to her on his knees, his eyes glazed, his nostrils flickering, his lips convulsively working. And then with a cry, he flung himself upon her, and Edith uttered an answering cry. "Oh, my boy, my Donald! Oh, Donald, no, you mustn't-oh, Donald-Aaahhh!"
The unleashed primal instinct of the male had now come to the fore, and all of Donald Bannion's virginal shyness and awkwardness had been purged by the deadly cannabis. He mounted her, his stiff cock edging to the shaggy fur of her cunt. He pried open the moist, tumescent lips of her slit, and felt himself enter that womb which had given him life. Edith Bannion, shaken into tumult of all her senses, could not deny him. With an agonized groan, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, and with mouths glued together. And then, heedless of the terrible sin, the forbidden taboo of incest, Edith and Donald Bannion strove together in salacious carnal conclave as his trousered sinewy buttocks jerked and twisted with each digging thrust of his stiff virgin cock into his own mother's rapacious moist, hot cunt!
In the room beyond, the room in which Allen Bannion had watched his wife in the embrace of Bob and Tim, Madame Desage waited in a comfortable arm chair, clad in only a foamy green silk negligee and high heel pumps. Allen Bannion-he could no longer be called Reverend now-knelt beside her, naked, panting, his cock in furious erection, still under the stimulus of the amnesia-inducing cantharide which was being regularly administered to him now by Pierre.
"You see, Allen?" Madame Desage purred. "It's all Sally's fault. If she hadn't forgotten your good training, yes, and Edith's too, and not talking to strangers and be more careful, all this wouldn't have happened. You can blame your own daughter for what's going on. Look at the way your son is rogering your wife, Allen! Doesn't it make you jealous? Don't you remember how passionately you used to fuck Edith before Sally and Donald were conceived? It's Sally you have to thank for this!"
"Oh, that wicked girl, that dreadful sinner! And making love to Claire in front of my eyes! It's unbelievable, it's shocking, Mistress!" he hoarsely ejaculated.
"Yes it is, Allen dear. She ought to be punished, don't you agree?"
"Yes, yes, she ought to be punished good and hard! I've never spanked her, but I wish she were here right now, I'd give her what she needs!"
"But that's remedied, dear. Wait a bit." Madam again extended her hand to the panel and pressed a button just below the levers which controlled the opaque one-way glass panel. A moment later the door was opened and Sally Bannion was pushed in by Hercule. She wore the tunic and tights and sandals of her livery of servitude, without stockings or lingerie. Her creamy legs were trembling. For she had not been drugged and at once she could see through that one-way panel her own brother atop her mother, screwing Edith Bannion vigorously in this first renascence of his sexual needs as a virile young virgin male!
"Ohhh! Oh God, Oh Donald, Donald! What have they done to you! Oh, Daddy-you're here too-oh my Lord!" she sobbed, shrinking back against the door which had already been locked by the retreating Hercule.
"There she is, that naughty creature, Allen," Madame Desage pointed accusingly at Sally. "Punish her now, Allen!"
"Yes, I will! Sally, come here to me, do you understand?" His voice shook with rage. The dominant suggestions of one in authority had the power of impinging themselves upon his drugged, stimulated brain.
"No, Daddy, please don't-it isn't my fault, it's Madame Desage-don't you see, oh, Daddy, we didn't dare warn you. We couldn't, we were so afraid-Daddy, what are you going to do-no, Daddy-help me, Mistress-" As her terror mounted, Sally abandoned her desperate attempt to restore her father to reason, and appealed to the perfidious Negress.
But Madame Desage had not the least intention of interfering. Leaning back, she chose a Russian cigarette from a little silver humidor, lit it and watched with glee.
The minister seized his daughter, dragging her by an elbow to a straight-back chair. He flung her down over his lap, while Sally sobbed and protested and tried to break free; but so great was the hold of her filial percepts to honor and respect him, that she did not use her full force to resist. What was her horror to feel his fingers inserted into the waistband of her tights and then to feel them ripped off her luscious creamy bottom, and then to find his left arm clamping round her waist, his right leg pinioning her calves, and then-oh dying crushing shame!-to feel his hand smashing down upon her upturned naked ass!
"I'll teach you to be such a little slut, you wicked girl!" he hoarsely reproached her as his hand rose and fell, leaving flaming marks all over Sally's creamy behind and drawing anguished cries of real suffering from the astonished and shamed young woman. "Make a spectacle of yourself like that with Claire in front of your own father and mother-there, you wicked girl, there and there! I ought to have done this long ago! You deserve a good long one and you're going to get it! There and there, and that one too! That's right, kick and cry! Now I know you're feeling it, you sinful slut!"
Madame Desarre's eyes glittered and her titties rose and fell furiously in her sensual excitement. Sally screamed and pleaded twisting and wriggling, trying to throw herself off her father's lap, for her bottom was burning atrociously. But when at last he stopped, her naked father lifted her in his arms, and then, ripping off her tunic, set her naked before him.
"So you want to be a slut, do you? Well, let's see how good you are!" he panted. He caught her shoulders and knees, and carried her to a nearby couch.
"No, No, Daddy, for God's sake, it's me. Sally your own daughter! Oh Daddy, no-stop-oh. Mistress, for God's sake, not my own father-Aahhh-oh Daddy, you're hurting me-Aaii-ohuuu!!!"
He flung her down upon the couch and crawled on her. Kneeling between her struggling thighs, a hand clamped on one of her swelling titties, Allen Bannion thrust his turgid prick between the wet twitching lips of Sally Bannion's cunt.
Her cries now were echoed, even deafened and drowned out, by the sounds of incestuous rapture in the room beyond. The enslavement of the Bannion family was complete, but there remained one last sardonic scene to be played out.
Madame Desage watched as Sally, her face twisted to one side, sobbed under her father's violently rutting assault. Then she rose, tiptoed to the door and disappeared for a moment. When she returned, it was with an immaculately groomed, poised, brown-haired man of about thirty years of age, wearing a pince-nez, smoking a slim Havana panatella.
"I thought you'd want to see this for yourself, Mr. Meredith," she deferentially exclaimed as she ushered him ahead of her into the room.
Sally, grinding her teeth, digging her ringers into the upholstery of the couch, tried to make her mind a blank, to shove from her disordered, reeling brain the horrifying, brutal, incredible act that was being perpetrated on her by her own father ... the act that she could see and hear between her own brother and her mother. But Allen Bannion's furious fucking in-and-out holdings were beginning to waken her most tumultuous desires that all her servitude had now taught her to evince.
And so she was hardly conscious that a contemptuously smiling man was standing with his feet planted well apart, hands on his hips, cynically staring at her and watching the play of expressions on her flushed and tear strained face.
"Well, well, well, I wouldn't have believed it possible, Madame," he chuckled at last as he turned to the Negress. "You've surpassed even my wildest dreams."
"Not at all, Mister Meredith," the dominatrix respectfully inclined her head. "I simply did my best to follow your instructions. And if you hadn't given me several clues as to where I might find Sally in Paris from the first week, it might have been quite difficult to track her down."
"I know. But she was always such a little intellectual, such a prissy, prim virgin, all excited about paintings in the Louvre and the museums and the antique shops. Yes, you've done very well."
Sally blinked her eyes, as she felt her father's digging fingers squeeze her inflamed bottomcheeks.
Then her face congealed in absolute stupefaction.
"Ohhh, Daddy-oh God, it's Jackson! Oh, let me go, stop it-Ohh-ahh!"
But her father didn't stop. Hardening his digs he uttered a cry and exploded inside her cunt. Sally's body arched like a box as her own dam burst to merge her cream with her father's jetting spunk.
"Yes, it's your husband-to-be, Sally darling," Jackson Meredith sarcastically chuckled, then took a long puff at his cigar and bent down to blow the smoke into her congested face. "And I may say that you're more nearly my ideal of a wife now than you ever were before. My congratulations, my dear!"
As her father's head sagged on her panting titties, Sally, with a gasp and groan, forced herself up on one elbow, her eyes asking a thousand harassed inchoate questions.
"Don't trouble yourself to get up, you mustn't break the mood of orgasm, Sally dear," Jackson Meredith interposed "You see, I happen to be an agent for Madame Desage. It's made a very handsome profit over the years, I may tell you. Perhaps if you'd been a little more affectionate towards me during the courtship, I shouldn't have taken it necessary to put this operation into effect, but as a stimulating challenge. Imagine, the chaste daughter of a minister turned into an utter bitch."
"Jackson ... you can't mean-you're joking-"
"Not at all, my dear." he shook his head, took another puff on his cigar and again callously blew the smoke into her face until she coughed and spluttered, fresh tears streaking her congested face.
"I'm sure your friend Claire had a very low opinion of me. She thought I couldn't even satisfy you in bed. How surprised and perhaps how delighted, too, she's going to be in a few days when she discovers the real side of my nature. Being a lawyer is just a front, Sally, for a very lucrative business in flesh-peddling, as you might call it. Only this time you needn't worry that you're going to be sold to some amateur in some other part of the world; no, I'm going to marry you. But of course you're going to be my slave. And your mother, your father and your brother, as well as Claire, will be constantly under our supervision. Whenever Madame Desage and Lucette wish to be amused, your parents and your very best friend are going to hurry over here and satisfy their needs. Oh, they'll do it, never fear. We've had very entertaining and detailed movies-complete with sound-made of all these little aberrations. I wonder what the parishioners of Reverend Bannion's church would say if they could watch what's just gone on. Did you make a particularly good film of this, with closeups. Madame?"
"Oh, to be sure, Mister Meredith!" the Negress laughing replied.
"Good. So you see, Sally, you can look forward to a most exciting and richly varied existence as my future wife. I think, however, you still need a little more training. I mentioned that you had become a bitch. I mean to have you do that literally. Madame, have you made the arrangements with our dear friend Amy Carlton?"
"I have indeed, Mister Meredith. She suggests next Saturday afternoon and evening, when she's going to have quite a few of her special friends and guests. Her kennels will be waiting, and her dogs will be ready to entertain Claire and Sally."
"I see you're staring at me as if you can't believe what I'm saying, Sally." Jackson Meredith bent down towards his naked fiancee and mockingly kissed her hastily on the forehead. "Amy happens to be a sweetheart of mine who shares my, shall we say, special interests. She trains Danish hounds, Great Danes, police dogs and other particularly intelligent canines to afford sophisticated women sexual enjoyment when they don't want to be bothered with the encumbrance of a husband or lover, you see. They're trained to make love to bitches ... the two-legged kind. That's something to look forward to next week, my dear. I'll be on hand to coach you and to encourage you, never fear."
He straightened. "And now, my dear Madame Desage, shall we allow our little family to have their last undisturbed moments of togetherness before we begin to teach them what lasting bondage really is?"
