Chasing their dreams, numbers of young girls leave farms and small towns to go to the "big city." Starry-eyed, these naive nymphs seek the glamour and excitement of modeling careers and, hopefully, stardom. Yet in case after case, their dreams become nightmares, the ugly realities of the baser side of human nature. These fresh, sparkling nubile young girls are taken by blackmailers and pornographers like bait-fish are ravaged by barracuda, leaving a wake of torn, twisted, demolished lives.
CHAPTER ONE
Satins and sables, diamonds and limousines-these are the things that most people think of when you mention the word model. But it is a phony picture, for the coveted career of modeling is far from being a fairy tale of fame and fortune.
Each year thousands of hopeful and attractive girls from every American city think of the fun, glamour and money to be found in a modeling career-and they are then ready fall into the glossy trap.
Such a girl may think that her present job is dull and ill-paid-and if she throws it away to try for the glittering prize of major modeling success, her happiness will be assured.
But this has proven to be far from the case. From numerous studies of the so-called "modeling profession" it is plain that bitter disillusionment and degradation are all too often the result of these young girls' dreams, and that a destroyed life can be waiting at the end of the shimmering rainbow.
Thus it has been with this in mind that this book has been undertaken: that hopeful would-be models need to be told the facts of life as far as this trade goes. The truth is that modeling as a career can be fine, and there are some fine and decent people in the business-but still there are all too many innocents who become brutalized in this vicious profession, and only a small handful ever really reach the top.
So many bright young things put themselves on the model market every year that there just isn't enough of the big time and the big money to go around. For instance, in Hollywood alone there are probably four thousand girls who call themselves "figure models-either full or part-time. And of these, no more than about twenty are earning the really big money. The rest of them have to string along by using their bodies in other ways-as will be explained later.
The world of modeling is tough. Many girls who enter it blithely are destined to regret not only the ordinary jobs they gave up-but the good hard cash they surrendered for the sake of modeling courses.
Of course there are some reputable model agencies and photographers-but there is no getting away from the fact that this is also a trade which attracts more than its share of unscrupulous sharks and racketeers.
But the men in the business are not the only unscrupulous ones. In many cases the girls themselves will do anything at all to see their pictures even within the confines of a girlie magazine.
James D. Hagerty of the Los Angeles Times reports: "These girls are bad enough, but their mothers are even worse. I've seen them at the lingerie fashion parades in the big department stores, leading the applause as the daughters pose and pirouette before the society set-and the sugar-daddies who always seem to happen along.
"Believe me, mama knows her sugar-daddies like a bookmaker knows his odds. And if she can't interest a wealthy young man in her baby, she's usually more than happy to settle for an old one-just so long as he's prepared to talk turkey. And turkey, to a model's mother, is spelled c-h-a-m-p-a-g-n-e and c-a-v-i-a-r.
"I could name at least two dozen girls right now who are nicely settled in luxury apartments in Hollywood-with mom around to lend an air of respectability to the setup.
"And photographers whose work brings them into contact with such models have learned to keep a weather eye open for trouble."
For all that, however, it is not so much the hard-as-nails gold diggers with flexible morals who make modeling a racket. Certainly the girls on top know it is every girl for herself. Most of those few who get to the top don't care much how they manage it. And once at the top, they are prepared to fight tooth and nail to stay there.
But such girls know how to look after themselves. We are more concerned with the newcomers, the innocent schoolgirls who are fleeced for phony modeling courses, or forced to pose indecently by pornography photographers, or who become prey of highly-organized vice agencies. Their lot is all too often to become the innocent victims of cranks and perverts.
The dizzy young girls who feel certain they have what it takes to become top models are often in for a rude awakening. They soon learn about shoddy photographers and their "customers," about the cranks and lovesick characters who telephone and write them, begging for marriage or even just a meeting for dinner or merely an autograph.
Any model can tell you of the men who pester them, even in the street, or try to make fake photographic appointments by telephone. Most of these are perverts of one sort or another. They have a smooth line of talk, are well-groomed, and usually work by a standard routine.
Of course it is useless to warn these girls of what's in store. If a girl is the type of hopeful so desperate to call herself "model" that she is ready for anything, she'll quickly bare her young breasts in order to get an assignment. Such a girl is even ready to model in suggestive nude poses for the back street photographers who specialize in selling obscene sexual pictures through the U.S. mails.
CHAPTER TWO
Very often those girls who want to be models at any price are ready to get into advertising print by being "nice" to small-time advertisers and manufacturers with wolfish instincts. And one of the most widespread and vicious rackets infesting American cities these days is the phony model agency that preys on ambitious young girls.
These-agencies think nothing of swindling girls out of their only money and then forcing them into the call-girl trade. A tall, slender blonde we shall call Mary Middleton reported her experience at the hands of these wolves in this fashion:
"Uh, I was new to Chicago from Dubuque, and I just went up to the first place I saw that advertised as a modeling agency. I thought that I'd just go in and see what I had to do about getting a job." INTERVIEWER: Then you had no idea at the time you went in that you would be required to provide photographs for the agency?
"No, none at all." Mary shook her long blonde hair back from her face and continued, "Well, the first guy I saw was a kind of hairy-looking guy-at first I thought he was a throwback or something, and afterwards I always used to think of him as the ape man-but he, uh, he wanted me to have photos made with some photographer he knew and insisted he was the best in town. So I said sure, and I went up there.
"It seemed to me he charged quite a bit of money, but I figured it would be worth it, and anyway I'd have jobs soon enough, so I could make it up.
"I signed the contract he gave me, and then he told me to go back into the dressing room and disrobe. I said to him, 'You mean you want me to get into one of my dresses?"
"But he said no, he just wanted to see how my flesh looked in the light. I thought this was kind of strange, but I'd already signed the contract, and didn't know what to do about it. So I just went back to the dressing room like he told me.
"Well, back there I found there was another girl waiting, too. She was a tall redhead, and she was sitting there in a kind of shortie nightgown and tiny bra, smoking a cigarette, one of her legs propped up on a stool so that I could see that she wasn't wearing anything underneath.
"I must have blushed when I saw her, because I was only eighteen, and I'd never seen another girl naked before, except maybe a little in our high school locker room in Dubuque. And the girls in school had looked nothing like HER. All the girls I went to school with had been nice little clean-cut teenagers from Iowa, who never smoked or drank, and you couldn't imagine anything dirty about them. In my own home we'd always been terrifically religious, attending two services on Sunday, and prayer meetings and what-not. My mother had kept a pretty strict Christian home; there'd never been any swearing or anything in our home, and I'd been brought up to believe that a girl saved herself for the man she married, and that sex was something close to being a sin, not much fun and only okay if it occurred within the confines of the marriage vow. So I was a Puritan right down to my panties and toenails.
"But I'm getting away from the subject. Anyway, this girl was not just any partly-undressed girl. There was something about her-I think she was probably sexier in her partially-dressed get-up than any little teen-ager I'd ever seen completely naked. I think the word I'm searching for is probably ALLURING. She had that faint odor of sex, a kind of muskiness that rose from the center of her legs and kind of spread out through the room.
"For one thing, she had tremendous breasts, and she was very tall. I've got pretty large breasts, but they're mostly firm-like torpedoes. Hers were really big and pendulous, they just kind of hung out in space, and ballooned all over her knees, straining at the flimsy bra. She just kind of took my breath away. I'd always thought that in order for a woman to be built like that, she'd have to have been made in Japan.
"Well, she could see right away I was taken aback, but she didn't say nothing. I said to her, 'Hi, what're you doing here? I'm supposed to get undressed back here."
"With that she shook out her golden-red curls and let her smoky eyes wash me up and down. I felt like the side of a house being painted. She said to me: 'That's okay, I'm waiting, too.' Or something like that. 'I'm waiting to have my picture taken, too, just like you are."
"Well, I couldn't argue with her about that. The studio wasn't mine, and if the photographer wanted to have two girls hanging around the dressing room, I guessed it was his own business. I shook my hair out and went over to a vacant mirror to sit down and make up.
"As I got myself organized, she talked to me. At first I couldn't make out anything she was saying. She was a pretty worldly woman, and I didn't know anything at all about the world.
"She asked me where I was from, and talked about life in the big city, and mentioned the big money she was making as a model. At that my eyes really lit up, because that was what I was after, too.
"So I started asking her questions, like how did she like the work, and what kind of money did she make, and all kinds of things like that. And it was pretty interesting. She gave me whatever answers she thought I'd like, and I thought I was learning something.
"Then I was finally down to my bra and panties, looking at myself in the mirror. I fluffed out my long blonde hair and took a comb from my purse.
After giving it a few strokes, I said, 'Well, I guess I'm ready."
"She looked at me. 'Ready for what?' she asked.
"'Well, ready to have the photographer get a line on the texture of my skin,' I said innocently.
"And then she started laughing. She threw her red hair back and just laughed, her gigantic boobs hobbling all over the place. I couldn't keep my eyes off of them, they were so magnificent.
"'Well, what's so funny?' I wanted to know.
"She pointed at me. 'Honey, you're not going out like THAT, are you?' she said.
"'Well sure,' I said, 'what's wrong with that?' "And she laughed some more. I was totally bewildered. When she finally stopped, she said to me, 'Honey, Mark,' that was the photographer, didn't mean he just wanted to see SOME of your skin-he meant he wanted to see ALL of it!'
"I sat down bewildered, not knowing what to make of my situation. But Gloria, the redhead, came over and put her arms around me, trying to comfort me. I felt those warm arms come around me, and a funny sensation started in my groin. After all, I was new to Chicago and in a state of almost perpetual excitement. So it wasn't hard for me to become aroused.
"She said to me, 'Baby, you've got to take ALL of your clothes off, or no professional photographer is going to want to handle you."
"I didn't realize at the time just how she meant that. All I knew was that I was getting the cobbly-wobblies in my stomach, and I felt flushed all over.
I wanted to become a model with every ounce of my desperate flesh, but I'd never been brought up to go naked in front of a man. I didn't even go naked in front of my father, and he was a lot dearer to me than anybody.
"She said to me, 'Sweetie, he just wants to look at you. Once he gets a good look at those beautiful tits of yours and the way you look when you're the way nature made you, your future is assured. That's all it takes."
"And then, before I could say anything, she started undoing my brassiere.
"Well, I'd always been secretly proud of my beauties and the way they stuck out, and the way my nipples could harden up on their round, bulbous mounds. I had rather unusual-sized nipples, and they'd harden and get stiff and stand up the length of my little finger joint. I'd always gotten a kick out of studying myself in the mirror at home, and turning this way and that, imagining how a man would react to my naked body.
"But of course that had always been just in secret. Boy, if mom had known-anyway, I'm getting away from my story. So Gloria undid my bra and my breasts fell out-though not really FALLING, because they were of the rather large variety that defied gravity, and they were glorious, big, round things; I felt as if I were in love with them myself.
"Gloria threw my bra in a corner and said: 'Jeez, baby, you sure do have big ones."
"I just kind of smiled and nodded, like I was hypnotized by my own beauty, and the way my long golden curls fell over my shoulder. Like I said, I guess I was kind of in love with myself.
"Then she did something that no one had ever done before in my life-she reached over and gripped one of my breasts, squeezing it in her hand, her palm closing over my nipple.
"I must have closed my eyes and given a little moan. I felt as if I would faint. Here was the touch I'd been waiting for ever since I was twelve years old, the touch I'd been saving until I was married, and this redhead was using me, touching me, mauling my body as if she were a lover.
"She said innocently: 'Gosh, your tits are really firm, too,' as if she had just grabbed me out of innocent curiosity.
"I nodded my head languidly. 'Mmm-mmmh ... ' Her fingers came up to pinch one of my nipples and roll it around. My legs were weak. I staggered against the dressing table and almost fell. I could feel something moist dripping down the insides of my thighs.
"'Mark's really going to like seeing your titties,' she said. 'I know he's going to like you."
"I was dizzy as hell. Suddenly her hand left me, and some sort of sense seemed to flow back into my weakening flesh.
"She had gone to a little closet and now she was coming back with a bottle of something. I couldn't tell what it was, even if my eyes hadn't been too bleary to make out the label.
"'Honey,' she said to me, "I've got something right here that's going to fix you right up and make you the most sought-after model in town. Once Mark gets a look at how gorgeous you are, he won't be able to let you go."
"I didn't know what the hell to make of that, but at this point I didn't much care, either. All I knew was that my nipple and breast ached from where she had touched me and then let me go. I was in a daze.
"She came over to me and started tugging down my panties. I felt a deep wave of shame sweep over me, but I was too weak to resist. Everything was happening so fast; I was a rabbit hypnotized by a swaying cobra or something, if you get me.
"Anyway, in another second or two my panties were down around my feet. They were red and pink and had a little heart on them with an arrow through it, but it was too late to worry about that now. Quicker than I could protest, I felt Gloria's fingers run through the fleece of my golden public hair as if it were money.
"'Jeez,' she said, 'you're really a natural blonde. Mark's going to be tickled to death over you."
"I wish I had been able to understand the double meaning in those terrible words. Fortunately she removed her fingers before I was able to swoon further, or I'd have surely collapsed. To this day I can still remember the feel of her fingernails on the golden mound above my clitoris. It was absolutely the filthiest, most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.
"Then she pushed me around toward a massage table that was sitting against one wall. 'Come on, honey, we're going to shine up that skin of yours so that Mark can see what a really great model you're going to make."
"I was too weak to resist. I didn't know what was going on, but there was nothing whatever in my previously strict training that would have given any indication of what to do in a situation such as this. Mother had never said anything to me about Lesbians and what they were, or what to expect or do in such a situation. Of course, in church we'd never discussed Lesbianism in the big city; all we'd ever talked about was God and about how one had to love Jesus.
"So I went to the table willingly, almost like a zombie. She pushed me down onto it, and then she started taking off her own things. She said something: 'Now I'm going to get myself comfy, too, as long as you are, and that'll be easier."
"I watched her out of the comer of my eye. The minute her brassiere fell away, I felt my heart thump crazily. She had the most tremendous hanging breasts I'd ever seen. The aureoles on them were gigantic, about as big as a man's palm, and they were real dark red, as if they were filled with blood. And in both of them, bouncing in rhythm, were set two succulent, wrinkled, broad nipples. I could feel my throat clutch; my breathing came hard. I'd never been in the company of such a woman before. Coupling those huge breasts were fantastically long legs; she was a creature totally unlike anything that existed in the real world. One could only suppose that she had been made by a Frankenstein in a laboratory to suit the perverse desires of men everywhere.
Her yellow shortie fell to the floor and she came toward me. The hair down between her legs was a bright red with some orange, and it glistened as if it had recently been bathed. A great musky smell rose from her flesh, something like a good deodorant soap crossed with the fluid one gets when one has sex.
"My golden head swam. She came nearer and picked up the bottle of ointment she had taken from the closet.
"It was a kind of salve, really, something like a sunburn lotion. It was white and creamy, and after it was rubbed into your skin it disappeared.
"Then she knelt over me, on one side of the table. She had forced me onto my front, so that as I shivered from head to toe as her nipples tantalizingly brushed my young flesh. She bent over to apply the salve, her enormous breasts grazed tinglingly over my silky white back.
"Then her soothing hands were on me. I could feel my skin begin to take shape under energetic hands. Beneath my crotch on the table a wet pool of something that I didn't want to think about was forming. The hair beneath my belly felt moist and warm, glowing. Deep sensations were welling up through my clitoris and into my vagina, sensations of ecstasy, of desire, of need. I knew that I wanted to be married. I closed my eyes and imagined some giant penis coming toward me, its cap all purple and swollen, semen dripping from its gaping, fish-mouth tip. I had an overwhelming urge, as I lay there, to take some handsome penis into my mouth and swallow it, to lose my lips in pubic hair, to be choked by it, to feel its hot swelling, masterful hardness moving along the insides of my mouth like some gigantic log.
"Gloria's hands flowed over my flesh, smoothing the swan-like contours of my back, moving down to clench my firm young buttocks, to manipulate them, to venture a finger tantalizingly toward my stiff little tingling anus. Her fingers brushed up lingeringly inside my cheeks, brushing the little puckered hole, and I wiggled away from her. Then her hands moved down to my trembling legs, all the while her huge breasts caressed and rubbed my young goose-pimpled flesh.
"My legs. Oh my God, what she did to my legs! She plied them this way and that, then ran her fingers thrillingly up between my thighs to the core of my being. She didn't quite touch my clitoris, which by now was dripping and oozing with molten lava, but she just teased and promised....
"And then I felt the lingering flick of her finger towards my steaming little hole. I tried to force myself away from her, but suddenly it was there, a finger caressing the warm, flowing insides of my...."
At this point the interviewee broke down, crying, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. A glass of water was brought to her, and she continued to wipe the tears from her cheeks as she continued with her story. Everyone in the office was very impressed with the deep trouble that could have caused such a breakdown in a girl who had obviously come from a good Christian home. Evil never sleeps. Regaining herself, she went on:
"I suppose I never knew what hit me. No sooner had she forced one finger slightly into my vagina than she flipped me over on my back as if I were a fish, my breasts bouncing every which way, marvelously enlarged because of what had been happening inside of me. The mounds-that is, the aureoles of my breasts had swollen terribly and were all speckled with little bumps. My nipples had grown to enormous proportions. As I flopped over onto my back, she immediately grabbed my breasts and began rubbing in the cream all over them. She pinched my nipples and squeezed my breasts terribly until I cried out with pain and tried to roll away from her.
"But it was no use. Even though my creamy young legs thrashed and my entire body squirmed and shook, I couldn't evade her-even had I wanted to. She was squeezing my breasts and pinching my nipples, until finally she did what at that point was the most natural thing in the world-she bent her head and began sucking on one of my nipples.
"I must have groaned and thrashed dreadfully from side to side. Here were my aching young nipples being sucked, and I wasn't even married. Her long red hair tumbled and swayed over my shivering stomach and loins. The sweet fluidity of that hair moved back and forth over my quaking young flesh as I jerked from each imparted electric shock from her experienced technique. She knew just what to do to get me aroused. She sucked on my nipples hungrily and tried to draw as much of the surrounding breast into her mouth as was possible. I felt as if I were drowning in a nightmare of orgiastic desire. Wave after wave of lust shuddered through my aching being. I wanted surcease, I wanted love, I wanted her to stop, I didn't know WHAT I wanted ... but something, something had to satisfy me, and quickly, or I felt I would blow my mind.
"Her hands continued to smooth over my hungry flesh. Down the flat, cutely curved table of my belly, up around my free breast, my hips, my silky armpits, my trembling smooth shoulders, everywhere she knew she could make me tingle. And then her left hand delved for the most hallowed spot of all....
"I must have cried out as her fingers found me there. My legs clenched at first, but then she was tickling me dreadfully, and I couldn't help it, my legs just fell open as if they were powerless to do otherwise.
"And then she plunged. One, two, three fingers ... tickling, cajoling, bringing me to a peak of agony and ecstasy that was almost totally unbearable. I squirmed and thrashed like a mad thing, anxious for release, anxious for anything that would help ease this terrible crazy obscene yearning.
"I cried pitifully, pleading for mercy, but she was a relentless tormentor. Her fingers slipped into the golden hairs in my crotch and past the soaking lips of my clitoris. My vagina was on fire as her fingers entered, jogging back and forth, ripping at the walls of my insides until I screamed with pain and joy.
"My eyes bleary, I gazed down helplessly at the obscene activity between my legs, helpless to pre vent it. Gloria's fingers were covered with blood, there was blood all over my shaking legs, and all over the table. And I had suddenly a tremendous intake of breath as her fingers finally burst through the final membrane of my virginity. I squealed out in pain, but then quickly this changed to pleasure, with Gloria's fingers moving in and out, and pinching my clit. It was ecstasy. I loved it. This was the one fulfilling moment I had been waiting for all my life. If this was sex, it was the greatest thing in the world!
"My head lolled back, my tongue hanging out of my mouth, then my neck began straining for the ultimate ... and then Gloria did to me the most revolting thing I had ever witnessed in my life....
"Her mouth jerking sloppily off my breast, she simultaneously got down on her knees and pulled me around on the table, wrenching me toward her.
"I screamed out 'No! No!-' and tried to push her head away with my hand, but it was no use. Down into all that mess she went, seeking me out, her lips and tongue meeting me in a wild fever of desire, licking at me, pulling twisting, eating, sucking. She licked at my clit and there was blood on her face, but it only made her green eyes gleam. Her swirling red hair made her look like a witch. If she had been a cat, the blood would have been on her whiskers. She continued to eat me, running her tongue deep into my quivering vagina, gripping my buttocks tightly, trying to force her middle finger up through the tight pucker of my anus. I was so wet she could have stuck me anywhere, even in my ear, or my mouth, or my eyes, and I'd have died of ecstasy.
"And then I went off in a burst of sparks that was sheer ecstasy and the world and the universe all rolled up into one. Wave after wave of longing rammed into shore after shore of orgasm. My body jerked and convulsed as if it were a puppet on a string, and I could feel the sweet ecstasies of climax spend themselves throughout my nervous system like tiny firecrackers exploding inside me on a hot, hot Fourth of July."
At this point the interviewee asked for more water, and this was given to her. She gazed out the window distractedly from time to time. It was plain that as much as she had hated and reviled the terrible experience that she had suffered at the hands and lips of the Lesbian who had deflowered her in the photographer's studio, she was truly enjoying reliving them. She was encouraged to continue in order to keep our talks from stretching into an extra day.
"Wheew, thanks for the water. Hot day. Where was I? Oh yeah. Well, I really got my rocks off with Gloria. That was the most fantastic, new experience I had ever had in my life up till then.
"But that wasn't all that was in store for me. After she had licked me off, and blown me sky high a few times just fingering me, Gloria then climbed up over me and buried my face inside her own soaking crotch. I couldn't breathe in there or do anything except lick her. She was covering practically my entire face, because she had a lot of hair on it. The red-orange hairs were all over my face, scratching my cheeks, getting stuck in my throat, so that I thought I'd strangle if I didn't get to spit some of that stuff out. Then her juices were suffocating. I had often heard that women smelled like fish and wondered what that referred to-Gloria clarified things. Her smell was absolutely cloying. It was like taking on a gas mask you've purchased at a fish market from under the counter where they keep the dead stuff. Powerful enough to peel paint from walls.
"But somehow now I like it. I was in such a happy, relaxed state, I'd have done anything for her, even licked her ass had she but asked me.
"Anyway, so I licked her. With all that juicy stuff pouring down into my lungs. With the warm, rubbery feel of her vagina walls closing on my nose, and her hairy cunt scratching my cheeks. But I couldn't help myself. And in a few moments she'd made it, jerking crazily, and all that stuff came gushing down into my face. I licked it up as if it were caviar.
"Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Gloria climbed off of me. That was when I noticed that we weren't alone. Mark, the photographer, was standing there, over on the other side of the open dressing room door, and he must have been getting some terrifically juicy shots.
"I whinnied like a mare and jumped up from the table, racing for my clothes, but he was there ahead of me. He whacked me against the side of my head with his press flash special, and I went down for the count, no pun intended. By the time I woke up, Gloria had come down off the table and put on a robe. But that wasn't all that had changed-they'd tied up my wrists with pretty tough hemp, and I was hanging from the massage table like a harem slave girl in a torture chamber.
"Almost the second I woke up, Mark threw a glass of water in my face. I sputtered and spat it out. He had some pictures in his other hand and he said to me: 'Hey baby, want to see some of the photos we're going to send your mom?'
"I began crying dreadfully and shaking my head. Only this morning I had been a sweet young thing enjoying the sights and sounds of the big city, and now already I was a tramp, deflowered and being blackmailed in the bargain. If my family ever saw those photos, I'd never be able to show my face around Iowa again.
"I begged him, 'Please, please don't send those photographs to my home!'
"But he only jeered at me: 'Hey, these pictures ain't so bad. What d'you think, Gloria?'
"Gloria only smirked and said nothing. She was sitting smoking a cigarette. Cigarettes had never even been allowed in my home.
"He came up to me and began going through the pictures. It was horrible. For a moment of lust, I've been condemned to a lifetime of degradation. Those terrible pictures had myself and Gloria posed in every imaginable ugly pose-sucking each other, eating each other. It was terrible. I cringed in shame and prayed for death.
"'Well,' he coaxed. 'Should we send these pictures?'
"'Please don't!' I screamed, pleaded.
"He put the pictures behind his back, and his voice became very solemn. He looked at me very seriously and propped one foot up on my bare thigh. 'You know, we don't have to, Mary,' he said easily.
"I began sobbing, 'I'll do anything ... anything ... ' Hiding my face in shame in my stringy blonde hair.
"He looked relieved, and took his foot off my thigh. 'I'm glad you said that,' he said, and then he looked at me. He paused to let the terror build in my breast, and he added, 'Because here you've gone and destroyed the propriety of my studio in a most disgusting fashion, and possibly injured my reputation as a legitimate photographer, and you've got to make restitution, young lady."
"My eyes pleaded with him. 'Anything,' I repeated softly.
"He smiled evilly. 'I'll have to test your sincerity on that,' he said, adding, 'And I think I know how to do that-I think I'd like for you to suck on my cock."
"I thought I would faint. Instead I just retched all over his shoes as he unzipped his trousers and brought out the most tremendously terrifying male object I'd ever seen.
"Of course, I'd seen little boys' penises for one reason or another, and I'd had some wet dreams and day-dreams where I imagined myself being rammed by a giant penis. But that was just the everyday sort of imaginings of any young girl. I'd never guessed that such things actually existed. I'd supposed that the real thing was more like a little boy's-soft like butter and small, and it couldn't hurt you.
"But I knew I wasn't big enough to house that thing, and I was almost grateful that he hadn't insisted on putting it into me.
"It was quite long and fairly thick, and I wasn't even sure I could get my mouth around it. Mark stepped toward me and laughed as he flicked the vomit from his shoe tops. Then his hands were in my hair, and I opened my mouth to accept him in complete helplessness, my rosy young lips closing about that hard phallus, accepting it, rubbing, sucking, feeling the smooth flow of blood through its throbbing veins.
"I sucked up and down, almost choking when he forced my lips into his stinking belly hair, and he helped me by jerking his hips up and back. Finally he began arching backward. He seemed to be straining desperately for something. His eyes were bulging out of his head, and every vein in his neck seemed to be pulsing madly. He said terribly obscene things, which seemed to pitch him even higher, and in another moment he let forth a groan and his penis jerked in my mouth and spat his spunk with each jerk down my throat. Because of my situation I was forced to swallow that stuff, but as years went by I learned to appreciate that salty taste. I guess I probably owe my appreciation of that sort of thing to that experience."
Mary Middleton had come to us from a social service agency known as YH-Youth for Health, and as she sat there, she wrung her hands in complete anguish around her handkerchief; everybody in our office was touched.
But such tales of degradation are commonplace. A fresh young girl, new to the big city, totally unschooled in the ways of the world, more likely than not brought up in a decent or strict Christian home, tricked into depravity of the vilest sort and subsequently forced through blackmail to become expensive prostitutes and playthings of the rich. That was Mary's story. For once she had been lured into one act of licentiousness, it was easy to drag her on to the next, until finally there was no turning back.
After her experience at the photographer's studio, Mary Middleton was signed up at the so-called modeling agency and used further for appointments with old, jaded men and women. On one occasion a sixty-five-year-old woman, owner of a national bottling company, fell in love with her young flesh and finally bought her body out of bondage and had the blackmail negatives destroyed. Which is how Mary finally bolted for freedom and arrived at Youth for Health. She is today married to a wealthy broker who knows nothing of her past, the mother of three, and lives in suburban Connecticut.
CHAPTER THREE
In many cases a girl is actually instructed in the rudiments of modeling, but the most important point stressed at most agencies is that she must please men in order to get ahead, and that the only way to become a top, class A model is to have some big-shot buyer take a fancy to her and insist that she model where he does his dress buying and so on for his firm.
In a system like this, the girl becomes quickly primed for the phony agent. He sends the girl out on a date with a buyer, building up the man to her and warning her to be nice. The agent, meanwhile, has collected a fancy fee for the girl's flesh in advance.
Rare is the girl who, having gone this far, can turn back in time. That night she goes out on her date. A few drinks and a few dances at an exclusive nightclub are followed by an expensive meal-and a trip back to the buyer's hotel.
By this time, the girl thinks her dream of a career is about to come true, that all she has to do is please the buyer, and she will become a glamorous model, with her pictures spread in magazines throughout the country.
Once in the hotel room, however, she learns the full price. The buyer has paid the agent for her, and he takes what he has paid for; by force, if necessary. She has been told that she must please the buyer-and she does. The career he has for her goes no further than one night in a hotel room.
The next morning, realization comes quickly to the shamed girl. She is trapped in the web of her own conscience and the slimy, clever trickery of her procurer, the agent. If she tries to argue and break her ties with him, he attempts to win her over by promising a steady supply of generous buyers with big bankrolls.
He promises her a healthy share of the profit. If she cannot be bribed into cooperation, then he threatens to have her beaten up by gangsters and have her beauty scarred for life. To make himself even more clear, he threatens to send the details of her indiscretion to her family.
Completely broken in spirit by this time, the girl is now ready to be used. She is a bewildered, helpless mess of humanity, her body now working mindlessly, ready to be cast adrift on the slave market. The agent has her where he wants her. Before long she will be a professional call girl, and she will have become so degraded that she will be willing to break in other innocent girls much in the manner that Gloria broke in Mary Middleton in the foregoing chapter.
But there are a great many variations on this ugly theme. Sometimes the girl is encouraged to be nice to advertising executives who can give her work, or TV producers and the like. Very often the agent picks up young girls by scouting around high schools and business schools in order to get the youngest possible girls. The scout convinces the girl and her parents that she has what it takes and sells them on charm courses, beauty treatments and some sessions with a photographer.
Of course, a handful of girls are actually sent out on jobs. But very often, a racket agency will send the girl to jobs where concealed cameras are hidden in dressing rooms, taking pictures while they change clothes. The girls think they are modeling bathing suits and the like, but the real work is being done when they strip for the hidden cameras. Clever fusing and montages created with the bodies of naked men create a high resale value for these pictures.
Sometimes a girl's mother, usually too ambitious for her own good for her daughter's success, is even seduced into the act. One of the ugliest stories ever related in our files was that of a woman of forty and her thirteen-year-old daughter.
The woman, we shall call her Mrs. Margaret Smythe-Jones, resided in the exclusive Main Line area of Philadelphia. Her husband, a wealthy attorney, Mrs. Smythe-Jones had a great deal of time on her hands. Servants attended to her every wish in their baronial mansion in suburban Philadelphia. With one boy just graduating high school and on his way to college, Mrs. Smythe-Jones' daughter Tracy was almost her only interest around the house.
Tracy was a lovely young thing of thirteen, unusually tall for her age with premature womanly proportions. Her hips were already developed, her waist very tiny, her bust absolutely mammoth. She had the mind and the heart of a child but the magnificently junoesque proportions of a voluptuous beauty. Crowned by a head of shining blonde hair that hung down to her waist, and which was combed one-hundred-and-fifty strokes every night, Tracy Smythe-Jones' rosy-cheeked sweet face, succulent young pink lips, glittering white teeth, and sparkling blue eyes, reflected a total innocence of the world and complete faith in her parents. She moved through her days at the exclusive Harper School with the light gaiety so perfect in one of God's chosen creatures.
Her future was assured. There would be a college degree some day, but not in anything too intellectual, and she would marry into another of one of the Main Line's oldest and wealthiest families. The young man who won her would be getting a prize of unique loveliness that would make his nights a heaven on earth and add considerable value to his days.
But Mrs. Smythe-Jones had one unforgivable flaw that was to prove a hindrance to this perfect development. She was ambitious.
Ambitious not in the sense that she wanted some direct glory for herself, but more that she had some thoughts about sharing an indirect spotlight that could possibly shine on her lovely daughter.
Before her marriage, Mrs. Smythe-Jones had been simply Peggy Jones, a pretty girl from a mining town in the heart of the Pennsylvania anthracite district. Life had been hard there, and young Peggy Jones had set her heart on breaking out of the ugly life common to the miners' families. She had set her heart on becoming a Broadway star.
Leaving for New York soon after her graduation from high school, she had made the rounds of all the agents and producers on Broadway. Often they had propositioned her, but she had stuck to her guns and held onto her virginity. And it was a good thing that she had, for one evening when leaving a theater after an audition, she had fainted from hunger in an alley-that led off Forty-second Street. Screeching to a stop, a limousine pulled up alongside the alley, missing her head narrowly by inches, and the young man inside had jumped from the rear of the car.
The young man had been Allan Smythe. Handsome, young, tall and blond, Allan had just been finishing up his work at Columbia Law School and had been on his way home to Philadelphia to study for his bar exams. He insisted on picking Peggy up and carrying her into the limousine. From there they had sped to his palatial family home in suburban Philadelphia.
The days had passed easily, with Peggy slowly recovering her strength through good food and rest. She hadn't seen much of Allan while he was studying, but his mother and father had looked after her so tenderly that she hadn't had the heart to go when she finally became well.
But by then Allan had already gone back to New York to take his exams. When he returned he was flushed with triumph; he had passed magnificently!
How lovely it had been to stay with the Smythes. The gigantic house, the immense swimming pool and gardens. The tennis courts where she would let Allan beat her in a fast set. It was all like something cut of a movie. And then she realized that she didn't want to go-not ever.
During what she had supposed would be their last days together, she and Allan had strolled the grounds hand-in-hand, gazing off into the far night sky and talking of their lives and the future. How her heart had ached to think that she would soon have to give all this up. Back to what-to Broadway? A Broadway that had refused her? Certainly it was tricky at best to think that she could ever compete with the literally thousands of beautiful girls who came to New York every day, eager to use their young bodies in order to get what they wanted from producers. She would return to become just another mug. It was very un-likely that she could ever return to her little Pennsylvania mining town with the sort of triumphant train that she had envisioned when she had first set out.
And then Allan had changed everything in one magic moment. Taking his two hands in hers, he had confessed his love under the starry sky and asked her to marry him. Confused, she had at first tried to retreat, to explain that she was a nobody, that he was making a terrible mistake. But he had been adamant, and sweeping her up into his arms, he had sealed her fate for good with a kiss that left her breathless.
They had been married in the Little Church Down the Road, where all of Philadelphia's best families held their nuptials, pledging their vows under the watchful eyes of Philadelphia society.
It wasn't long afterward that Allan Jr. was born. Long-legged and tousle-haired like his father, he was the spitting image of the child she'd always dreamed of. For the first four years after his birth she'd wanted nothing more than to look after him on the spacious grounds of their new home, while Allan Sr. went on to make a name for himself as one of the top trial lawyers in the country.
Then Tracy had come along. Beautiful Tracy. At first her hair had been very sparse and dark, but very soon it changed to a long, platinum-blonde hue, and finally to startling bright blonde. Tracy was perhaps the most beautiful baby that had ever been born. Everyone remarked on her remarkable blue eyes, fair complexion and outstanding loveliness.
It wasn't very long before good friends began making comments such as: "My, isn't she lovely as a movie star!" or, "Why, she's as pretty as any little girl you ever see in Hollywood movies!"
The remarks built up until finally Peggy Jones-turned-Margaret-Smythe Jones decided to do something about the situation. She was tantalized beyond recall, lured into wondering if perhaps her lovely baby might be the answer to all of her thwarted girlish ambitions.
Mrs. Smythe-Jones began devoting less and less of her time to Allan Jr. He was allowed to grow up pretty much without her. Instead she devoted herself increasingly to taking the growing Tracy for dancing lessons, dramatic coaching, piano lessons and the like.
Tracy took to all of these activities naturally. She had a naturally pleasant personality and a true knack for winningness. People invariably wanted to do things for her because she was so irrepressibly sweet. As she grew up, all she had to do was throw her shining blonde hair over her shoulder and cast a pretty young glance at someone to get her piano teacher, her dance instructor, the woman dean at her private school and others to do things for her. These people never examined their motives; they just knew that here was a unique female who was worthy of special consolation.
Margaret Smythe-Jones never noticed that the clubwomen of the Main Line became increasingly cold to her. She went to few meetings of the Ladies' Auxiliary or the Junior League. Her attention became focused on one thing and one thing only; stardom for little Tracy.
By the time Tracy was eleven, her father was becoming increasingly restless. Mrs. Smythe-Jones' incredible dedication to her daughter's grooming for stardom was becoming increasingly nettling.
He would rattle his paper at breakfast and scowl, "Well, why in hell don't you take her to Hollywood if you think she's so great!"
And Margaret Smythe-Jones would reply imperturbably, sprinkling sugar on her grapefruit: "That will come in time, Allan. I'm sure of that much."
And it was at age eleven that young Tracy began developing. At first there was just a sprinkling of golden hairs in her armpits, then a growing fleecy mound between her legs. Her hips began to widen, her chest to grow luscious mounds under tidbit nipples of the brightest cherry hue. By the time she was twelve, it was clear that she would never be the slender, Lauren Bacall type. It was clear that she was going to be topped with massive beauties on her chest that would make men pause and stare at her for the rest of her life.
And she was growing very tall. The pace at which her legs lengthened quickly made her just a little bit shorter than her mother, but perfectly proportioned. She was well on her way to being voluptuous.
By the start of her thirteenth year, her huge full breasts swept out and tilted up from her rib cage like two inverted cornucopias, hard and firm as green pears. Creamy smooth and traced delicately with fine blue veins, these two bulbous behemoths were topped with broad strawberry aureoles, which were in turn tipped with a blood-red juicy set of cherry nipples.
Elsewhere, her skin was firm, smooth and flawless. The skin was tight over her rib cage. She had no waist, just a non-existent flat stomach that could curve opulently in repose. Her hips were round and flaring, but not too broad for true loveliness. Her buttocks, which jiggled when she walked, were two tight hemispheres of flesh, too white and perfectly fleshed to be believed. Her long legs tapered to dainty ankles and tiny Cinderella feet and were virtually hairless. Her shoulders were just a trifle broad, but her long hair offset them, falling in shimmering blonde waves to her dimpled back. With a pink ribbon in her hair, she looked like a version of some confectioner's imagination, a type of life-sized candy.
If Mrs. Smythe-Jones had expected something more like Ginger Rogers, she was still not prepared to give up. Women like Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield had been successful Hollywood stars, and Tracy Smythe-Jones was potentially prettier than either of them. She continued to work with her baby, keeping her eyes averted from the remarkable growth of her breasts, the succulent look of her lips when they took just a touch of makeup in some school play, ignoring the sweet essence of sensuality that seemed to pervade Tracy's very presence.
All the best modeling and dramatic agencies were aware of Mrs. Smythe-Jones' devotion to her baby and how easily it was to draw money out of the wealthy matron with just a few promises. But there was really very little that could be done for Tracy in Philadelphia. She had quickly become too voluptuous for modeling jobs, most of which demanded slender girls, or at least thirteen year olds who looked as if they were thirteen. None of them could imagine Tracy modeling shorty skirts or pretty Easter hats. She was just plain too sexy.
But Tracy didn't seem to be aware of her own beauty. She played, danced, and laughed as if she weren't advanced physically at all, totally unaware of the desire in grown men's eyes that followed her movements wherever she went.
Although as a younger child she had gotten some catalogue modeling work around Philadelphia, as she grew older and developed, there just was no work in a city the size of Philadelphia that suited her. Except for teenage dance orgy shows on TV, that were played to stimulate old men and women around the country, there was almost no work in TV. There was very little stage work available, and when there was, it rarely called for her type. It was soon obvious that if Mrs. Smythe-Jones was going to get anywhere, she would have to take her baby to Hollywood or New York.
Neither of which alternatives could succeed in budging Allan a single inch. He told Margaret bluntly "If you ever leave here, don't bother to come back. And don't bother to write for money; you can get a job slinging hash. That is, IF you can get a job after I have you convicted of abducting our little girl."
So Hollywood or New York gradually began to recede into the distance in Mrs. Smythe-Jones' imagination. It was apparent that she would have to wait at least another five years before there would be any hope of her following Tracy out to Hollywood or Broadway, or anywhere that it would be possible for her to make good.
She had come up against a brick wall blocking the path of her vicarious ambitions. Although Tracy had been coached in dancing, acting and every other imaginable related field, she would have to wait out the years before she could put her best foot forward-until a unique occurrence happened that promised to alter this unfortunate situation-Darryl Goldberg, Hollywood motion picture producer, decided to film some location shots for his new mystery thriller in the streets of Philadelphia.
At 9:30 on the morning of June 16th, 1966, Mrs. Margaret Smythe-Jones received a telephone call from the AAA Agency in Philadelphia. Darryl Goldberg had asked for some girls to be brought to his suite for interviews for possible use in the film he was producing, Philadelphia 707. Was there the chance that Tracy was free of other commitments at the moment?
Was there! Mrs. Smythe-Jones leaped at the bait like a flying fish. She would be thrilled silly to bring young Tracy down to the hotel any time they said.
The caller made a note of this and promised to call her back as soon as she could give a definite appointment. Mrs. Smythe-Jones promised to wait out the day next to her telephone.
But Tier wait proved fruitless, for there was no further call until the following day. This time the caller told her that a mansion had been rented in suburban Bryn Mawr where girls would be interviewed on a first-come, first-served basis the following day. Mrs. Smythe-Jones bristled with excitement as she got her baby ready, combing her long blonde hair endlessly, primping her, watching her diet, bathing her perfect young complexion in milk.
Heaven had sent Darryl Goldberg, it must have been! What phenomenal luck!
Allan Smythe-Jones didn't like what he sensed was going on, but he didn't see how to go about stopping it, either. After all, it was all taking place in the immediate area, and there was no reason to believe that Tracy would be called away from home for any length of time. He merely ruffled his paper and instructed the servants not to interfere in any of his wife's programs.
The house in Bryn Mawr turned out to be an equally baronial affair compared to her own house. A long, winding asphalt drive led through sumptuous grounds to the main house. Along the way there were little gardeners' cottages, a stable with a long slanting roof, and other indications that the owners must be very wealthy. Mrs. Smythe-Jones was deeply moved. She felt as if she had actually entered Hollywood in triumphal splendor the moment they had come through the big iron gates guarding the drive.
A full-liveried servant met their car, and Mrs. Smythe-Jones instructed their chauffeur to return home and wait for her call. Then she and young Tracy were led inside.
There were a number of men standing around chatting near the main hall, but Mrs. Smythe-Jones recognized no one familiar. One room seemed to lead off into a library, where most of the men were. A long spiral staircase rose into the heights of the house, and there was a chandelier overhead that seemed to be hanging from infinity.
A young woman of about twenty-three met them.
She wore glasses and her brown hair was tied back severely.
"Your name, please?"
"Mrs. Margaret Smythe-Jones."
"This way, please."
They were led to another sitting room where there were already a number of other mothers and daughters sitting around. Some of the mothers were smoking, and some of the girls looked even more ambitious and apprehensive than their mothers. They'd scratch each others' eyes out for a chance like this, thought Margaret.
But Tracy was just as sweet and as pure-appearing as ever. Her mother dressed her in a little baby-doll outfit with a slightly plunging neckline that revealed some of the heaving cleavage of her overwhelming chest. On either side of that breach her two milky white powdered beauties breathed with touching regularity. Mrs. Smythe-Jones was gratified to note the way the other mothers stared at Tracy. Let Darryl Goldberg deny that, she thought complacently.
The other girls ranged in age from eleven to fifteen and were also dressed for revealing, their skirts just a little too high, in order to reveal nests of white, smooth young thigh, shaking back and forth from nervousness. A couple of them had low bodices, but their breasts weren't much compared to Tracy's, and a few of them were wearing extra tight, brightly colored sweaters that Margaret could tell were filled for maximum effectiveness. Their breasts were so ridiculously pointed underneath these sweaters that it was obvious they were bolstered. She thought Tracy's full look of naturalness much more enchanting.
Each of the girls had their very long hair combed out, a few of them in pony tails, but most of them falling down their backs. There were several redheads, some brunettes, a couple of girls with lovely brown hair, two auburns, several blondes, an oriental, and one colored girl with skin like velvet coffee. All their mothers looked proud, fierce and possessive.
"Mrs. Talbott and Gloria," came a secretary's voice from the door, and one mother-daughter set leaped from their sofa and hurried out after her. Mrs. Smythe-Jones sat down with a little sigh and Tracy followed alongside her like a happy duckling.
The time passed. Mothers and daughters were called. But it was several hours before Margaret finally heard the magic words, "Mrs. Smythe-Jones and Tracy."
She jumped out of her seat as if she had been scalded, and grabbing Tracy's little hand, hurried to the door.
The secretary led the way to the room she had previously recognized as a library. Inside were a number of men standing around in very dashing, Southern California outfits. They wore scarves and colorful sport coats, white shoes and the like. A number of them were smoking from long cigarette holders, and others were gesturing wildly. Almost all were wearing sunglasses. Mrs. Smythe-Jones could almost hear a future director intoning, "Cut! Quiet on the set! Action! That's a take! We'll print that!"
She was led down the carpeted stairs into the library. The men turned and stared. All their eyes fell without exception on Tracy and her massive cleavage. Margaret felt so proud she wanted to giggle. The way their conversation fell off as they devoured Tracy's loveliness was a compliment that needed no further assistance. She was deeply gratified.
"Who is this?" asked one mustached, dark man in dazzling sports clothes.
Mrs. Smythe-Jones couldn't make out his eyes in back of the dark sunglasses but his husky voice spoke volumes.
The secretary reported, "Mrs. Smythe-Jones, Mr. Goldberg."
With this all further discussion in the library ceased abruptly. The secretary quietly retreated and shut the big oak doors behind her. The mustached man approached Margaret Smythe-Jones. He took off his glasses as he looked first at her, then back to Tracy, then back to herself again. She saw now that his eyes could only be described as PIERCING, the sort that a woman felt instinctively as worming themselves between her legs.
Tracy fidgeted slightly, but continued looking sweet.
"I am Darryl Goldberg," announced the man.
Margaret gulped. Such a big step. This was the opportunity of a lifetime.
She felt like curtsying. "I am Mrs. Margaret Smythe-Jones," she said, "and this is my daughter, Tracy Smythe-Jones." She put her right hand on Tracy's back and brought her forward, primping her golden flossy hair a little as she did so.
Mr. Goldberg stared down at Tracy's breasts, obviously taken aback. "And so I see," he murmured softly. He looked at Mrs. Smythe-Jones. "And just-ah, how old is this young beauty?"
"Thirteen," said Margaret proudly.
"Thirteen!" Darryl Goldberg looked down at Tracy again. Suddenly he took the girl's hands in his. "My dear, you are truly a remarkable creature!"
Tracy blushed. "Thank you."
The other men shifted their positions in the room. Mrs. Smythe-Jones felt unaccountably nervous. Suddenly she said: "Will there be an audition?"
"Will there be an audition!" Darryl Goldberg clapped his hands. "Send all of the other girls home!" he announced.
Several men went to the door and passed the word into the hall. Margaret heard the secretary's murmuring voice, and then the door closed again. She felt an elation clutch her heart that made it want to burst. She didn't know what to say.
Darryl Goldberg clutched Tracy's hand again, stroking it gently. "My dear, you have a loveliness that is truly remarkable. You are truly one of God's favored creatures."
Mrs. Smythe-Jones didn't know what to make of this. She shifted uncomfortably. This was certainly a strange way to carry on an audition.
"Thirteen years old!" exclaimed Goldberg yet one more time. "Why, that's amazing!"
He looked at Tracy's mother. "Why, this girl has a remarkable future in store for her! You and I must discuss it at once!"
Margaret felt herself flush. "Well, of course, Mr. Goldberg, whatever you say."
"Excellent!" With this, he dropped Tracy's hand and grabbed Margaret's. "Come with me!"
Margaret looked back over her shoulder as he led her from the library. Her last sight of Tracy showed the young thing encircled by these Hollywood types, obviously lost and out of her depth. Margaret had the definite impression of vultures waiting for the opportune moment to swoop.
But thinking that Darryl Goldberg was merely leading her into an adjoining office where they could go over contracts or legal details for Tracy's career, she had no objection. Certainly with such respectable men nothing could be unduly out of order.
But he did not lead her into an office or to a desk with papers to be signed. Instead, he appeared merely to want to talk to her in private.
The first room they entered was a small office cluttered with a large mahogany desk, a couple of globes, and some books and bookcases. Outside the iron gothic window, sunshine played on the green grass of summer.
"Margaret," he said, and took her hand "-you don't mind if I call you that, do you?"
Margaret flushed slightly. This man's hand, and all the money in back of it, sent shivers coursing madly through her body. "No, of course not, Mr. Goldberg."
"Call me Darryl."
"All right, Darryl."
They passed into another room, an immense bedroom with Louis XIV chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
"This is my Philadelphia retreat," he said, waving his hand. "I come to this old house to think out things in private. None of the Philadelphia newspapers know that I have a home here-you won't tell them, will you?"
"Oh, of course not-uh, Darryl."
He squeezed her hand. "Good. It's just that I like a little privacy from time to time, and this is the only way I can get it. By retreating entirely from the mundane, materialistic real world into a world all my own." He looked at her. "Do you understand me?"
They strolled through the exquisite bedroom, her hand securely in his. She studied the fine lines of gray running through his black hair. He was not as tall as Allan Smythe, in fact he was only a little taller than she, but somehow he exuded a feeling of grandness, of confidence. She wondered how many story conferences and. worries about movie budgets had put those lines in his hair.
"Yes, I understand you, Allan-uh, I mean Darryl."
The bedroom gave onto a small sitting room, and through that a doorway led to a set of descending stairs.
Darryl Goldberg was saying thoughtfully, "Yes, it's true. I've made millions." He waved his hand grandly as they began descending the staircase. "From Poland to polo in one generation!"
"Pardon me, Darryl. Where are you taking me?" There was an eerie silence at the bottom of the staircase. She had followed him willingly enough, engrossed in his conversation, but now they were encased in the dankness of the basement level, and she was feeling just slightly apprehensive.
He looked at her. "Taking you? Oh, oh yes! Taking you! How silly of me!"
She looked at him nonplused. He grabbed her hand the harder and pulled her towards the first door, a huge iron affair that opened with a series of grating creaks.
A huge bat came flying toward them from the darkness, screeching fiercely. Margaret tried to duck backward, but Darryl Goldberg gripped her hand tightly and pulled her aside. The bat flew up the stairwell and disappeared in the blackness above.
"My God! What was that!" she exclaimed, her hand at her throat.
"Oh, just a bat. Come along."
The darkness was soon overwhelming them like a shroud. Darryl Goldberg hadn't stopped talking for an instant-describing his rise to riches, his fortunes, all of the motion pictures he had made, and gradually leading into a discussion of all the many prot'g's he had made into honest-to-goodness motion picture stars.
They passed through several rooms as he spoke, each lit with flickering electric candles. The eerie quality of the cellar had been carefully preserved.
She was feeling increasingly nervous, and was now wondering about how Tracy must be getting along surrounded by Darryl Goldberg's leering cronies.
Most of the rooms looked like storage caverns of some kind, with huge boarded-up boxes lying around covered with green mold. Cobwebs were everywhere. The very concrete floor at their feet seemed to be seeping with moisture.
At this point they passed into a room full of pictures.
"See! THESE were some of my lovelies!"
Margaret Smythe-Jones looked around. On every wall in this room were affectionately signed photographs from some of Hollywood's most famous stars. Some of the most beautiful' women in the world. Women who men had fought to the death for in countless motion pictures and in real life. They exuded glamor in a palpable mist, their shoulders bared to the camera. Riches and glory and fantastic adulation had been theirs. Such a future could be Tracy's as well.
Darryl Goldberg came to the end of his tales about these beautiful and famous women. He said, "Such a future could belong to your young girl as well...." And he looked at her knowingly, expectantly, waiting for her next move, not quite ready to show his hand in all its brutal, lascivious depravity.
She looked at him with what she hoped would appear to be haughty grandeur. "Well, I'm pleased to hear that, Mr. Goldberg, Now, should we make ourselves ready for an audition now?"
He smiled. "Audition?" he said, and then Margaret realized too late that such a word held several possible meanings.
"Of course," he said. "An audition is exactly what I had in mind." And with that he gripped her hand all the more tightly and dragged her off towards the next room.
An ancient torture chamber!
Surrounding her on four walls were all the vile torture devices known to man. Medieval iron maidens, their insides lined with spikes, racks that had been specifically devised for the purpose of wrenching arms and legs from pitifully helpless creatures. Battle axes, cat-o'-nine-tails, spiked balls on chains, leather whips were sprinkled here and there throughout the huge dungeon. Rats squeaked among the casings. Toward one end was a row of cells with fetters hanging from the walls. Thumbscrews, iron masks, and other cruel devices were in savage abundance. Margaret cringed in terror and astonishment.
"Why-why have you brought me in here?" she demanded, not too forcefully.
Goldberg sniffed. "Oh, just to show it to you," he said as if it were of no account. Then his piercing eyes turned on her. "What do you think of it?"
She put her hand to her throat. "Why-it's ghastly!"
Darryl Goldberg laughed, then chuckled, then settled for a tiny, evil grin. He took her arm forcibly and led her around. "Come," he said, "it's time we were getting back. You can always return here another time, if you fancy it."
And with that, he led her back the way they had come.
She was vastly relieved to see once again the sunlight streaming in through bedroom windows. For some reason she had almost suspected there for a while that she might never see the upstairs of the house again. What a foolish whim, she realized, now that they were above ground again. Darryl Goldberg was a world-famous man; certainly his associates had to be all right. What subtle lack of understanding on her part could have imparted such groundless fears.
He stopped her as they reached the center of the bedroom. "Well," he said, taking her hand and looking deeply into her eyes, "Have you thought it over?"
She looked at him, and suddenly she felt her nameless fears being banked again. "Thought it over? Thought what over, Darryl?"
Suddenly his face darkened with anger. "THOUGHT WHAT OVER, DARRYL," he mimicked her mincingly. His eyes blazed. "What do you mean, thought WHAT over! I thought you understood! You know very well what I've been asking you!"
She looked at him speechless. This furious man made her cringe like a rabbit before a swaying snake. She was terrified, hopeless. She had arrived somewhere out of her depth. She didn't want to put him off; she didn't want to admit to the terrible fancies that had arisen in her ugly suspicions, and at the same time she didn't want to lose Tracy's one grand chance at stardom. If this man became so angered at her that he decided to throw her out, all of her dreams would have failed, come to nothing. Then would she have another chance like this?
Her face fell, her very eyes cringed. "What-what have you been asking me?" she murmured in a pitiful voice.
He gripped her shoulders like a man possessed and drew her towards him violently. "You know very well! I want your daughter's flesh in return for my assistance! I, the great Darryl Goldberg, can do something for her, but you must be prepared to pay the price! Is that too much to ask? Is that not fair?"
Now it was out in the open between them, lying there like a terrible truth, an ugly mess that some dog has left, or a bolt of molten fire ready to destroy.
Why had she supposed that it would be any different? It had not been so many years ago that she had been fearfully making the rounds of the agencies and producers in New York, trying to get something, anything, any sort of a break that could propel her toward stardom. And how many times had old men tried to goose her, tried to grab her breasts for a free feel, felt her buttocks to see if she were wanton enough?
Yet she had put them off. She had stuck to her guns. And Allan had saved her. Could she do any less to preserve Tracy? Or were the stakes higher now?
This might truly be her last chance, too. As one grew older, one realized how little importance one must essentially attach to virginity. It was, after all, just a custom. No woman ever felt truly degraded for having lost it. If that were the case, three-quarters of the women of the world and more would be going around with sullen faces from day to day as they pondered the workings of fate.
But it was, after all, a thing of essentially small appearance. The loss of it wrote nothing across one's face, nor did it scar the legs. And now that she considered it, she remembered that there had been some truly attractive men interested in her, who might have done something for her if she hadn't been such a prude. She might have actually gotten somewhere if she had but bent with the wind. Today she might have been the glamorous idol of millions. What did it harm a star that she has slept with a producer? Is a ruby valued the less for having been worn in a maharajah's crown? Who worried about Bette Davis' past loves, or Joan Bennett's? Or Elizabeth Taylor's? When you had wealth and power, the whole world looked up to you, regardless of your morals.
She might have made it.
And now Tracy had her chance. And Margaret Smythe-Jones had Tracy's chance. She could still find the glamor in her life as the mother of the famous starlet, Tracy Smythe. This might be her last chance before oblivion canceled out all earthly morals or lack of morals. In the end, what did it matter anyway?
Her last chance.
But something in Margaret rebelled for an instant. Perhaps it was the shrewd bargainer in her, who always tried to improve on the hand she's dealt. Perhaps it was truly a mother's concern for Tracy's pain at the hands of a beast who would surely cause her to bleed miserably. It was far better indeed to get Tracy stretched on the penis of a young man, something slender and easy. This brute's penis was probably pulsing with blood even now; all Jewish men had unusually wide ones, she'd heard.
"No," she whispered softly, not daring to look at him.
Darryl Goldberg stood back from her, his face a mask of anxiety and pain. "No?" he repeated.
"No," she said firmly, and then she looked directly, boldly into his eyes.
For the moment he looked as if he were going to strike her, but then, just as suddenly, he softened. With a little sigh he drew a cigarette from his coat pocket, offered her one, which she declined, and lit up. He strolled around the room for a few moments, apparently deep in thought. Her gaze followed after him.
Finally he turned to look at her. Margaret was again wondering how Tracy was making out now without her, but her face had also become suffused with the vision that encircled the bedroom-for the four walls were almost totally set with mirrors, and on the ceiling was yet another, smaller mirror, directly over the bed.
What was it she saw in these mirrors?
Herself.
For the first time in many years, Margaret Smythe-Jones, alias Peggy Jones, recalled just how radiant she could look when trapped in the grip of some exotic excitement.
There was no doubt of it. Darryl Goldberg had excited her from the very first. Beyond the fact of his fame and wealth, there was a powerful animalism emanating from him. He STALKED rather than walked. In contrast to Allan Smythe's upright blondeness and waspish good looks, Darryl Goldberg offered swarthy animalism and primitive power. An earthiness, a vitality that no white Anglo-Saxon Protestant could ever hope to match. He was the first man who had attracted her throughout her many happy years with Allan; ordinarily she didn't come in contact with such types. The country club set were very clean cut and lovely, but they didn't exude carnal sensuality the way this man did.
So it was herself she saw in the mirrors: an aroused Margaret, forty years old, the color rising in her cheeks, her breasts, such a careful, if slightly looser, imitation of young Tracy's, full and desirable, heaving with an ill-suppressed desire.
The moment that she had admitted all this to herself, she knew she was lost.
But then what would be so terrible if she gave herself to Darryl Goldberg in return for her baby's happiness? She had been reamed so often and joggled by Allan's slender, uncircumcised penis that it no longer really mattered whether she saved herself or not. What was one indiscretion in a lifetime of faithfulness? Every woman was entitled to at least that. If not with a young boy, in the tried and true romantic nature of the age-old story, then why not with Darryl Goldberg? She could always excuse herself later on the grounds of overwhelming fascination in an exotic setting, which would be partially true, or on the grounds of trying to "do something" for Tracy.
She looked around in the mirrors at herself, glowing, virtually rhapsodic with expectation and lust. Her eyes glowed fiercely. She felt an intense desire to take down her long brown hair. She had never had it cut, Allan loved it so. How he loved for her to rub her hair on his penis and testicles; he often came in the glowing strands, ejaculating all over her head and cheeks. She always felt ever so sexy whenever she took it down for the night.
And she could feel her breasts swelling palpably, her heart beating in its marble sheath. Her nipples were starting to ache, and she knew that these last few moments had forced them into a desperate battle for survival with the confining bra. She wanted to cast it aside, to step out of her corset, to watch her huge, mouth-watering breasts sway in the light of the mirrors around her, to see her long hair swirl, to see her still lusciously curved belly bump and knock when suspended over Darryl Goldberg's animal vitality.
She could feel her legs trembling, proceeding toward weakness. Darryl Goldberg was still staring at her.
He said huskily, finally appearing to give in: "All right, maybe we can make some other kind of deal, Mrs. Smythe-Jones."
She looked at him innocently, not giving away a thing: "Why, Mr. Goldberg, whatever can you mean?"
He grinned and gave a little chuckle. "Very funny, Mrs. Smythe-Jones." Then his face composed itself. "All right, so you want to save your daughter. I can appreciate that kind of feeling myself-I've got a daughter, too. Just her age, in fact. Dark, of course, like her mother-my first wife, Rebecca.
"But I don't see why we can't make some other kind of deal. You know what I mean." He shook his head and put out the cigarette. "I know I ain't the greatest-looking guy in the world, but I could show you a few things." He looked at her. "All right, so you don't want her touched. She's something special, and you want her saved for Mr. Right. That's not so unreasonable. But I can still do a lot for her. A six-month contract at Twenty-First Century Wolf, on option, of course. She could meet a lot of important people, get enrolled in our star classes and with special schooling and connections, well, there would be no limit. Well, what do you say?"
"Say to what?" she asked coyly.
He smirked. "All right, you want to force me to come right out and say it-and I will." He stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, looking deeply into her frightened eyes. Then he said softly, "I want to fuck you, Mrs. Smythe-Jones."
Margaret's heart leaped into her terrified throat. She wanted to scream, to run, to have him at any cost. Her flesh was a turmoil of contradictory impulses. And then his thick mouth mashed on hers and left her totally devoid of all intentions other than joining him in this beautiful, stirring, dizzying kiss.
His heavy, ape-like arms came around her body like the leaves of a Venus's-flytrap, crushing her, trapping her. She was pulled in toward his body like something about to be swallowed by a giant spider. She felt not as if she were being loved, but as if she were being DEVOURED, eaten alive by this loathsome thing that called itself a man. She was being swallowed, possessed, eaten, her psyche chewed and spat out, just one more morsel for the hungry THING that had embraced her. She felt as if she no longer existed as an independent entity, but merely as the willing adjunct to this man's id.
His huge mouth encased hers, his gross tongue slid, forced its way down her delicate throat, practically strangling her, then licked hungrily all of the walls of her mouth, her teeth, her own timorous pink tongue. His gross, hairy body was a hairy mat against her, although they were still dressed. She knew what he would look like: hairy as an ape, gross, disgusting. She wanted him to be. Something evil and dark deep within her subconscious cried out for violation-she wanted the animal to take her, to rape her, to force her, to split her legs apart violently and ram until it made the teeth rattle in her head.
"Yes ... yes...." she breathed desperately.
His hands found her buttocks and began squeezing them, violating them. When she tried to break off from his kiss, to get some air, one hand came up and grabbed her neck, forced her to continue. Meanwhile his free hand squeezed each cheek fiercely, then its fingers ran up inside the crack between, trying to press forward through to her anus. She felt a frantic tingling in her anus as she struggled with him, a new terror of violation.
Suddenly he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around toward the bed, growling dangerously: "Get off your clothes, you slut!"
She whimpered pitifully as her trembling fingers nervously loosened her clothing. First her suit coat, then the cotton blouse.
He gazed hypnotized as the blouse came off, revealing her two tremendous hanging breasts with their dark brown nipples stiffened and aroused beneath the flimsy brassiere.
"Take down your hair," he ordered hoarsely.
She did as she was told. The pins in her hair fell to the floor, and the entire heavy brown shimmering mass came tumbling down around her back. He came to her and fingered the strands as if it were gold. "My God, you're gorgeous," he whispered ardently. One hand came up and gripped her left breast, kneading it mercilessly. He pushed the globe up and down, ran his fingers adoringly over the powdered white tops, pinched her dusky brown nipple and waggled it from side to side until she wanted to swoon.
"Damnit! Get off that bra and all your clothes." She stood back from him and reached around in back to get the brassiere hooks. As she stood like this she automatically pushed her immense bosom forward. A spot of drool appeared on Goldberg's lips. He hurriedly removed his coat, his bright blue scarf, his shirt, until he stood before her in all of his Cro-Magnon ferocity, every bit as hairy as she had expected. Covered from groin to neck with a thick black mat, straight from the trees.
She pulled the bra loose and shook out her breasts, waggling them from side to side. It felt so good to be free.
Goldberg's throat clutched. "The rest of it," he commanded in a low voice.
As she worked at the zipper at the side of her skirt, he sat down to remove his shoes, his eyes gleaming dangerously. Then he stood up and unzipped his pants.
He was slightly shorter than her without his elevator shoes, but he more than compensated for this infirmity in other ways.
His pants dropped to the floor, and he stepped out of them, his testicles swinging gracefully as he moved. They were huge balls, down the center of them his heavily blue-veined and pulsing penis swung gradually from side to side, like a pendulum. Gradually lengthening in stiff, quick little jerks, Margaret saw at once that it was far too much for her. Nothing Allan had ever given her had ever prepared her for this.
Fearfully, she stepped backwards, holding up her hand as if for protection. "No ..
But he only laughed. "Come on, bitch, the rest of it!"
Obediently, tears rolling from her tragically dominated eyes, her head hung in shame, her long dark hair swinging out to cover her embarrassed flesh, she undid the tabs on her stockings, then pushed down her panties.
Goldberg drooled lasciviously as each curling hair appeared above the sliding panties. Carefully they moved down her alabaster, still-firm legs until she could kick them off.
"Walk around," he commanded.
She walked around in her high black heels, wiggling her breasts from side to side, her eyes averted in shame. Goldberg drank in every delicious draught, from the crack between her cheeks to the hairy mattress between her thighs, to her gorgeous joggling breasts and swinging brown hair. Her legs were stately columns that he could feel squeezing his hips; imagining her bare heels digging into his back.
"Get it ALL off," he whispered hoarsely.
She rolled down her stockings and kicked off her shoes, gazing fearfully at the spot of semen that had appeared on the head of his penis.
And then he attacked her.
Moving forward with a speed suited for a much hardier, young man, he grabbed her in the vise of his suffocating, demanding arms. Her motherly breasts crushed into the delicious hair of his ape-like chest, and she could not resist rubbing her nipples back and forth across it as he smothered her in yet another all-devouring kiss. His mouth pulled on hers vampire-like, drawing out every source of vitality. She could feel his tremendous penis leaping, with little spasmodic jerks, up into the crack between her legs. She moaned in delirium as a wellspring of sensations opened within her vagina, flooding her to the very center of her soul. She could imagine the dripping of her juice upon the floor and feel her thighs grow cloyingly moist.
The vast head of his penis-the penis she had dreaded-touched the tip of her clitoris, but went no farther. Crazed, drowned in his kiss, assaulted at her breasts with maddening sensations, her thighs rubbing together with desire and support, she pressed against him, trying to work it in. The very thing she feared was no longer terrifying. Now the only terrifying consideration was that he might remove his penis and refuse to gratify her aching need.
"Come on." He grabbed her hair and dragged her toward the bed, where he lay down first, the swaying pike of his tremendous penis moving like a snake in the air. Semen had welled up and was sliding down the tip. She felt an intense, mad desire to kiss it, to lick off the semen, to swallow it. Allan had never allowed her to swallow his semen. Now she wanted it-wanted it badly.
"No, you don't," he said as she came to the bed. "Up on top of me."
She swung over him, her enormous breasts making a swinging arc. He gripped her in the armpits, and his mouth lunged for one of her nipples, grabbing it and sucking and twisting voraciously. She was dripping all over the tops of his thighs. His teeth sank in and nipped, pulled painfully at her aching nipples, but each searingly painful bite was more ecstasy than the last. She wanted him to bite her nipples off, to make them bleed.
"Oooohh ... hurt me ... oooh please ... hurt me ... oh God!" Each cry became a moan, each moan became a savage whine. She was whimpering and crying and begging, imploring him to stab her. She wanted that penis; she was desperate for it. She kept trying to work toward it, to lower her hips, but he just let it wave tantalizingly in the air beneath her smoking crotch, his hand cushioning the soft swell of her stomach, his fingers running maddeningly through her pubes, teasingly almost to her clit.
His hands played with her belly, with her tremendous breasts, shaking them back and forth, twisting them, hurting her, her long hair falling all around the two of them like a shroud. Beneath that ceiling of hair he made delicate, dizzying forays toward the juices of her steaming pussy, squeezed and pulled and pinched her breasts every which way, sucked on them, ran his hands up her behind, tickling at her delicate, old-maidish pinched anus.
He murmured filthy obscenities in her ears, licking at them with his tongue and making her jerk. His mouth fed like a ghoul on the soft whiteness of her neck, throat and shoulders, driving her crazy with lust. His hands caressed her back, squeezed her buttocks, bruised her fleshy legs, as if she were a piece of chattel property to be used as he wished, to be violated and tortured at his whim. She felt so crazy with desire by this time that she was almost ready to have an orgasm without his help. She tried to squeeze it out, straining at every pore, her beautiful patrician head thrown back, her neck muscles and veins standing out fiercely.
But it was no use. Even with all the movement, even had he pushed his knee up into her crotch and rubbed her, she doubted if she would be able to make it on her own. She needed him, needed his ramming, huge hard penis. Desperately.
"Please ... oh God . .
He grinned up at her.
"Please...." she whimpered.
His fingers tightened savagely on her creamy shoulders and he breathed halitosis up into her straining face. "Say you want me to stuff my big hard cock up into your cunt. Say it!" he screamed, shaking her violently. "Beg me for it!"
She sobbed violently, the tears racing down her cheeks, leaving them to sodden mascara streaks. As her eyes ran, they turned bloodshot and dark. She squirmed helplessly, imprisoned by his brutal hands.
"Oh no ... no ... please...."
Say it!" he shook her.
"Oh yes! Oh yes!" A great warm bath opened up inside of her veins and filled her being with molten desire. Drowning in her own lava, she whimpered out the words he had commanded, and was rewarded by being allowed to drop down onto his stem.
"Oh ... uhhhhhhoohhhh...." A swift intake of breath as his brutal tool entered her, filled every comer of her aching soul. She began to ride him like a demon. His penis was like a burning log inside of her, filling, ecstatic, terrifying. Her huge breasts shook frantically from side to side in her heat, and he grabbed them and pinched and sucked and pulled and fondled and mauled and twisted. With each new hurt the root of his sex shafted higher up her, pushing at her cervix, ripping at the tender walls of her delicate vagina.
"Oh my God...." She'd never felt anything like this before. It was like being buffeted in a small craft by a storm on the high seas at black midnight. She was tossed and turned and twisted, feeling his huge penis ramming her insides, scraping her. Her long brown hair flew wildly around them. Each thrust was now bringing a fierce little cry from her lips. Although he was underneath, he ground into her with a ferocity that belied his advanced age, his hips working like pistons.
She felt herself coming now ... reaching it, sliding back. Agonized, tortured, each savage thrust of his lightning rod tore at her insides like fire-but she adored it. She pounded up and down on him, straining for the ultimate, and then suddenly he grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him, holding her savagely fast. She tried to pull away, to break loose, but his strength was too great. He took in mouthfuls of her hair and licked her ear. His hands gripped her buttocks violently, marking them black and blue, his arms encased her in an iron prison.
But it was beautiful! She had never been raped like this. Even now, as she squirmed against his probing finger which was searching her terrified anus, she didn't really want to escape, not really.
And then his finger was there, had found her. His middle finger forced itself treacherously upward through the puckered circle, wet with the come it had brought from her clit, forced itself deep within her ass, probing, touching, feeling, wiggling around.
He touched his iron hard penis as it rammed into her, and simultaneously forced his finger into her backside in parallel thrusts. The two moved simultaneously, touching fiercely, indirectly through the thin membrane that sealed off her vagina from her anus.
"Oh God! Darryl!" She tore at his hair, and he gripped hers to hold her in bondage. Fierce, primitive cries broke from her lips. His penis and finger rammed in an out. She felt as if she were going blind. Ever higher, higher, held, enslaved by what was a human fornicating machine. A machine that was continually, amazingly, picking up speed. Faster and faster he rammed into her. She was a car out of control on a dark highway, trapped within the locked cab.
Higher and higher, and ... "Ooh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" A long series of piercing shrieks cut the air of the bedroom. Darryl Goldberg shuddered violently and then she felt the scalding stream of his semen jerk high up into her, and she knew that she had been loved.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thus far investigation had disclosed that Mrs. Margaret Smythe-Jones of the Maine Line in suburban Philadelphia had been lured into a meeting with a motion picture producer by one of the leading modeling agencies. Which certainly indicated that there was little to choose from between a leading agency and one of the lower racketeering ones.
Tracy Smythe had been on file for some time with this agency as they pondered how to get her into the hands of a client who would pay plenty for her. Her downfall came when the agency realized that the fastest way to possess Tracy would be through her mother, whose driving ambition was known to all in the business.
Subsequently, Mrs. Smythe-Jones was contacted and made ready. Her interest was brought to a fever pitch by many anticipatory and confusing situations all the way along the line, so that by the time Darryl Goldberg had lured her into his bed room, she was ready to tumble at the slightest advance.
But Mrs. Smythe-Jones' flesh was not all that was at stake. For as our story unfolded, it became clear that the implications of her actions had far more sinister and ugly complications.
For Margaret was not the only person who had viewed the mirrors in the Louis XIV bedroom with interest.
As sigh after sigh and climax after climax were loosened from her tormented flesh, Margaret felt Darryl Goldberg's penis weaken and become soft inside of her. Gradually it slid down and out of her, although she would have been happy to have it remain inside of her for a week.
Her spent body fell on top of his, her breasts ballooning against the sides of his chest, his face choking in her hair.
She found that she could have used one word of endearment, anything, to prove that this moment hadn't been groundless. But the man beneath her only grunted and began huffing in a postorgasmic doze.
Her hand found his penis. How deflated and harmless now. It couldn't hurt a flea. She rolled it around in her fingers like dough. She considered baking a cake with it inside. What a surprise that could be for some jaded matron at the Junior League.
Breathing heavily, and almost totally worn out and tattered, she rolled off him. Rivers of sweat ran down her belly to her crotch hair. She tried to wipe some of it off, but it was no use. She felt as if she had just come in from a swim. Her hair was lank and wet. She rolled off of him with a sigh, lying on her back next to him.
That was when she heard the camera whirring.
She looked off the foot of the bed toward the wall. The whirring, so totally obscured by their orgy, was now plainly audible. A small gasp escaped her, for as she watched, the wall before her began sliding slowly upward into the ceiling.
"Mother!"
Mrs. Smythe-Jones shrieked. Darryl Goldberg grabbed her by the hair before she could do anything further.
In front of her, on the other side of the absent mirror-wall, was her darling baby daughter, Tracy Smythe, totally naked and spread-eagled on a bed, the back of which was slightly pedestaled, so that Tracy must have seen everything of the terrible goings-on in the Louis XIV bedroom.
Darryl Goldberg's confederates stood around smiling from ear to ear, drinks or cigarettes in their hands, exchanging filthy comments as they watched with amusement Margaret Smythe-Jones' crazed attempt to rise up and run to her daughter.
But Darryl Goldberg was too powerful for her. He held her fast and called to one of his friends: "Hey, throw me a piece of rope!" When he received this, he tied one of Margaret's wrists securely to the bedpost.
It was plain that Tracy had been crying. In later conversation, she explained how the vultures of men had coaxed her into the secret room and then tom her clothes savagely from her quaking virginal body. Then they had tied her securely, leather thongs on her wrists and ankles, spread-eagled on the bed. As they had heard Mrs. Smythe-Jones and Darryl Goldberg returning to the bedroom, they had stuffed her mouth with cotton in order to prevent her from crying out.
The entire ugly scene had taken place in Tracy's full view. The conversation between herself and Goldberg, the subsequent seduction, everything had been witnessed and filmed on the other side of the one-way mirrors that Margaret had found so fascinating.
Laughingly, one of the men had tom away her gag the moment the wall had slid up. Now she lay there, her gorgeous white young body racked with sobs, bathed in her own tears, her huge, firm young breasts heaving from side to side with emotion, their nipples hardened from the erotic, terrible scene she had just witnessed.
The men gazed at her wantonly. One of them, a tall cadaver of a man with an evil-looking Van Dyke beard, ran his fingers affectionately through her golden pubic hair from time to time. Already the hot young tip of her clitoris had begun to glow and moisten with a mysterious need from his teasing touch. But he did not look eager to pursue that. It appeared only as if he was toying with her, as one might caress a cat.
"Mother, how could you!" she sobbed. Her golden hair fanned out around her beautiful head and back. Her womanly hips seemed born for child bearing, her legs old enough to tighten on a man's hips.
Margaret began sobbing in response to discovering that her young daughter is about to be brutalized.
Darryl Goldberg laughed brutally, grabbing her hair and dragging her forward. The other perverts laughed and giggled with excitement. "Look at her!" Mrs. Smythe-Jones' dominator screamed. "She's a beautiful piece, ain't she? Wouldn't you like to lick her steaming little cunt yourself?"
Mrs. Smythe-Jones began screaming and struggling. But the men were too strong for her. They grabbed her and forced her head down between young Tracy's legs. The sweet musk of the helpless girl's aroused desire covered her head like a palpable mist. Margaret thought she would faint.
Slowly, agonizingly, their hands holding her neck tightly, they forced her forward into the dreadful obscenity.
"Mother!" Tracy screamed. "Oh God! Mother!"
With her lips forced snugly up into her daughter's tight little blonde vagina, Margaret felt her entire world of values crumble like pottery under a hammer. The musk between those trembling young legs overpowered her senses, made her head swim. She didn't know what she wanted; all she knew was that the essence of that sweet, steaming scent was too much for her. Instinctively her tongue lashed forward....
"Mother!"
Mrs. Smythe-Jones licked her precious baby's cunt and heard her terrified scream slowly change to a gurgling, begging for more. After a little while, it was no longer necessary for the men to hold her; they retreated to their cameras. Mrs. Smythe-Jones slipped her hands under Tracy's buttocks and continued to lick her pouting labia, feeling the hot wet walls gradually give way on all sides. Her hands clenched and unclenched the child's silken rear, one finger finally prying at the delicate virginal rosebud of the girl's anus and thrusting up and through. The child groaned with pain and squirmed on the bed to escape the raping hand, but Margaret had become too absorbed to notice. Tracy's gushing hot fluid came rushing down into her face, clouding her eyes, dripping off her chin, and she continued to lick and suck and nip and bite, and pull viciously at the delicate little bump of Tracy's sensitive clit. In seconds Tracy was giving forth with one long, heart rending scream as her first induced orgasm erupted throughout her quivering young flesh, making her nerve endings catch fire from one end of her body to the other, and then she was still.
By this time Margaret Smythe-Jones was no longer in any possession of her senses, and it was a simple matter for the perverts to make her do as she was told. First she was tied and beaten with straps, while several of them masturbated and shot their come all over her glistening body. Then she was forced to watch-and even hold one of the motion picture cameras-as the man with the largest penis among the group clambered up on the bed, sucked violently on Tracy's young breasts, and then proceeded to inch-by-inch deflower the horrified but helpless girl. As he shuddered into the child, there was another man-if one may call such creatures that-waiting to climb up and take his place. By the time they were finished, thirteen-year-old-Tracy Smythe-Jones could scarcely be recognized as the sweet young thing she had been. She had swooned several times and had two additional nerve-shattering climaxes herself. She had felt strange men sucking at her immense high-nippled young breasts. She had felt her body mauled and brutalized. She would never be the same again.
And for the finale, the man with the smallest penis among them was allowed to turn her over and-using a great deal of hand cream-have intercourse with her child's bottom. In this position she was forced to stay on all fours, two men underneath her enormous hanging breasts to suck and feel them, while the man with the small penis rode her, his panting face buried in her long blonde hair.
Thus were the women of this unfortunate family initiated into the rites by which a great many young girls find themselves blackmailed into posing for future obscene pictures. Under the threat of exposure to their family and friends, Mrs. Smythe-Jones and her daughter were subsequently forced to pose for nudie stag films, figure magazines, nudist periodicals, and a nauseating set of obscene photos that were sold under the counter in bookstores catering to perverts.
Unfortunately due to the fact that Mr. Allan Smythe-Jones was a secret pervert, he soon came across this filthy series of poses showing his wife licking off his own daughter, and mortified, was able to put a stop to the whole business. Thus the matter came to light; except for this strange stroke of fortune, it would have been just another unknown, if common, story from the long secret book of figure modeling.
CHAPTER FIVE
Reputable modeling agencies are constantly warning inexperienced models to beware the unscrupulous men who try to prey on young girls. Frequently, girls who become the victims of these lascivious Casanovas are afraid to go to the police.
The reason in some cases is that they have been involved in sex orgies and parties where they have been forced to pose for obscene pictures.
Most models have had experiences with pestering men, from would-be Lotharios to snide photographers. One well-known Hollywood model says, "There are always strange characters hanging around. Those that keep pestering me for dates are quite taken back when I tell them that I don't think my husband would approve.
"Recently I was stopped on Sunset Boulevard by a well-dressed man who took my arm and insisted that he knew me. Sure he had-I've been in every girlie magazine in the country. Too, I meet a lot of people, and I wasn't quite sure that he hadn't.
Wasn't sure, that is, until he began to make some dirty suggestions.
"But he said that he was a motion picture producer at one of the big lots, and hinted that if I let him screw me, it would be all to my advantage. When I asked him again where he had met me and he named an agency, I knew he was lying. I threatened to call the cops and that sent him on his way.
"Then there are people who call up who pretend to be legitimate figure photographers contributing to all the big magazines. I don't know where they get my number. If their credentials aren't right, I hang up on them. I've got a pretty nice pair of tits, and I don't see why I should show them off to anybody for free."
June Dally, who runs one of Hollywood's best known modeling agencies, is also plagued with telephone calls from men trying to meet models. "We've even had men waiting outside in automobiles to follow models after they leave the agency. We get dubious proposals from some of these ostensibly big-time operators constantly. They want the girls to go to special parties with them, or some such thing.
"I insist that my girls let me know IMMEDIATELY when they get questionable offers. After all, I am in some way responsible for them. We get characters in here all the time offering screen tests to the girls; look into them and they're almost always fakes.
Unfortunately not all fakes are unmasked in time. There was the case of the artist-fiend Keith Lawson. On May 7, 1954, after posing as a photographer, he succeeded in persuading five beautiful young models to accompany him to a bush land setting at Terry Hills on the outskirts of Los Angeles.
There, after menacing the terrified girls with a gun, he bound and gagged them and tied their legs apart to the trunks of small trees. Then he raped them one by one. He was tracked down and arrested by police, and subsequently sentenced to death.
However, his death sentence was commuted on a technicality, and Lawson was released after serving only six years. It is now a matter of record that just a few months later he murdered two teen-aged girls after assaulting them brutally on their way home from school. Lawson is currently serving a life sentence.
As a result of the Lawson case, a number of states have passed laws compelling the registration of all models, photographers and agencies who specialize in pin-ups, nudes, and figure studies.
The Harvey Glatman case was a particularly bi-zare story that helped to mobilize public opinion in many areas.
The story of Glatman and his terrible crimes began on a warm afternoon of August 1, 1957, when beautiful, golden-blonde Judy Ann Draper, a seventeen-year-old figure model who had run away from her home in Spokane, Washington and subsequently appeared in a great many men's magazines, stepped out of her West Hollywood apartment and abruptly disappeared.
Late that night, Betty Carver, a statuesque red head who shared Judy's apartment, called at the West Hollywood police station with Robert Beneke, Judy's boy friend. They reported that she had been missing since the afternoon, had failed to keep several appointments, and they were very worried.
The police were not very concerned as the girl had been missing only a short time. They made routine checks of the hospitals and gave out descriptions on the radio.
By the next morning, Betty and Beneke were becoming more agitated; they again called on the police.
The case was taken over by Detective Lieutenant David Oster, and he set about learning as much as he could about the missing girl.
He learned, among other things, that Judy Ann Draper had made a good living posing for so-called art photographers, and that she was much in demand for nude spreads in girlie magazines.
On the night of July 30th, Judy had been out on a date, but Betty Carver had been at home entertaining when there was a knock at the door.
The caller proved to be a stockily-built, serious-looking man of about thirty, with protruding ears and horn-rimmed glasses. He said his name was Johnny Glynn and that he was a freelance photographer. He claimed to be looking for Judy, as she had been recommended for a special series of figure studies he'd been asked to prepare.
"I'm afraid Judy isn't home," Betty told him. "Why don't you call back tomorrow? Or perhaps she could ring you?"
The man smiled disarmingly and asked if he might see some of Judy's photos to see if she was really the type he was looking for. He didn't want to make a second trip if there would be no purpose in it. Betty invited him in and showed him bunches of pictures of Judy in one interesting position or another.
It was plain that Mr. Blynn was becoming worked up. He wiped his glasses frequently. "Now there's a girl I'd like to work with," he muttered, his eyes glazed as he seemed to devour Judy's smooth young flesh. "She's exactly the type of model the editor I'm dealing with has in mind. How soon will she be home?"
Betty Carver gave Glynn the telephone number, and he left. The next morning Betty told Judy of ' the visit and added that he would probably be ringing her.
There was no call that day, but early the next morning, on Thursday, August 1, the phone rang. It was Johnny Glynn, and he said that he had an urgent magazine assignment for which he needed her right away.
"Can you pose for me at two o'clock?", he importuned. "Unfortunately I have no studio at the moment, as I've only just arrived from New York where I worked for all the big magazines there. Perhaps I could bring my equipment over and work at your apartment."
Judy Ann had a number of modeling appointments for the day, but agreed to fit Glynn in at two o'clock in her own apartment-for her usual fee of forty dollars an hour.
Glynn arrived on time but carried no camera; he said that he had luckily been able to borrow a friend's studio for the few hours the assignment would take.
It was obviously going to be an easy eighty dollars, and the young curvaceous blonde quickly agreed to go with him to the studio.
Judy Ann Draper left her apartment at 2:15 on the fated day. She was carrying her modeling case into which she had packed a choice selection of flimsy costumes. She was not seen alive again.
"Nineteen years old, five feet four inches, one hundred and ten pounds, natural long blonde hair, blue eyes, golden-tan complexion and unusually large breasts, underneath the left of which there is a small mole. When last seen she was wearing a cocoa-brown sheath dress and black sandals."
This was the bulletin that went out to all law enforcement officials. A bulletin also went out asking police to be on the lookout for a man answering to the description of Johnny Glynn. Detectives under Lieutenant Oster checked every photographer and modeling agency in the Hollywood area. No one could provide a lead on the jug-eared abductor. Similarly, none of Judy's friends, fellow models or former employers could provide a single clue that might solve the riddle of her whereabouts.
Obviously the bespectacled mystery man had not been a photographer at all. He had probably noticed beautiful Judy Ann while prowling the streets of Hollywood, linked her up with photos he had seen in magazines and trailed her cleverly to her abode. Then he had dreamed up a scheme that would sufficiently allay any suspicions and get her out of the apartment neatly and quickly.
The police were inundated with the usual tips and leads from the public. At least a dozen reports came in from other Hollywood models, describing men who had hired them for posing work and then forced sexual attentions on them using knife or gun. Previously, the girls had been too ashamed to come to the police; Judy Ann Draper's terrible story had prompted them forward.
But none of the men who had molested them proved to be the mysterious Johnny Glynn. Reconsidering Glynn's appearance, Betty Carver saw now that she had been a fool to think he could possibly be a professional photographer. The man had been too unkempt, and his general air had been "shifty and creepy."
The police investigation continued, and scores of men and women were interviewed by detectives. They extended their inquiries to photographers in other districts of Los Angeles. They began checking known sex criminals and men recently released from prison. Betty Carver was shown literally thousands of photographs in an attempt to reconstruct the face of Johnny Glynn. Even one theory that the missing girl might have been pregnant and died at the hands of an abortionist was thoroughly checked out. But no Judy Ann Draper.
For a long time nothing came to light, and months went by with the police gradually slackening their interest. Although the case remained alive, it seemed likely to remain an unexplained disappearance.
The case jolted back into the public eye, when on December 29, 1957, a ranch worker near the town of Indio, about one hundred and thirty miles east of Los Angeles, was attracted by the barking of his dog while walking along a country road. He investigated and found the dog pawing a human head in an abandoned field. The head was that of a young girl, the long blonde hair still surrounding it. It had been recently severed, and its eyes and tongue bugged out hideously.
A search disclosed a shallow grave about a hundred feet away containing the mutilated girl. When the county sheriff unearthed her body, it was apparent that she had been tied and beaten and abused over a long period of time. There were bloody rope marks across her ankles and wrists. Her naked body was crisscrossed with whiplashes and dried blood. Her breasts had taken a particularly savage mutilation, even to the extent of having their huge nipples razored off and thrown into the grave. Her gigantic breasts themselves were covered with the signs of mauling-deep black and blue marks covered them, as well as stringy bloody stretch marks where they had been twisted out of shape by some vicious, depraved man. Her belly had been razored, her vagina had been split open violently by some instrument and was caked with dried blood. Her legs were in an equally pitiful state.
There were fragments of brown dress material, flimsy underclothing and a white gold ring with a single pearl among the debris in the grave. Thus ended the story of Judy Ann Draper, one young girl who had tried to beat the pitfalls of a modeling career.
CHAPTER SIX
The discovery of Judy Ann Draper's mutilated young body was destined to be only a marker in the strange case of Harvey Glatman.
In March, 1958, another Los Angeles girl disappeared. She too was to be a victim of the same sex maniac, Harvey Glatman alias Johnny Glynn. In her case, however, he had somewhat varied his technique.
Shirley Bridgeford was also a model; a pretty, even voluptuous brunette divorcee of about twenty-three, mother of two children. She and her children lived with her mother, Mrs. Alice Jolliffe. On Sunday, March 9, her mother reported to police that Shirley had gone out on a date the previous night with a strange man and had not returned.
The distraught Mrs. Jolliffe told the full story to Sergeant Pat Kealy of the Los Angeles police. Her daughter, divorced for three years and apparently highly-sexed, had finally taken to figure modeling in order to keep herself perpetually aroused. The knowledge of so many millions of men getting excited at the sight of her naked body seemed to act as an aphrodisiac for her ... to the point she was in a constant state of sensual agitation. She liked parties and dancing, and when one man, ostensibly a photographer, asked to take her to a party where she could meet some very important people, she quickly agreed.
"She was excited and happy about going out with Mr. Williams on that Saturday night," related Mrs. Jolliffe. "She spent hours getting ready. He called for her about seven-forty-five and said that they were going to a big house on Mulholland Drive.
"All I know is that she hasn't come home. I haven't heard a word from her. It's almost twenty-four hours now, and Shirley would never, never stay away from home like this without calling me. Naturally she didn't have any luggage. She only had a few cents in her pocket when she left. She asked me for half a dollar to buy a pack of cigarettes."
Mrs. Jolliffe described George Williams as between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, about five feet nine inches, close to one hundred and eighty pounds, with dark brown hair, blue eyes and a thick mustache. He had large protruding ears and wore horn-rimmed glasses.
"Naturally I looked him over," said Mrs. Jolliffe. "He didn't seem to be dressed too well for a Saturday night date. He had on a blue jacket-I think it was a suit jacket-charcoal trousers and a white shirt open at the throat.
"He seemed sort of ill at ease and embarrassed at meeting me. He remarked that he'd sure had a long drive, and he was in a hurry for them to get going. He spoke sort of gruffly. After he took her out, that was the last I ever saw of her. I didn't look to see what kind of car he was driving.
Police were not at first overly concerned about the missing divorcee. There was some suspicion that she might have eloped with George Williams to Tijuana. Some time passed before her body was finally discovered-in a ditch by the Silver Lake Expressway crossing, hidden by weeds. The girl had been stabbed in eighty-four places, largely around her sexual organs and her breasts, and her throat had been cut. A coroner's examination later revealed that she had also been assaulted front and rear. Her anus had been almost totally tom to shreds by whatever had been stuffed up it.
So the disappearance of yet another Los Angeles model had become another unsolved murder. Four months were to pass before Harvey Glatman alias Johnny Glynn alias George Williams struck again.
On July 30, 1958, the landlord of a small apartment building in the Wilshire district wrote to the police regarding the disappearance of one of his girl tenants. She was Ruth Mercado, a sultry, sixteen-year-old Mexican beauty, another runaway, who because of the unusual development of her pubescent body had been able to secure work in Hollywood as a stripteaser, and more recently, as a nude model for men's magazines. The photos of her vo luptuous, over-developed bust had been printed and published all over the United States under her assumed name of Angela Rojas. Still retaining the face of a little girl, men had quickly clamored to the editors for more pictures of this seductive, busty nymph. Her favorite and most popular pose usually showed her with her huge breasts hanging downward over a bedsheet as she propped herself up on all fours. Occasionally, in the "rougher" shots sold under-the-counter, she would pose with men sucking her breasts, usually one on each side because they were so gigantic, with her long black hair falling all around them. Occasionally she even allowed herself to pose with men's penises inserted in her. The perverts who purchased such obscenities never guessed that the man's penis was actually not even in motion.
Sergeant Paul Light of the missing persons section took over the case. The landlord told him that the girl had last been seen walking her collie dog in front of the building.
A couple of days afterward, his wife remarked that she had not seen Ruth Mercado around, and there were a number of letters in her mailbox. The landlord waited four more days, occasionally knocking on Ruth's apartment door, before he finally let himself in with his pass key.
The apartment was empty except for Ruth's two parakeets and the collie, which had been locked in the bathroom. Birds and dog were both exceedingly famished; it was plain that the teen-aged model hadn't been around for some time. And she seemed to have left all of her clothes, jewelry and luggage behind.
This time the police had no description at all to go on, but a search of Ruth's letters and address books provided scores of possible male leads. Police interviewed Ruth's friends, both male and female, in great depth. She was a frequent visitor to Hollywood taverns and cafes and had been known for her exceptionally uninhibited sex life. For some time she had posed nude for photographers and seemed to have no compunctions about assuming increasingly obscene positions. She had even been willing to provide photographers with camera and film if they were able to meet her fee.
But this was as far the police were able to get. They were soon at a dead end in the Mercado case, and perhaps this particularly horrid string of sex crimes would never have been solved if the criminal had not sought a fourth victim-and struck trouble.
On October 28, 1958, a man called at a modeling agency on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. He introduced himself as Frank Johnson, a photographer specializing in nude pin-ups. He wanted to hire a model, and the agency suggested a statuesque twenty-one-year-old redhead, Lorraine Vigil.
Lorraine was a newcomer to modeling. She had been a stenographer, but wanted to break into a more glamorous and lucrative trade. She had taken a course run by the agency, but as yet she had not received any assignments.
The agency telephoned Lorraine at her secretarial job. She agreed to model for Frank Johnson that evening. The agency gave him her address and he arranged to pick her up at nine-thirty.
Frank Johnson arrived at the appointed hour and escorted Lorraine Vigil out to his 1951 Dodge. He told her that they would go to his studio in the city of Anaheim.
It was a long drive. Frank Johnson drove fast and did not attempt to make conversation. When Lorraine spoke to him he grunted monosyllabic replies. The girl became somewhat uneasy. It was her first modeling job and it seemed a strange hour for photography. She was reassured somewhat when she looked at Johnson. He was a weedy, unhealthy looking type, and she told herself, I can lay this jerk out if he tries anything.
But Frank Johnson only increased his speed to a dangerous rate as they approached the Anaheim exit on the freeway, and then he shot past it without slackening.
Suddenly the car slowed and made a turn. Not far from the exit was a deserted field in back of some dark warehouses cut off from the freeway by a stretch of railway tracks. Johnson braked to a halt and switched off the motor. Facing the now terrified girl, he muttered gutturally, "This is it, baby, you and me is gonna fuck like you've never fucked before." Drool spilled from his lips.
"His rough hands reached out for me," Lorraine later explained, "and grabbed my shoulders. He grabbed my sweater in his fingernails and ripped it savagely right down the front. I've got boobies-if you'll pardon the expression-of a size forty-two E cup, and I was only wearing a thin little brassiere that was just about see-through. He went crazy when he saw my breasts, he particularly had a thing about aureoles-mine are unusually big and dark, and my nipples are pretty big.
"Well, I tried to tear myself away from him, and I must have been screaming. Then I must have gotten lucky, because suddenly the car door jerked open in back of me and I fell backward. He got one big hand on my neck, though, and held me struggling and twisting as if I were a fish caught in a net. I tried to gouge out his eyes and scratch him with my long nails, but he was too strong. His fingers hooked into the front of my bra and just ripped it right down. He grabbed my titties like a maniac and started twisting them back and forth, all the while trying to bring me back toward him so he could kiss me. I felt nauseated at just the approach of his mouth.
"His fingers pinched and pulled at my nipples viciously, and I kept screaming in pain. I felt my strength ebbing as his fingers found my windpipe, and then I fell out of the door with Johnson falling down on top of me. He had already taken out his penis, and it swung in the air like some giant snake.
"I tried to remember things my father had taught me about self-defense. As we rolled over, he tried to jerk my legs apart and feel for my cunt, but I kicked my knee up into his balls with all my strength.
"He grunted and for a moment released me. Then I jerked my knee again, and dragged my nails across his face and reached for his balls and squeezed them with everything I had. He let out a terrible groan and one of my nails caught him in the eye just as he pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his pocket and fumbled with it, trying to aim at me.
"I don't know what made me react so fast; it was probably mostly a subconscious reaction, like a reflex. I kicked out with my foot at his wrist and the revolver flew away into the scrub and sand next to the gravel road.
"I rolled over and dived on the gun as Johnson staggered up and came towards me again. I rolled over on my back and gripped the gun tightly in both hands. I didn't even know if it was loaded or where the safety catch was. I had never held a gun; had probably never even seen one close up before. 'Don't come any closer-I'll shoot!' I screamed.
"I aimed the revolver at his stomach, and he stopped less than a yard away from me. Then I took a half-step forward and tightened my finger on the trigger. But suddenly he yelled, 'It ain't loaded!' and he moved. He stopped again when he saw my finger tighten on the trigger.
"I seized the opportunity to come to an upright position. He faced me like a crouching animal, but I held onto the gun for dear life. I knew that if I relaxed for a moment I would die.
"Then somewhere in the distance there was the roar of a motorcycle. Policemen!
"The motorcycle was out of view but coming nearer. Then I made the mistake of throwing a hurried glance over my shoulder. In that instant Johnson was on me and bore me with him to the ground. I fought like a wildcat, clawing and biting, trying to knee him in the balls. His hands went straight for my throat and he punched me in the breasts, stomach, cunt and all over, too. And then the noise of the motorcycle seemed to be all around us and a voice called out: 'Get away from her or I'll blast you."
"Johnson rolled off of me and I was able to breathe again. The policeman said, 'Get your cock back in your pants, you son of a bitch.."
The rapist and sex fiend got to his feet and stood quite still, staring at the sobbing girl as she ran to the policeman, her gigantic breasts swaying and waggling as she ran. "His eyes were big as silver dollars as he stared at her," said the patrolman later.
More police soon arrived. Frank Johnson and Lorraine Vigil were taken to a station nearby. There the tearful and shaken girl received treatment for, bruises and shock as she told her story. Then someone drove her home in a police car.
Officers began questioning the prisoner, whose most distinguishing feature were his large protruding ears. He was quite subdued now and ready to talk.
It developed that the man's real name was Harvey Glatman, that he was thirty, and he worked in Los Angeles as both a photographer and a television repairman. In his pockets police found nearly a thousand dollars in cash. "I don't spend much money," he told them, with a sorry smile. "I don't go many places with my dates."
In his car were several lengths of rope, several expensive cameras, sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. When police inspected his apartment, they discovered pictures on the walls of couples and groups of all mixtures of sexes in the most disgusting poses. Women and men were being sodomized, others were sucking on huge male organs. There were photos of small girls being beaten with whips and clubs and being brutalized by huge adult male organs, or being forced to suck on adult penises. A great many women were in obscene Lesbian poses, licking each others vaginas or rubbing vaginas together, sucking on each other's breasts and the like. Men were also doing obscene things with each other, and also with little boys who were acting as if they were being forced, sucking on older men's penises or being sodomized by them. In several pictures young boys of twelve and thirteen were seen licking the vaginas of old hags who could have been their grandmothers, and also the vaginas of women in their thirties and forties, old enough to be their mothers. All over the photographs there were white streaks which were later analyzed in the police lab as being semen.
But the most startling revelation was yet to come-for in a metal container in Harvey Glatman's closet, preserved in formaldehyde, police discovered the shrunken, amputated vagina of Ruth Mercado; the nipples of her breasts had been razored off and stuffed inside of the hairy patch of flesh taken from between her legs.
Harvey later explained his usual method of throttling his victims, "My fear of being caught was almost as great a my compulsion to do this thing with women. With each one I did it the same way, after I had used them for my sex and things, and beat them and treated them like a Nazi. I used lengths of cord like you found in my car. Some of them I lured out to lonely places on the pretext of wanting to get nature shots before I'd let them go, and then there was no place to run. I'd laugh at the way they looked, so confused and helpless and enslaved by me. Then I'd make them kneel down and suck me off. And I'd tie their hands behind them with a short rope.
"Then I made them lie flat on their stomachs, and I'd tie their ankles together with one end of cord. First though, I'd split their legs open and grease their squirming little anuses with vaginal jelly. Ha, ha, they really liked that. Then I'd get down and split their behinds, and I'd ram my big stiff hard cock right up their little rosebud assholes. Some of them were tighter than others, and I had to worm my cock in real hard. Split them open, finger it, grease it real good, and finally stuff my cock in it. When they'd never been fucked from in back like that, it was tougher-but nicer. The little girls, twelve and thirteen-I had some of those who did fashion modeling for mail-order catalogues-they were the tightest of all, but the most rewarding. They had real small breasts, but they smelled so good. I mean, a little girl, say with long brown or yellow hair that you can rest your nose in and feel her tiny little breasts and nipples, and squirm your cock right up her tight little rectum-Jesus, that's the greatest thrill in the world!
Especially when they cry out because they think it's painful.
"Anyway, then I'd make them lie flat on their stomachs and tie their ankles together. Would you believe that some of them literally BEGGED me to screw them from the front after they'd tasted how good it could be in the ass? Some women have no shame. Anyway, then I'd loop the middle part of the cord around their necks, and I'd stand there and keep pulling on the other end till they stopped struggling. They didn't suffer much, most of them. None of them, except for those ones like Judy Ann Draper, who I kept prisoner for a while; they knew that I wasn't going to kill them until the very last minute.
"Ruth pleaded with me at the last minute, 'Oh God, don't do it.' Shirley Bridgeford said, 'Please, please, I have two children ... ' Judy didn't say anything at all. I've always been fascinated by ropes, ever since I was a child. Seems to me I've always had a piece of rope in my hands."
It was ghastly to hear Harvey Glatman relate how he had forced one stumbling, gasping figure model from his car in some desolate area, bound hand and foot, forcing her to negotiate half a mile up a dry creek bed. She had to take off her heel shoes to manage the rocks. Then they reached a clearing where he tore off her clothes, took some photos and then strangled her. Other stories were similar.
With Ruth Mercado, Glatman had played a sadistic cat-and-mouse game. She was an exotic, full bosomed Latin type who roused him to a fever pitch of sexual excitement. He met her by answering a small ad in a men's magazine that offered art poses.
When Ruth Mercado sent him her phone number, he called her and spoke glibly using photographers' jargon, so that she finally gave him her address. But instead of calling to see her by day as arranged, Glatman knocked on her apartment door late on the night of July 23, 1958.
When the Mexican beauty hesitated to admit him at that late hour, he pulled his gun and forced his way in. Fearfully she obeyed his order to strip, and he tied her up and raped her several times, both front and rear. He remained in the apartment taking pictures of the girl in lewd poses and subjecting her to indignities until the early morning, when he forced her to don a robe and accompany him to his car in an adjoining alley.
Glatman told the helpless and terrified girl that they were just going out into the desert so he could get some more pictures of her in the nude. He headed for the wild, almost uninhabited country beyond Escondido where he had killed Shirley Bridgeford.
The girl was not killed immediately, however. He spent the whole day with her in the desert, sating his lust in her, taking numerous lewd photographs that she posed according to his direction. He had brought plenty to eat, but his hysterical victim refused to touch any food.
"She was the one I really liked," Glatman smirked later. "When she sucked on my cock, I like to blew my brains out. And when I fucked her in the ass I used to reach around and grab her titties 'cause they were hangin'. Whew, she had big ones. I blew into her a million times, and licked her ass, too. I liked to worm my tongue in there, and that seemed to turn her on, too. I'll bet she would have really liked me if we hadn't been in such a touchy situation. I didn't want to kill her, but I didn't want to go to jail, either."
Ruth Mercado was naked when, sometime during the second night, Glatman strangled her. She was buried under a few inches of sand in a lonely gully about thirty miles from the spot where he had killed Shirley Bridgeford.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Periodically, the newspapers headline the breaking up of some new racket in pornographic pictures and films in one or another of our cities. Police in both New York and Hollywood seize an average from thirty to fifty thousand obscene pictures and transparencies each year, the retail price of which ranges from a few dollars to twenty dollars each.
We are not examining the trade in pornography here-but the fact remains that it is an offshoot of the model racket. There would be no lewd pin-ups, no dirty pictures and films, if the smut merchants could not find girls to pose for them.
Not all models react to a suggestion that they pose for pornography as did the beautiful eighteen-year-old Phoenix girl a year or two back who was instrumental in breaking up what was then the largest pornography business in Arizona.
This girl was originally engaged to pose for nude art. She agreed to this as, although such work is regarded as inferior to fashion modeling, it can still be quite lucrative. The girl, as a drop-out student from the University of Arizona, wanted desperately to pick up enough money to return to school the following term.
But then the photographer made the unwise suggestion that she pose in some highly suggestive ways with male models. The girl instantly reported his indecency to the police. Shortly thereafter, two members of the city vice squad showed up at the studio.
The studio was expensively equipped and had a luxurious modern darkroom attached. Stacked in cardboard boxes in the studio were literally thousands of erotic photographs of Phoenix girls-seminude, nude, and posing obscenely with men.
In a little book was a list of the names and addresses of many of the girls in the pictures, and others. Before each name was a code letter. Police later discovered that this indicated the kind of picture for which each girl would pose.
There were also names and addresses of a number of male models-perverts and other debauchees who were paid for their services.
Police seized the stock of photos and took them to police headquarters for intensive study. They also visited the girls who were listed in the book and questioned them. It soon became apparent that the photographer in question was in reality but one of a great many photographers engaged in the same business in the Phoenix area, and that these men were generally using the same "pool" of girls.
The photographer working this racket usually led his victims through different stages of posing until he could coax her past all bounds of decency. After that, blackmail of one sort or another bound the girls for the life of their youthful bodies.
First, the newly-engaged model would be posed for simple pin-up pictures to which no one could take exception. For these she was well-paid, and gradually the scheming photographer would up the ante until the girl was willing to pose with her breasts uncovered, always encouraged to smile seductively for the camera.
There was still no question of obscenity at this stage, but gradually the model was coerced, and finally she was posing with male models for indecent pictures, either with penises partially inserted into her vagina, or stuffed into her anus, or she would pose sucking on some man's penis. From here it was a short step to posing with Lesbians in black-boot beating pictures, or being licked between the legs by one of them, or having her breasts sucked, or having intercourse with a Lesbian wearing a dingus belt. Finally there was left only for her to be shot licking another woman's crotch.
The profits from this obscene trade were such that for some of the individual poses, photographers were receiving as much as three hundred dollars. When you think of how many poses can be accomplished in an hour's sitting, it's readily apparent the sort of money that can be made in this disgusting business.
In the Phoenix case nineteen people were finally charged, including one woman, with being involved in one way or another with the racket. All were convicted, but only one was jailed, and the rest received fines amounting to more than three thousand dollars each. Not much of a deterrent, considering the profits available in pornographic photos.
As one police officer put it, "They got off much too lightly. These things corrupt our entire society. The men who make and traffic in pornography seek new and more abominable perversions constantly. The girls who pose are led into immoral lives and find it difficult to ever respect themselves again. Young people see these terrible pictures and cannot but help but be affected--if you know what I mean. Their minds can become inflamed and imbalanced, and they become engrossed in constant masturbation. Thus, entire lives can be ruined by this filth."
So there are always racketeers trying to inveigle models into posing for them. One of them, a thirty-four-year-old Canadian, was run down in the state of Idaho and sentenced to two years imprisonment. He had been in the business for ten years and had become a millionaire several times over. He had been arrested but once.
In Seattle he had wooed a beautiful twenty-one-year-old ex-deb who had just begun fashion modeling. They swiftly became lovers, and he introduced her to a wide variety of obscene rites. 'Finally he persuaded her to pose for innocent pin-up pictures that he took himself. She agreed to this more or less for the fun of it.
From that the next step was for him to take photographs by remote control as they made love together in a variety of positions. Occasionally he would use a great deal of hand cream or Vaseline in her anus in order to promote soft entry into her bottom. And so this loving girl was gradually enmeshed in the sordid trade.
He explained that if she would help him in this business and not balk at anything, eventually he would be able to get enough money out of it so that they could be married. "I was in love with him," the girl told the police simply, "so that even after he began suggesting that I be prepared to be reamed by dogs and goats, I was prepared to go along. He would get some dog in heat by playing with its genitals, even if it came to sucking on the bloated red tip, and then he would make me bend over while the animal mounted me. It was disgusting."
For his part, the accused man told police, "I taught myself figure photography the hard way-through trial and error. I worked hard. Eventually I achieved a technical quality and a level of lewdness that few photographers in the dirty picture business could equal. Of course, equipment and modeling fees are high in this racket, because most of the girls know what they're doing. They know what the profits are, and they know what they can get. Elizabeth didn't know a damned thing. She was straight from the society pages, with her long blonde hair and schoolgirl complexion, and she was simple as hell. I was able to talk her into screwing in almost any way imaginable-with broom handles, dogs, stuck in the rear, everything. That's the good part about these society broads. Their maters never tell them anything about the world, so they're easy pickings for guys like me. I had one gorgeous redhead I used to screw in the ass and the mouth who had never even heard of what Lesbians were. So when I asked her to pose with another girl, licking her cunt, she didn't know enough to know that there was something immoral about the whole thing. She just did as she was told-I got some terrific film out of that one....
"Most of them just wanted me to screw them more than anything else in the whole world-I've got a couple of warts on the end of my prick-and for this they were willing to do most anything I asked. I had all of them, all the high-class types from high school and college and good families. They did anything I asked, and sucked when I wanted them to. You'd be surprised how easy it is to get these high-class kids from good families. They don't know the first thing about the world. And boy, do they love to suck. The modeling is almost totally incidental with dames like this."
This racketeer circulated a catalogue with enticing shots of his girls that was advertised primarily in the men's magazines back pages. His yearly income was said to be around a half-million dollars. Because they fell in love with him, for whatever reason, foolish young girls became humiliated and degraded and deprived of their most fundamental sense of decency. Elizabeth, the girl in the case, was lucky to get off with a severe reprimand from the judge.
The extent of the pornography trade in New York State may be gauged from a recent case where a cameraman, whom we shall call Alfred Thompson, was convicted of publishing obscene photos and sentenced to a year's imprisonment. During his trial, evidence was given that more than two hundred models, both amateur and professional, had posed for him. Police had seized more than twenty thousand negatives and prints, and all kinds of strange paraphernalia Thompson had used; riding crops and uniforms, black silk stockings and lacy negligees and undergarments, black leather boots, motorcycle jackets, whips and clubs, small torture devices, a stretching rack out of the Middle Ages and other items.
Outlining the case against Thompson, the Prosecutor told the court that Thompson usually found his models by attending local beauty contests. "He would make contact with girls there," he said, "and subsequently suggest that they had suitable figures for figure modeling, emphasizing the large fees available in this despicable racket. If the girls accepted, he began by taking pictures of them fully dressed, then gradually breaking down their resistance, going to pictures in which they were scantily clad and the like. Thompson often plied these children with liquor-gin, rum and homemade wine to loosen up their morals. They were swiftly down to bare essentials."
A form letter that Thompson had sent out soliciting business was read to the court. It ran in part:
"I have been told by friends that you may be interested in purchasing some of my unusual pin-up and lingerie photographs of young girls being beaten, whipped and otherwise used. I would be delighted to send you prints of one hundred and twenty beautiful children for our special low introductory offer of twenty dollars. These films are guaranteed unusual and have never circulated before."
Thompson also said that if customers had any preference in photo subjects, he would go out of his way to provide custom-made prints in the event that nothing was suitable from his regular stock.
A typical client who gave evidence against Thompson was aged seventy-nine and had to be helped into the witness chair. He told the court he had obtained some photographs from Thompson and had written back saying he was thrilled with them.
"Why were you thrilled?" asked the Prosecutor. Because the girls were all in their undies," said the old degenerate, who was a rarity because he made no attempt to disguise his motives. "Sometimes there were very young girls being beaten, or being forced to submit to older Lesbians and old men or being forced to eat each other. I liked that the best. You see, your honor, I'm an old man, and I can't any longer get my pleasures in the usual way-I've seen too much, and I just can't get a hard-on regularly any more. So is it any too much to ask for an old man to get just a few pleasures more before life is taken from him?"
One of the models who gave evidence against Thompson was a local beauty queen, whom we shall refer to as Jacqueline. A tall, lissome brunette, she claimed to have originally met the accused at a high-school dance when she was just sixteen. She reported that Thompson was particularly taken with her unusually advanced and statuesque proportions.
"You see," said the penitent girl, "your honor, I wear about a size 42, C cup brassiere, and Thompson made a beeline for me the minute he saw me. I have to admit that when he took me home from the dance that night and undid my bra, and started sucking on my big tits, I-well, I guess I just lost my silly head. I'd never had a man suck on me before like that. Oh, a few boys had taken off my bra and felt me up, and pinched my big nipples-I kind of liked that. But they didn't have no nerve or imagination. So when this man started sucking on my titties-gosh, he had a way of doing it, of moving his tongue around and licking, and drawing in as much of my nipple and surrounding tit as he could, I thought he'd swallow it or I'd faint from it, or something. He really pinched my titties and sucked and everything, like nobody else had ever done to me before, not even my father-ooh, I shouldn't have said that. Anyway, he just drove me crazy, and the next thing I knew, he had his fingers in my panties and scratching through the hair between my legs, and finally sticking them up my cunt. Oooh, I'm squirming here in my chair just thinking about it ... I was so wet it was ridiculous, and he kept running his fingers in and out and all around, pinching the tip of my clit and kissing me with his open mouth in a way that no boy had ever attempted to do before. I must have come in seconds, all over his hand ... I guess I went with him for a couple of months after that, and he would just get me with his hand, and I'd come all over his car, and he never tried to screw me or anything, but he'd suck on my tits, and I could see he was a gentleman, and after a while, he asked me to pose for him as a kind of a lark, and I was just seventeen when I started posing.
"He started me right off posing in the nude. First off he'd suck on my tits for a while, so they'd stick up good and hard, and I'd get turned on so bad I'd do anything he asked me to, because I knew that if I was a good girl and did as he told me, he'd stick his fingers in me and let me blow off at the end of the session. So I started right off doing some real bad things. Once he gave me a script entitled Oh You Beautiful Doll in which I was a little girl in shortie dress and white panties who gets raped by an old man on her way home from school. Other times he had me pose for bondage pictures where I'm supposed to get beaten up by Lesbians. These are just fakes, of course, for the suckers. No one really gets beaten up in those things. If we did, we wouldn't be able to pose again, we'd be so bruised and cut. But he'd have me helpless and spread-eagled on a bed with some girl licking me, or taking a beating or something with whips' or something. He was just crazy for all that kooky stuff-I guess there was plenty of money in it. Oh, and he had me sucking on guy's cocks. I didn't mind that so bad-it was getting stuck in the rear-I have a real tight little ass, with small cheeks, and boy, it took a lot of doing and pain; it wasn't worth it, altogether. But I liked having my titties sucked-by men or women; it made no difference. And I liked sucking on cocks. Did you know every penis has an altogether different and identifiable taste? Some of them are really terrifically good and delicious. And sperm is all different, too, but it's all good. It's like a hot drink, and you never know what it's going to taste like-but good. And the Lesbian stuff is not really so bad. I remember he took one series of pictures with me and an eighteen-year-old married girl where we were supposed to be old school friends meeting on the street and disrobing each other and everything, and I tell you-that girl really licked my cunt, like it's never been licked before and never will be again. She was just terrific. I even fell in love with her a little, and we continued to meet after work hours just so we could kiss and feel each other's tits and lick each other off. But her husband finally got a job in another town and she had to move....
"Usually when we were posing, Thompson would read the script and give us directions as we went along-like what article of clothing we should take off next, and when we should begin feeling each other's tits, and that sort of thing...."
This girl was paid the fantastic fee of one hundred dollars an hour, which, to a teenager, is a considerable sum. "You looked on it merely as any other sort of employment?" asked Thompson's defense counsel. "You could have stopped at any time?"
"No, I couldn't stop going because I was afraid of him-I was afraid he'd stop licking my tits and sticking his fingers up inside of me. He also said that if I tried to stop posing, he'd send pictures of me to all of my family and to everyone at home I knew, and in particular have them shown around the factory where my dad works, which I guess he could have done pretty easily."
The married model, a girl by the name of Mary Turner, finally showed up at the hearings accompanied by counsel and her husband. She had changed her hair color from red to blonde and was smartly dressed. She told the court that she had initially gone to Thompson's studio with a friend who had done some work for him. "We first did a series for one of the men's magazines fully clothed," she testified. "But as we kept going, somehow the clothing kept getting less and less ... until I was all naked and doing things that make me shudder now...." Mary said that she was paid only twenty-five dollars an hour to pose, and that she had actually done it largely for her own enjoyment. This is a very rare admission in some cases.
The court took Mary Turner's testimony under advisement and released her. On the way out of the U.S. Circuit Court Building, her husband completely lost his head and began tearing her clothes off before dozens of horrified citizens. He kept screaming over and over, "You filthy bitch, you show your cunt to any son of a bitch with a few bucks, and I can't even get a lousy fuck from you once in a while!" He then proceeded to punch his wife's bare breasts and to beat her until sheriff's deputies could tear him away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Not all figure models are trusting little girls who go meekly to slaughter. Many women go into the business solely because it offers a lucrative living without too much work attached. Others do it for kicks. In many cases the women are well matured and even married. For example, there was Audrey Sutter, age forty-two, who posed on a part-time basis with Maureen Frazer, age twenty-seven. Both women were married.
In Mrs. Sutter's case, she was the wife of a corporation director, whose company sold steel for use in making railroad rails; she was also the mother of three teen-aged children. She later explained to police that she was bored as a housewife and hated the idea of growing old.
"My breasts were easily as big as those on that little tart who caused such a stir on Wall Street," she said, "and I didn't see why I shouldn't have some fun, too."
A man with whom Mrs. Sutter had been friendly with for some years before telephoned her one day and provided her with the illicit opportunity she'd been praying for. He asked her, "How would you like to come to a party and see a friend's vacation movies?" The suggestion was couched in innocent terms, but Mrs. Sutter understood the implication; she accepted at once.
"I had reached a stage in my life when I felt bored with the day-to-day routine," she explained later. "Having once been very attractive and sought after by men, I just couldn't accept the position of growing old gracefully. I know it's terrible, but I couldn't help it. Of course, I also had considerable interest to see just how such sordid types as Harry Bartlow lived. I thought it might be an interesting drinking party that would perhaps get just slightly naughty, if you know what I mean.
Audrey's acquaintance, Harry Bartlow, was a thirty-four year old car salesman as well as a part-time pornographer. He took her to a basement apartment in the upper east sixties of Manhattan. There she met a bookseller who was a principal in the racket and another man. They all had some drinks, and then some obscene photos were produced.
After more drinking, Bartlow said to Audrey Sutter, "Tell you what, why don't we take some pictures? You've got a pretty nice-sized bust there, Audrey, and I'll bet you're swell in the buff."
Mrs. Sutter pretended to be scandalized, but she fooled no one. It took only a few more drinks to get her to pose.
Audrey later told police: "By that time, I was feeling those drinks. I was frightened-but I was also flattered. No one had seen me in the nude except for my husband in twenty-four years."
Mrs. Sutter and the car salesman went into a bedroom and undressed. Then, according to the bookseller's directions, they posed for pictures which were taken by a third man present. A week later, she again went to the apartment and posed for more pictures, getting increasingly drunk and increasingly licentious in her behavior. After that, she went several more times by herself to indulge in photo poses. On one of these visits she met twenty-seven-year-old-Maureen Frazer, a schoolteacher who had been lured into posing in pretty much the same way. The two soon fell in love. "Maureen was a gorgeous little blonde with immense breasts," Mrs. Sutter told police authorities. "We would pose with her on my knee dressed in a little girl's outfit and hat, and I would reach into the bodice of her dress and pull out her breasts while she licked my ear and kissed my mouth and neck with her mouth wide open. I would run my fingers up to her panties under her little skirt, and the photographer would quickly wheel in for closeups of our faces kissing and the way I was touching Maureen. I was disgusted with myself, but I learned to love Maureen, and I seemed to become increasingly enmeshed, a difficulty from which I could visualize no exit. I had to have those moments with Maureen, licking her vagina or having my breasts sucked by her, or merely being able to kiss her beautiful mouth and stroke her long blonde hair. She was the most gorgeous, desirable woman I'd ever met. And, of course, this was my first Lesbian experience."
It has by now become apparent that blackmail is commonly used by the pornography merchants in order to keep their lambs in check. Thus in a 1962 case in West Hollywood, California, evidence was given by a twenty-one-year-old auburn-haired mother of two that when she went to a certain bookstore on Sunset Boulevard she was enticed to join a bottle party going on upstairs, where she was plied with liquor and then persuaded to remove her clothes while photographs were taken.
Later, she alleged in court, she was forced to pose nude again, in increasingly suggestive postures, with her legs spread, and her rather pendent breasts dangling over some man's mouth as she got on all fours and so on. She was told that if she refused, the pictures taken at the initial party would be sent to her husband. Under that threat, she had little choice but to pose. Altogether she took part in at least a dozen sessions of increasingly exaggerated obscenity. Each time she was threatened with exposure should she fail to show up.
But it is not always a male racketeer who leads a young girl into questionable positions. Recently a Denver newspaper publicized the story of a middle-aged schoolteacher whose wife and fourteen-year-old daughter had posed for striptease and nude photographs for a girlie pin-up magazine chain.
Shown the pictures by a reporter, the schoolteacher gasped in horror. He said, "I had no idea anything like that was going on. I knew my daughter, Beverly, had done some modeling for artistic studies, and I knew my wife went along to the studio and occasionally posed herself. But this is something different from what I expected. It takes my breath away."
The magazine in which the photos appeared was known as Connoisseur's Choice, and sold for two and a half dollars. The pictures to which the father took such horrified exception showed his blonde, thirty-five-year-old wife and her well-developed schoolgirl daughter posing together in a series of "getting undressed" studies. In the final picture they were completely nude.
There were also other studies available of this mother-and-daughter team. One series continued from the point where they had disrobed, showing the mother eating her daughter, the blonde teenager laying back on a bed spread-eagled, her huge breasts flopping to either side, her long blonde hair resting under her back and in strands over her shoulders and precocious bosom. The mother in this pose would be on all fours, her voluminous breasts hanging over the child, who would occasionally-caress them or be given them to suck. The nipples on the older woman were grotesquely huge and distended, surrounded by tremendous dark aureoles, even though she was blonde. When the mother ate her little girl, she would grip the child underneath the buttocks, spreading the cheeks slightly as she did so and insert a finger or two in the child's anus. Lifting her by both cheeks like this, the mother brought her face down and into the girl's blonde pubic hair, licking as she did so. She would lift the girl's buttocks off the bed and bury her lips and tongue in her vagina, licking and nibbling its sides and thrusting her tongue down the aperture as far as it would go.
By this time, of course, the mother's face was practically drowned in moisture. The oozing juice from the young girl's vagina had bathed her to the hairline, and this lava of sensuality also dripped off her chin and onto the sheets. It was easily the most disgusting display the author had ever seen. The mother was licking off her own daughter without the slightest compunction or embarrassment, concerned only with her own personal lust for pleasure and money, clenching and unclenching the young girl's buttocks in paroxysms of desire; fitting example of the moral decay and depravity so widespread beneath the refined surface of our society.
A Chicago firm had almost the complete monopoly on the offerings of this mother-and-daughter team. They supplied prints and films by mail order and also distributed items through a variety of shady bookstores around the country.
Some photographs were sent out to purchasers with a cover letter supposedly written by the mother. It read: "I hope you will like these photographs of Beverly and myself. Beverly is only fourteen and still in school, but I think you will agree she has a lovely figure."
The physical measurements of both mother and daughter were then stated, and the letter went on to offer further sets of pictures at ten dollars a set, described thusly: "Beverly and myself in black nylon stockings, Beverly by herself, accepting a man's penis from the rear, Beverly and myself in black, with Beverly being whipped; I'm in black leather garb, Rear penis entrance of both of us, Beverly sucking on a man's penis, Beverly and myself eating each other, Beverly being raped by a strange colored man, Beverly being raped by an old man, Beverly being raped by a young boy and being forced to suck on his penis, Beverly being raped by a Lesbian. Beverly and myself making love in a. variety of fashions, Beverly being raped by a Lesbian wearing a special male attachment, Myself in a set of close-ups where I fondle Beverly as she sits on my knee wearing a little girl's outfit."
The mother later indignantly denied that she had written such an advertisement or given permission for it. She claimed that both she and her daughter had been tricked into entering the nude model racket.
"Beverly started posing as the result of a chance conversation I had with the wife of a model agency proprietor," she tearfully told a reporter. "She said that they were looking for new faces and bodies and that Beverly was just the right blonde, full-busted type that men seemed to prefer.
"I went along as chaperone, and I must say I saw nothing objectionable in it-at first. All of the photographers behaved most properly.
"Beverly and I both thought it artistic and amusing, as well as profitable. I'd always wanted to bring more money into the household and Beverly needed funds for her college education. So when someone suggested that we could make still more money if I posed as well, well, I agreed to it.
"I certainly had no idea that the pictures were going to be distributed wholesale or published in pin-up magazines."
"Did you suppose that they were going to be shown only in grammar schools of foreign countries?" asked the reporter sarcastically.
This led to another spell of weeping, but when the woman was able to regain control of herself, she said, "Often the photographers promised us that they were only shooting photos from the waist up. That made it seem more acceptable, somehow. I don't understand anything about camera angles and things like that.
"But now that I see the sort of pictures they mailed out, of course, I shudder to think of the types of degenerates who are buying them. That such creatures are loose in our streets is no credit to anybody. Who knows whose daughter might become the victim of one of them?"
Which didn't explain how the mother and daughter had been coaxed into the fantastically obscene positions they had eventually consented to.
I went to see the man behind the organization that had handled them.
The individual in question was a commercial photographer who said he had done very well with the mother and daughter photos. "In fact they're the best line I've ever had," he said, jubilantly in his studio-office. "When little Beverly first came to my studio, she was attending a very fashionable girl's prep school, and she was in her school uniform, so of course she looked like a kid about ten years old. But when she took her clothes off-wow! Whoever decides which little girls should mature early gave her plenty of extra points. She had absolutely tremendous knockers that weren't soft in the slightest but hard and as firm as rocks. They were uptilted quite delectably into inverted rosy cones, at the tips of which were two pointy nipples that would harden on the slightest touch from any of us. It was a real pleasure and a treat to work with Beverly. Many a time I felt a hard-on coming on just looking at her, and I'd take a break back in my dark room with a little soap or hand cream and jack myself off until I blew all over the sink thinking about her."
"Then I take it that the Mrs. would never have considered letting you have anything to do with her."
He laughed. "Hell no, she was interested only in the money from posing. Even those stills we fixed up with some guy putting his penis in Beverly, you'll notice that it's only in a little of the way. That was because her mother absolutely insisted we be careful about breaking her hymen. She was saving Beverly for some rich kid; she had to stay a virgin for that."
He paused reflectively, "But boy, did she have the knockers. It was like two submarine torpedoes coming at you. When she turned to face me with that darling baby face of hers, all phony innocence and smiles and innocent, big baby-blues with long dark lashes, she'd point her big bazooms at me, sticking straight at me, and I wanted to suck on them something terrific; just grab them and feel them all over. And that long yellow hair really got me, too, right down to the crack in her ass. She was a gorgeous little girl, and we were plenty lucky to get her.
"The mother used to come with her, and I kind of got the feeling that she got her rocks off watching her daughter strip. Finally I suggested in a roundabout way that she might like to do a little posing herself, and pick up yet even more loot.
"At first she thought I was joking, but when I laid my cards on the table and made a concrete offer, she got the picture-and I got mine. Anyway, I'd kind of suspected that she'd had the hots for her little girl all along, and that all she needed was a good excuse to make it seem right in the kids eyes-and to make it seem okay to her own subconscious, too. What a bitch; you never know what goes on these days.
"Of course she didn't have tits like the kid had. Hers were more gigantic and soft, like a mother's should be. They must have been terrific when they were young and hard, but on the other hand that's just a personal preference. A lot of guys go ape over big tits with a lot of hang. That was what hers were like. She had big aureoles, altogether out of proportion, and once Beverly got to liking to suck on them again, it was like there had never been any years in between.
"I must have done a couple hundred series on the two of them, and each session they would get wilder and more relaxed, and willing to do most anything you asked of them-IF there was dough in it. I've got a strong hunch that they really just plain got a kick out of this sort of thing.
"The public went for their combination like hot cakes. Everyone likes something new, and with these two we were able to bring in practically the whole range of perverts, outside of male homosexuals. The Lesbians are crazy about them, and plenty of old men are, too. Plus every other slimy thing that's around these days-you won't tell my customers I said that, will you?"
"Of course not."
"Well, my wife and I used to write the come-on blurbs. Some of the stuff was relatively simple nudity, but if you've seen any of the advanced stuff, there was also plenty of that, too. If you know what I mean."
"We do."
CHAPTER NINE
A great many pornography dealers have jumped on the band wagon unleashed though the publication of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita and Terry Southern & Mason Hoffenberg's Candy. This cult requires models even younger than the schoolgirl Beverly.
Lolita was the story of a middle-aged man by the improbable name of Humbert Humbert and his romantic obsession for a schoolgirl, who also happened to be his stepdaughter. This book was banned in a great many countries but saw wide circulation in the United States and was portrayed in motion pictures with James Mason as the errant stepfather and Sue Lyons as the little teen-ager he takes to bed.
America's pornographers have discovered that there are plenty of depraved men around who would like to play Humbert Humbert. Men who, even if they do not actively prey on young girls, still find satisfaction in their warped minds in gazing on pornographic studies of such children.
So it has been common enough in recent years to find excessively young girls being lured into posing for such indecent photos which are sold in the thousands from back street shops or peddled by hawkers in vice dens.
One man recently sentenced in this sordid trade, now serving a prison sentence, brazenly admitted when questioned by a newspaper reporter, "Sure I'm in the dirty picture biz. What of it? Look, I got to screw a lot of these little dollies, too. That was worth more to me than the money. Just picture yourself grabbing some eleven year old's skinny legs-they don't have no tits at that age, mostly-and grabbing her ass and thighs, and jerking her legs wider and higher around your hips as you stick it into her. And smelling her fragrant young hair, and forcing her quivering mouth open when you kiss her. See what I mean? I'll bet you're getting, a hard-on right now. But I won't feel it, because these guards ... (i.e., These words were likely spoken not so much in veracity but to shock the reporter, as will be noticed in his following statements. )
"Where was I? Oh yeah, see, where there's a demand there's always got to be a supply. If I didn't satisfy it, somebody else would. That's statistics. I don't do no harm to nobody. The sort of morons who buy this stuff are ALREADY depraved by the time they get to me. I just fill a need, same as any merchant. Get me?"
This pornographer admitted that he had made a small fortune out of selling obscene pictures in which schoolgirls did figure posing. The girls' parents rarely had any inkling of what was going on, and the girls themselves were happy to make the ten dollars an hour, which seemed to them a small fortune.
Several years ago, Los Angeles police broke up a ring dealing in pornography from a central headquarters in the Wilshire district. The band was run by a former Navy captain, who admitted to being a transvestite and liked to pretend he was an old woman when he made love to little girls. Psychiatrists were unable to decide which category they should place him, and there were several votes for classifying him as a Lesbian. The man subsequently served a two year sentence.
When police raided his house, they found literally thousands of negatives of indecent pin-up pictures of a great variety of young models high school age and below. Apparently the captain had taken the liberty of placing ads for models in high school newspapers with considerable success. Some of the newspapers refused to accept the ads, but after he had learned to couch the wording in more careful terms, he was often able to make his requirements known to nubile and advanced young teen-agers with little difficulty. One of them, for example, went like this:
Inexperienced girls wanted for character studies. High pay. Send resume and photo to Mr.
James, Box 0-97.
Teen-aged girls are relatively sophisticated these days, and those who were attracted by the high pay were quick to size up the situation. There was rarely a question of having to lead them astray. They generally knew what they were doing well in advance of any indecent proposal on the part of the photographer. The captain advertised his studies as "Unretouched nude studies of little girls of the sort you like. Buy, sell or exchange."
To the police he made the following statement: "I am an art nudist and sun-bather. I began by taking artistic photographs in the usual way ... I have been taking such photos for seventeen years. I advertised to exchange my work with others, and eventually I received lewd photographs from a number of people.
"I put them on the fire for a long time before I realized that there was considerable money to be made in such things. I then began to pass on and exchange, both buying and selling, this kind of photography. I engaged a model, Joan Johnson, a beautiful little blonde Scandinavian-type with long, straight golden hair and a big bust, who posed for a series of photographs which I printed and sold for from ten to twenty dollars a set.
"Later I found other girls willing to pose, and I used male models with them. I suppose what I did was wrong in the ordinary way of looking at things and could be injurious to public morals, but I am essentially a Lesbian, although trapped in a man's body, and I couldn't resist these cute young things.
"I should like to point out, moreover, that I must deny that I corrupted the morals-so-called-of any of these children. Even the twelve year olds and eleven year olds could not have been made any worse by me. They were already horny little bitches with over-sized tits and vaginal needs that demanded that they make spectacles of themselves. They WANTED to show their bodies and do obscene things with strange men. Doing it for money was all a pose, because unconsciously they wanted to show themselves and to get obscene kicks. Some of these little girls frequently made passes at me, and thus could be accused of trying to seduce ME and lead ME down the primrose path. There was one little redhead who absolutely INSISTED that I fornicate with her with her riding on top and with her girlfriend-a colored girl with skin like coffee-leaning over my mouth so I could suck on her breasts. This was none of my own doing. The average little girl that you see on the street is very mature and worldly these days. I had nothing to do with their corruption; they came to me. The girls were all eager to pose and go as far as they could to make money."
Another angle in this booming business came to light a couple of months ago when police rounded up a relative newcomer to the trade who was circulating letters to prospective clients with an offer to have "your own pictures taken to order."
"I have a good camera," the circular stated. "Also lights and the use of a modern luxury apartment as a studio. I have also very lovely and cooperative young models.
"Now, you yourself are the only person in the world who knows just what you want to see. So you tell us just what you want. And we'll take photos or films exactly to your specifications."
Then followed a description of some of the models:
"Sheila, aged fifteen, long red hair, at present a cheerleader in her high school, so she likes to jump around a lot. Measurements 39-22-36 make her well worth watching. Unusual nipples and humped aureoles on her breasts with numerous little pimples. Don't let her age put you off. She has a very full body, plenty of experience, and a refreshing candor in her posing. She'll do most anything you ask. She's so athletic that she can split her legs and put them up around her neck.
"Valerie, aged nineteen, who was a typist for a little while, but realized that with her sultry, dark Cleopatra looks and eye-catching figure she could typewriter. But she'll pound whatever you ask her make a lot more money posing than pounding a to. And like it.
"Jean is a married teen-ager who has always had a secret yearning to be a model, and has shown us a very special talent for inviting and seductive studies. Her favorite is getting together with women or very old men, the older the better. She has long blonde hair and rosy full nipples on her over-sized, gravity-defying breasts. Her pubic hair is naturally golden. She especially appreciates being allowed to pose with a penis in her rear end."
The circular concluded, "All you have to do is ask for the girl or girls you want, whether you want them nude, semi-nude, stripping or in special costumes. Please give full instructions-don't be shy! We exist only to please you!"
In recent years a great many girls who come to Hollywood seeking motion picture success have been lured into another form of the pornography racket that is currently booming-the production of "blue" films. This has lately become a big business with an annual turnover running into many millions of dollars.
Unlike the pin-up photographers, the men working the "blue" film trade do not operate in back streets. The studios for current racy films that are flooding the pornography market these days are usually set up on very fancy estates in exclusive neighborhoods.
The sets are extensive and spacious. The technicians are usually highly trained professionals straight from the movie colony, who do this sort of thing to supplement their salaries, or they might be merely, top amateurs who do it for kicks.
As for the talent, the young and attractive model or starlet who is to appear before the hot lights, usually a glamorous party is thrown specifically for the purpose of snaring her.
She is plied with drinks on these spacious grounds. A personable and handsome male, possibly a minor movie star with some financial involvement in the film, will coax her to do things she shouldn't. And all the time a secret camera hidden behind a one-way mirror is whirring merrily away at such pulchritude being debauched.
When the girl is shown the filmed evidence, shown herself sucking off the movie star whose face has been conveniently eliminated from the film, shown herself being sodomized, horror turns swiftly into resignation. From there it's child play to persuade her to do it all again-for money this time, which will sometimes reach one thousand dollars a performance. She has gotten a better deal than she deserves.
No such elaborate preparations are necessary to acquire a male lead for these productions. On street comers all over Hollywood there are to be found young, good-looking louts more than happy to show off their bodies in obscene rites, and ready to play a filmed role-anything to get on the screen-for next to nothing.
The films, when completed, may be sold to wealthy connoisseurs who collect them for as much as five thousand dollars per film. Some copies go to yet other racketeers who put on private showings to male audiences paying twenty dollars and more PER SEAT.
The audiences are found by touts who haunt the streets of any major city looking for tourists or anyone else willing to pay to see a really hot show. A newspaper investigator who was approached by a tout one night on Hollywood Boulevard recently wrote a series of articles dealing with the world of underworld pornography. He reported his experience with the stag film gathering in some detail:
"A film projector operated by a young man about eighteen was mounted on a table. The boy wore a yellow bandana around his neck, and his fly seemed to be constantly open. A long, very thick, heavily veined penis occasionally hung out through the opening. It was easy to see that many of the men at the gathering had eyes for him. They would constantly watch him. Occasionally he would giggle and stuff the penis back into his trousers; he was teasing constantly. I wouldn't have been surprised to see one of those men get down on his knees and suck him off. I understand that some of the men afterward were allowed to do this-for a special extra fee.
"The screen was on the opposite wall over a chest of drawers. The operator asked me for twenty dollars, which I paid him. He told me that two of the films were new and had only been bought, at one thousand dollars each, several days before. I replied that that was exactly what I wanted to see-stuff that was very up-to-date and no fooling around. He winked and said that there wasn't any question I'd be pleased, and that if I wanted he'd sell me a handkerchief to wipe the come out of my shorts with.
"I sat for about two hours watching the films, which could only be described as disgusting. There was one in which a small girl of about ten years old-wholly without any sort of breasts as yet, and with scarcely a trace where her pubic hair would someday be-was coaxed into fornication with her ardent middle-aged father, who had come home from work early specifically for the purpose of catching the girl before her mother arrived home.
"First he caught the child and pretended to be merely swinging her playfully through the air, her blonde hair flying all over and her short skirt going well up to the tops of her thighs as she laughed delightedly, innocuously rubbed the sides of his hands, as if accidentally, into her cranny.
"'There you go, my pretty darlin',' he called out. It was apparent, after a few minutes of this, the little girl was becoming wet between her legs. At her early age how was she to suspect the kind of change that was coming over her? There were close-ups of her moistening panties as the ooze gradually spilled out and coated her thighs. The father's hand continued to rub-accidentally.
"Finally he suggested a little parlor game. They would take off their clothes before mummy came home and soap each other in the shower. Blushing, but trusting her father, the little girl agreed.
"Once he had his clothes off there was no disguising the fact that he was stiff as a pike. It was obvious the little girl had never seen anything like that before. Mystified, she stood like a hypnotized rabbit as, dropping all pretense, the father came over, grabbed her strongly by the shoulders, and pressed her undefined young mouth open in a long, tongue-probing kiss.
"The girl was obviously out of her depth. He put his fingers between her legs and tickled her vagina until she seemed no longer capable of standing. 'Oh, papa ... ' she breathed, her eyes closing, her young mouth offering itself to be kissed again.
"What little girl doesn't usually have a strong attachment for her father? As his fingers tickled her, her juices spilled out over his hand. 'Come on, let's go to mama and papa's bed and play a game.' The child absently fondled his tremendous penis, obviously in a daze, as he led her into the bedroom, murmuring over and over again, 'Oh papa ... Oh, papa ... '
"Once in the bedroom, the father went quickly to a bureau drawer for some vaginal jelly. He pressed the little blonde girl back down onto the bed onto her golden hair and pushed the jelly with his fingers between her legs. She began moaning and weaving from side to side in a sort of delirium. And then he grabbed her hips and pulled her towards him.
"She must have been a very unusual child, or perhaps he just used a lot of jelly, for she accepted his tremendous staff easily, and he entered her in a rush, without much probing at all, that huge thing into her right up to the hilt. He bit her throat and licked her ear and forced her mouth open again in a series of shattering, passionate kisses, and continued screwing her, in and out on that long pike, her come spilling all over the bed. His finger felt around for her anus and he stuffed it in up to the second knuckle-shown in close-ups-and he continued to have sex with the child until she moaned wildly and shook back and forth like an impaled animal, and a great gust of air shuddered out of his body, and it was obvious that he had really come inside of her; nobody could have ACTED a scene like that one.
"She screamed continuously, 'Oh, papa ... papa, papa ... Oh, papa ... I'm ... I'm ... oooooooooooyeeeeeeeeeeeh!
"There was very little blood.
"And this was just one of the films. During the show, a number of other male customers paid their entrance fee and came in.
"When we left, we were told that if further entertainment was required, special services could be arranged. A bevy of teen-age girls appeared on the scene, several blondes, a redhead, and a couple of brunettes. One of them had the most fantastic cantilevered breasts I've ever seen; it was apparent that she wore no bra under her tight yellow sweater, and every move she'd make, those two huge pears would bob and tremble in a way that was obviously driving the rest of the men crazy. It wasn't long before a number of them paid the extra charges and disappeared into nearby bedrooms with the girls. I learned also that the boy projectionist was available, and a man of about fifty-five went off with his arm around him."
Another undercover agent for a magazine syndicate was invited to see some stag films after he had browsed for a while in a bookshop catering to perverts. He was given a name and a phone number to contact, which he did. After describing himself, he was given a time and instructed to wait by a bus stop on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.
After waiting five minutes by the bus stop, a flashy red Cadillac convertible rolled to a stop at the curb. A smartly dressed middle-aged man told him to get in.
"It's not far," the man told him as they drove down Sunset Boulevard. "I can't be too careful-the fucking cops in this town are driving me nuts. There ought to be something in the Constitution to keep them in line. They're bastards. No sooner set up in one place than they crack down on you in an other." He looked over at the agent, "What line of work you in?"
Laughing, the customer replied, "I'm an undercover reporter for a group of magazines. Why?"
The man only grinned sourly: "I don't give a fuck who you are, so long as you're not a cop. Jesus ... even if you were a reporter, I wouldn't mind one of them telling the country how the cops mistreat us. We're just free enterprisers trying to make a living. It's strictly in the Constitution and part of the American system. We don't hurt nobody ... Christ ... We provide services, and we do business. We're just capitalists like everybody else. I hate those rotten commies. Shoot all of them if I could. Bang, bang, bang! Like that. Bastards. But we're not commies. We're just businessmen like everybody else. Do I look like a commie to you?"
Later on the man explained, "I always give my customers the once-over. If a guy looks like a nut or a kook or a pinko or has a beard, or if he looks like a tough guy or a trouble-maker, we won't approach him. I run a nice clean family show. A little far out, but we stay clean.
"I don't like trouble. Word gets around and it's bad for business. That's thirty bucks for the whole show. You can get stuff for twenty, but not like we run 'em. You'll see. You won't regret it. You get just what you pay for-and that's plenty."
After parking, the pair walked along for about a quarter of a mile into Beverly Hills and came to a road full of neo-Hollywood-Spanish-Jewish homes. Fifty yards down the road, the exhibitor ushered his client through a gate and they climbed a dozen steps to the door of a five-story house set far back from the street and surrounded by gardens.
The house was expensively decorated inside, and the client followed his companion along a hallway into a well-furnished sitting room. A radio played soft music that seemed to swell throughout the house. On the wall over the radio was a four-by-five screen. On a large oak table in the middle of the room was a projector.
"Siddown and make yourself comfortable," said the host. "I won't be a minute."
The man returned with three reels of film. He quickly set up the first one, turned up the radio and put out the lights. The projector whirred and clicked and flashed white across the screen. Finally some numbers appeared backward and upside down on the screen.
"Watch this," said the proprietor with a knowing smile.
A title flashed across the screen: Teen Pick-ups.
In back of the title, in color, was the scene of a high school campus with students coming out of classes. Girls are walking along in tight mini-skirts, pony tails bouncing on their backs, holding books tightly against their upraised breasts.
Suddenly a long, sleek red Cadillac convertible pulled up alongside a pair of girls at the curb. The top is down and inside is a middle-aged man of indeterminate size.
The agent was surprised to find that the film was in sound-this was the extra attraction he was paying for.
The man said; "Hop in, girls. Beautiful day. Look at that sky. Blue as the inside of an eggshell. How would you like to go for a spin? Or maybe I can give you a lift home? I'm driving your way."
The two girls look at each other in bewilderment. One is a gorgeous blonde with tremendous breasts pointing out the front of her blouse, the other is a brunette with straight black hair that goes down to her waist. She's wearing a tight red sweater covering over-sized breasts, a black leather skirt and black leather boots.
"Gee, Francine, do you think we should?" says the blonde.
The brunette looks doubtful, but finally she agrees-but only as far as the beach. From there on, they'll take a bus.
But on the way the man starts to make small talk. The girls learn that he is a motion picture producer working on the studio-scene lots. This really sits well with them, and they get him to talk about some movies he has in the works or that he's thinking of casting. One can see their pretty young eyes lighting up with dollar signs, like cash registers ringing up a sale. They inch closer to him in the front seat of the convertible. The brunette inadvertently drops her hand on his thigh, as if by accident, and through close-ups we can see that her fingers are resting on the soft bulge of his penis. Both girls hitch up their skirts so that he can get an eyeful of luscious, Southern California sun-warmed thighs, almost to the crotch.
He suggests casually that it's still a young, beautiful day and perhaps the girls would like to stop by his beach house for a cool drink. The girls agree somewhat hesitantly, but he beams in a friendly fashion, and they seem to relax.
They arrive at a gorgeous beach house at Malibu overlooking the waves and rocks. Far out to sea gulls circle over the waters. The house is beautifully set on a cliff side, propped up by huge wooden beams. The group goes inside.
Going behind the bar in the spaciously appointed living room, the man begins to mix drinks and bids the girls to make themselves more comfortable. He gestures towards a bedroom in the rear. "I've got some nighties and robes in there if you'd really like to do some lounging."
The girls shake their heads and look edgy again. He passes them their drinks and goes to the expensive hi-fi where he puts on some music. After a minimum of small talk, he asks the blonde to dance. She is obviously feeling somewhat high, and he's been so nice that she can't refuse him.
As they dance, he grips her ever closer, and whispers into her ear, "Christ, I'd like to fuck you. You dirty little blonde bitch, I'd like to ram my cock right up into your cunt, and into your ass, and see you suck me off with all that beautiful blonde hair of yours falling around my belly."
"MR. JONES!" she exclaims, as she tries to pull away, but he's holding her much too tightly. Her huge young breasts mash against his barrel chest, his hardened penis presses savagely into her crotch and he rubs his hips back and forth. His mouth presses against her golden little shell-like ear as he whispers these filthy things.
The brunette has gone back of the bar to fix another drink. She appears somewhat warm, and begins to undo the front of her taut sweater and do a little dance as she takes a drink, humming to herself and spinning around. Then she brings another drink up to the blonde as the music stops, and forces her to gulp it right down as the man begins to undo the blonde's blouse and feel her breasts. First he squeezes her breasts on the outside, then as the blouse comes open, he can scarcely resist plunging into her bra and grabbing big handfuls of her immense globes, which he mauls savagely.
"Mr. Jones!" she cries again.
By now the helpless girl's cherry red nipples have reached full stature. He pinches them brutally as he caresses the satiny whiteness of her trembling breasts, pulling each one out in turn and finally bending his head to suck, drawing deeply.
The brunette forces another drink down the blonde's throat. By now her clothes are half gone, and she can scarcely stand. The beast of a man is pawing her sixteen-year-old flesh, mauling her buttocks, squeezing her bosom, licking her throat and neck all over, licking her ears and rubbing his penis ever harder against her crotch. She tries to struggle against him, but the brunette keeps forcing drinks on her. She screams out in terror and beats him on the head with her fists, but by now his primitive attack has become a fury. He mauls her body all over, tears savagely at her mini-skirt, uttering furious guttural sounds. His hand strikes up between her legs, scratching the hair under her panties. He rips at the panties and they come off in his hands. Then he runs his fingers through her pubic hair as if it were money, inserting an index finger, briefly rubbing her clit. The brute has become so incensed by this time that he is tearing at his own clothes as well, opening his trousers swiftly to reveal his jerking, growing penis, full of ugly blue veins and of tremendous width and power. A spot of semen drips from the head of his penis to the carpet.
"Francine! Stop him! He's crazy!"
But it's too late for that. The brunette by this time has also had a great deal to drink, and she begins examining her blonde friend's breasts, finally pulling on one of them and bringing the nipple into her mouth. Her slim, long-nailed fingers begin to probe down into the blonde's pubic region; the brunette blows in her ear and licks the other girl's neck.
By now the blonde is in a rout. She is but a helpless slave to the two evil forces who have chosen to degrade her. They caress her further, ripping off all of her clothes and their own, pinching her hobbling breasts, grabbing her buttocks in huge handfuls, probing her anus with their fingers. Finally they drag her to a nearby divan, where the man licks her between the legs, then mounts her from the front, spreading her shivering thighs wide apart as he enters her.
"Francine! Help me!"
But the brunette only comes and pins the other girl's arms behind her head so that she can't struggle, then plants an overpowering kiss on the helpless child's open mouth.
Shortly the man begins to shudder his ejaculation into the teen-aged blonde. In the session following, he mounts her from the rear, pressing her face into the divan and oiling up her anus with moisture from her vagina. He spreads her cheeks wide apart and forces himself home. The helpless girl screams in pain and tries to wriggle away. Beneath her huge hanging bosom the brunette is feeling, mauling and sucking on each enormous breast in turn.
"Oh God! It hurtssss-it huuuurrts!"
But the man continues to screw her, heedless of her pitiful pleas for mercy.
In other scenes the blonde has finally subsided into willing compliance. She strokes and sucks the middle-aged man's penis, or licks her girl-friend's vagina while the brunette is sucking on the man's penis. It is some time before the man finally becomes deflated for good. Then he gazes at his limp sexual organ and murmurs, puzzled, "I can't understand it-worked fine at rehearsal this morning...." And the picture is over.
The film over, the undercover agent was offered a drink. "No extra charge," said the pornographer cheerfully. Remembering the lesson of the film, his client declined.
CHAPTER TEN
The first film was carefully rewound. Then the second was projected. Featuring a blonde and a colored girl wearing only mask and black leather outfits, it had been made in Pasadena, California. It was full of whippings and the licking of leather boots prior to Lesbian perversions and the licking of vaginas.
The third film was British-made. It featured a man and woman, a brunette and a blonde, but this time there was also a German shepherd in the film. The title was: Held in Bondage.
It featured the blonde, a very virginal looking teen-ager being forced by the brunette and an old man to accept the German shepherd's red penis into her rear. It opened with the blonde being waylaid on her way home from school and taken to a huge castle, where she was chained and strung up in manacles, then whipped fiercely across her tremendous and fully-developed breasts until she wept for mercy. At this, the brunette showed up with the dog, which she had been out walking. Upon seeing the blonde so helpless and enslaved, she insists that the man allow the child to be a morsel for her Ger man shepherd. He consents and the brunette-a very mature woman-begins stroking the dog's penis and eventually gets under its belly to lick that lengthening member, finally sucking on it.
By then, the man has released the helpless teenager from the wall and forced her to bend over. The dog's mistress guides it towards the waiting child, and it mounts her easily, tongue wagging and drooling, tail wagging with delight. This is all in color and in sound. As with the other films, it lasts about twenty minutes.
"I've had a busy day," said the host as he carefully rewound the last film. "But I don't take more than four people at a time. Can't be too careful. I've got some nosy neighbors. If they saw a large number of people visiting the house, it would be asking for trouble.
"I've got a good clientele, though. They come pretty regularly-if you know what I mean. That's the sort of business I try to encourage. I pay a lot for my films to see I get the best-but that's the only way to run a business.
"A contact down in Hollywood gets them for me. You can get anything out here. Some of the stuff comes from abroad. You can get anything in the world from Scandinavia-those people have no hangups. But most of the good stuff is still made right here. These little girlies who come out as beauty contest winners to become movie stars are always ripe for plucking. I like best the cheerleaders from college campuses-they have the nicest tits. Love to see 'em jump up and down when I put 'em through their paces. Know what I mean?
"Of course you have to buy some dogs sometimes in order to get the best films-some are sold in lots. I've got a pretty good collection, though. Bring your pals next time. I get new stuff almost daily. If you need a towel or anything, you can masturbate in the next room. I've got a selection of creams in there, hair cream or whatever you prefer. Heh, heh, but don't get carried away or you'll shoot all over the hidden camera. Heh, heh."
"Yeah. Heh, heh."
One typical story of how wealthy men make use of figure models for their own private shows has been told time and time again.
In 1967 a bevy of beautiful girls were victimized by an unexpected development when they agreed to take part in some pornographic film-making on the Long Island country estate of a world-famous millionaire. What eventually occurred threatened to a large degree their careers as figure models and almost cost them their freedom as well.
The situation stemmed from the erotic fancies of a wealthy but depraved builder of cities and famous office buildings. He would spend each weekend in seclusion on his one-hundred-and-twenty-acre estate, accompanied by some twenty-five or so female guests. These girls were usually quite young and nubile, taken from high schools in the surrounding area, but occasionally there was an older woman or more among them, for variety. The women were built in a variety of ways, but most usually they filled out their sweaters fairly well, and wore their hair-in a variety of colors-rather long. Even these quite young teen-agers were usually well known figure models and portrayed in the men's magazines they were photographed for as being "eighteen,"
"nineteen," or "twenty." The stories written around their gorgeous young bodies often spoke of them as being of college age and studying philosophy or something equally stupid, or of their being young Hollywood starlet hopefuls. The reason for this being the wide variety of censorship pressures that prohibited magazines from using photos of very young figure models or admitting their true ages.
Some of these girls had faces and bodies that turned up regularly at newsstands across the country; others had beautiful faces, as well, and were frequently seen on the covers of Seventeen, Good Housekeeping, True Confessions, Glamour, and the like.
For joining the millionaire on his weekend the girls received a standard fee of two hundred dollars a day. For that they had to parade around the house and grounds naked as the day they were born. One of this host's numerous perversions was that he liked to be surrounded and engulfed by unclad beauty.
This man actually lived the kind of life every sailor dreams of after-weeks at sea on a slow tramp east of Samoa. He would wake up and stretch on his vast bed in the master bedroom of his three-hundred-thousand-dollar mansion, which was set like a Palace of Versailles on the velvet-green lawns of his sprawling estate. Then he would ring for breakfast.
In a few minutes it would be brought to him by two of the most luscious, full-busted creatures the mind of man could envision. They would come tripping in, one bearing the breakfast tray, the other bearing only herself-both completely nude.
The beauty with the tray, usually a redhead, would perch herself on one side of the master's bed. The other curvaceous charmer, usually a brunette or brownette or an oriental, would curl up in a nearby chair with the sensuous grace of a prize kitten while the master ate his breakfast.
Once he'd finished with the formality of eating, the two breakfast servitors would sway out of eye range-the brunette usually pulling his penis out of pajama bottoms and giving it one swiping lick before departing-and this country squire would rise to the challenge of the weekend.
It was quite a challenge. For as he strolled about the grounds of his private fairyland, his eyes were continually brightened with the visions of nymph-like nudes cavorting with each other, either by one of his several pools or fountains or playing nude on the tennis court or chasing each other through the bushes with long hair flying in the wind, or merely lying back on warm grass in the sunshine to have an open vagina licked by an energetic feminine tongue.
Smaller girls were being chased and raped by the more dominant. Virgins quivered. Women with huge breasts and clutching hands grabbed at teen-aged girls and dragged them off for love-play in the sunshine. Each female was a perfect jewel, in her own way. They were petite and medium and tall, large-busted, firm-busted and reserved. Tipped with huge aureoles full of rosy pimples or none at all, or dark black nipples. Girls of every race and description and hair color.
And so our depraved millionaire sported, feasted his eyes throughout the weekend, and as the spirit moved him, would merely grab any child or woman that caught his fancy and feast his penis as well.
At the same time, however, he was not quite satisfied to merely gaze on his weekend guests on Saturday and Sunday. There were days and nights of the week as well during which he thought it would be pleasant to preserve the excitement of the previous weekend.
So he introduced expert photographers into his weekend idylls, usually photographers well-known to the men's magazine groups and trusted by the figure models. He paid them handsomely-in more ways than one-to record on film some of the unique sights and activities that took place on the estate.
Of course this man intended the films only for his private delectation-but the films-in processing and so forth-passed through several different hands, and inevitably someone recognized their value and took steps to cash in.
It was some time later that officers of the vice squad of the New York Police Department discovered that both stills and films featuring the millionaire's model guests were being sold by the thousands under-the-counter in the smut shops of Forty-second Street.
The pictures quickly came to the attention of certain shrewd operators who recognized the girls who were cavorting with such abandon in the supposedly private sylvan setting. It did not take long then for the girls to be threatened with blackmail.
Some of the girls, believing they had been double-crossed and refusing to be blackmailed went to the police. And so the whole despicable affair came to light-including full details of the millionaire's weekend pleasure palace.
It has been established that private automobiles and trucks leave New York and Los Angeles daily, loaded with thousands of pornographic photographs of figure models for distribution on a national scale. Certain specialty reprint shops located on both coasts are reprinting astronomical numbers of single prints. Clearly the pornography trade in America has become a multi-million dollar business, which seems to have only miraculously escaped encroachment by the organized leaders of syndicated crime.
Similarly, the discovery that many of America's top models are involved deeply in the pornography racket has sparked severe demands for a crackdown from coast to coast. In just recent weeks a slew of book and art shops have been closed down by police agents, and over two hundred thousand photographs and motion picture films have been seized.
It has been estimated that pornography in America has a gross turnover of three hundred and ninety million dollars from all levels of society. Like narcotics, "porno" has become a big business.
As for the foreign merchandise, customs agents admit that they probably only detect a fraction of all the lewd films that are brought into America concealed in the false bottoms of trunks, sewn into the linings of clothes or rolled tightly into holes hollowed out in the heels of shoes.
Trying to cope with domestic as well as foreign smut has become a gargantuan task for law enforcement officials. Detectives find that customers come from all walks of life. In New York, for example, school children are pooling nickels and dimes from their lunch money to buy nude pin-ups and worse that are priced from one to fifteen dollars. The children then bring the pornography to the school lavatories, where they sit around masturbating in private or in front of each other, or masturbate or suck on each other in their eagerness to get every possible shock value and thrill from their purchase. To school children, money such as the price of pornography must be milked of every last possibility. Which is one of the reasons that immorality among our youngsters is increasing by leaps and bounds.
A recent Federal survey of pornography reported: "Local police find that teen-agers are being corrupted by pornographic material that descends to incredible depths of depravity and perversion. They conduct raids, seize films, arrest vendors, but find that they have only clipped a miserly outer fringe of a racket that has more tentacles than an octopus. The sale of pornography produces two promoters for every one who falls afoul of the law."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Not long ago a special committee of the United States Senate investigated the sale of pornographic films and photo studies throughout the country. During one session, they listened to a Catholic priest who had worked extensively with youth groups in several major cities. Father Donovan reported on talks with large numbers of young girls, both white and colored, who had been lured into acting as models for indecent pictures.
Repeatedly the girls told the same commonplace and sordid story. A teen-age high school girl, sexy of figure, fresh of face and feature, and already something of a delinquent, would play truant from school. She would be sitting in a milk bar or coffee shop when a dapper, smooth-talking stranger would glide up behind her, tell her how overwhelmed he was with her beauty, and remind her of just how many film stars and models had been discovered in just such a fashion.
By the time the salesman had finished his line, the bemused girl would have agreed to pose in the nude for a series of pictures in order to determine just how photogenic she was.
"For five or ten dollars these professional operators obtain a negative which they can print thousands of times and distribute all over the country," Father Donovan told the Senate sub-committee.
Describing the effect of such revealing and stimulating art poses on the young, the priest added, "No teenager-no priest, in fact-unless he has ice-water in his veins, could look at this material and not be affected by it. A boy then shows the picture to his girl; she too, has to be affected. And then they go off to some secluded parking area to consummate their grossly stimulated and lurid desires."
Even worse than the nude stills are the pornographic films. Father Donovan testified that youngsters often told him of seeing such depraved movies at teen-age parties in homes where girls were supposed to be baby-sitting.
Additional evidence regarding such films was given by a vice squad inspector in Washington. He gave details of a raid his men had made on a dance studio where pornographic films were regularly shown. Tickets were sold to teen-aged boys and girls at ten dollars each.
"I did it only to get ideas," reported one taffy-haired lass.
When police arrived they found an audience of nearly two hundred young people in various stages of undress, children who ranged anywhere from eleven to twenty. Older boys were systematically mauling exceedingly young girls and trying to rip their clothes off. Older girls were providing a similar angle from the Lesbian viewpoint, and a number of the older girls were forcing the ultra-young boys to submit to having their balls licked and penises sucked.
The eighteen hundred feet of movie films, inspected carefully by police later, depicted scenes that one detective declared later "were the filthiest I've ever seen."
The depraved nature of the film made it almost impossible for witnesses to describe it. The detective on the case reported that it had been shown to an adult audience of local civic leaders and churchmen in Washington "as an example of what the police are fighting." But its contents were such, he said also, that "quite a few members of the audience actually vomited after viewing it."
It seems to be common, now days, for many models to be inveigled into prostitution in some form or another. A racket has even developed among fashion models, where some designing houses expect them to entertain important customers-to make themselves available for sex relations if the customers so desire.
But this racket has also spread to businesses that have no relationship with modeling. Most American companies believe that nothing helps business like being nice to big customers, and in this modem world with its complaisant attitude towards casual sex, being nice has come to mean providing girls to sleep with, and indulge in perversions with, the biggest customers.
So great has become the demand for this kind of service that many former figure models have dropped all pretense of modeling for a living and become high-priced call girls in the service of big business. However, as the customers who are pandered to often get particularly excited at the thought of making love to a figure model, these crossovers usually still pose as such, and are introduced as figure models to the businessmen who will mar their beauty.
Full details were given in a Manhattan court, not long ago, when two public relations officers of one of America's largest corporations faced prosecution under the Mann Act, which forbids the transportation of girls from one state to another for immoral purposes.
In this case the two figure models-Nella and Pat-had been transported from New York to neighboring New Jersey where dealers who handled the company's products-electrical appliances-were holding a convention. They were subsequently allowed to hold the girls and handle them, as well.
Nella and Pat were booked in a hotel suite, and the word went around that two New York models were giving their all for electrical progress.
Any dealer who felt like investigating this theory was welcome in the girls' suite, and allowed a choice of Nella and Pat depending on availability. If both girls were available, he could easily find himself pawing two pairs of young breasts at once. Evidence was also given showing that, on some occasions, the girls went out to visit and enliven other parties. They were usually paid two hundred dollars a night.
As saleswomen, the girls' lawyer said in court, they gave the company its money's worth. He told of one occasion when two big dealers were brought to the suite:
"In the course of the evening, orders were written for seven truckloads of merchandise. Later one of the customers cancelled four truckloads, then called up and asked Nella for a date.
"But she told him, 'You can't come to see me unless you reinstate the order you originally made.' The order was speedily reinstated, and at a subsequent party Nella was also instrumental in selling another nine truckloads of electrical appliances."
Many figure and fashion models in New York accept prostitution as a profitable sideline. Two who had been working all day modeling in a wholesale fur house were recently asked if they would like to provide sex accommodation for visiting buyers. The girls agreed, and one of them described the transaction thusly:
"We went though a room where rows of full-length fur coats, jackets, capes and stoles were hanging and then into a smaller room where the five slugs sat around drinking Scotch and water and other drinks.
"I was handed a drink. The two men on the couch moved over, and I squeezed in and sat between them. The leather was broken in several places and the springs had popped through. I found myself balancing on several steel coils.
"One of the other men sitting opposite suddenly jumped up and began to undress. I watched him in fascination. First his penis, which was long and thick, sprang out, surrounded at the base by all that frizzy hair. It waved in the air like a snake doing a little dance. As I watched it, the men on either side of me were opening my blouse and reaching in for big handfuls of tit. They pulled my tits from my bra individually and rolled and pinched my big dark nipples in their fingers. One of them bent his head to suck, and I found myself caressing the back of his neck.
"Meanwhile, the man across the way had completely undressed. He had a terrifically big penis, and he stepped forward only a few steps, put his hands into my hair and pulled my head forward. I didn't need anyone to draw me a picture-I've sucked plenty cock in my time. I took the whole thing into my mouth, almost to the base, with his cock hair tickling my nose. That requires a lot of know-how and experience. Then I softly closed la; lips and tongue all around it.
"It was delicious. His penis had a special taste, maybe from being in his sweaty drawers all day. And I sucked him with a lot of saliva, just felt the skin slip sweetly in and out of my mouth like a smooth log.
"The other two men, meanwhile, had gotten most of my clothes off and were rubbing my crotch with their fingers and feeling my tits. I didn't need no coaxing-they had me hot in a hurry. The stuff was just dripping onto their hands. Finally one of them pushed me backward. The guy I'd been sucking on-his cock whipped out of my mouth-insisted that he was first and they got into a little argument, but finally the guy I'd been sucking got to have me first. They spread my legs real wide-gosh, I thought they were going to break them-and he came down and rammed me. He had a big one, so we were a little tight. But I kept on juicing and juicing and finally that big log rammed all the way up inside me. Jesus, it was good! I hadn't been screwed since the previous Monday, and I was plenty hot.
"He continued to drive and plunge it back and forth, and he grabbed my ass and worried me from side to side. I don't remember much after that, because I kind of lost my head, it felt so crazy. A man can't know what it's like, but a girl feels tingles and stuff right down into her toenails. It's like you're being electrocuted.
"Well he buried his face in my hair, and with him screwing me and the other two guys sucking on my tits, I must have blew off just about the same time he did. I could feel all of his jizz splash inside of me, and it was a real good, warm feeling, just like you're being filled up with juice, and I would have liked to been able to swallow it at the same time.
"When he took his prick out, all of that juice-or most of it anyway-spilled out onto the couch, and one of the other guys hurried to lap it up. Then they didn't let me get up, but this other guy, the one who liked to swallow come-ugh!-he straddled me and stuffed his penis in between my tits. I pressed them together for him, and he rode and masturbated his cock right in between my tits and shot his jizz right up on my chin. Did you ever hear anything so crazy? I was really convinced I was with some screwballs.
"The third guy insisted that I bend over, on my knees and press my face into the couch and part my ass cheeks so he could worm inside them. He greased me with the come from my own cunt, just stuffed it all inside my rectum, washing the walls, as it were, until I was plenty juiced back there. Then he split my ass cheeks apart with his fingers, bent down and licked my anus, which sent a shiver clear up my spine into the back of my head. Then he pushed his skinny prick into me.
"He had a real skinny, long one-like a dog's-don't ask me how I know-so it went up real far and pretty easy. He didn't saw me like a carpenter the way most ass-fuckers do, but instead he'd kind of .wave it from side to side and clip my walls with piercing little stabs and jerks. He must have clipped a gland or a nerve I didn't even know I had back there, he was so long, because in no time at all I was on the glory trail and screaming and crying and clawing, and I had another orgasm and climaxed about ten times better than the first. Wow. He was some ass-fucker."
American business executives who use models and other girls to curry favor with visiting clients and buyers argue that expense account lunches, theatre tickets, liquor and even accommodations are cheerfully provided, and accepted as legitimate business expense by the Internal Revenue Service, so why not the additional entertainment for the visitor languishing in his lonely hotel room after the day's business has been concluded?
Large companies now have special executives, in fact, who handle this special service for out-of-town clients-and the clients in turn have come to accept this treatment as one of the fringe benefits of a trip to New York and other cities. The executives in question usually are part of the corporation's public relations staff, earning between twenty and forty thousand dollars yearly. They have been termed "the pimps in the gray flannel suits."
More often than not, the girls they use are working figure models-or at least call themselves such. Although the biggest part of their incomes may come from geisha-like attendance on some important businessman followed by sexual relations, they do not consider themselves call girls. And the men for whom they are provided are also happier to imagine they are romancing a model rather than squiring an ordinary whore.
The job of such public relations, known in some quarters as "pubic relations," requires personality, discretion and sophistication. "When a man comes to town on big business," one of these gray flannel pimps said recently, "he wants a woman, and he doesn't want the trouble of finding her for himself. He wants you to find her for him. This way he knows she will be reliable and trustworthy to the maximum extent. In the case of most companies-mine included-this also means that he won't have to pick up the tab.
"Of course, sometimes a man wants a girl for just social reasons-but generally he wants to sleep with her, maybe for an hour, maybe for a night. Sometimes he wants her as a companion for a week. We arrange everything. No matter what the request, we try to meet it. I maintain a long list of models who do this kind of work as a sideline."
Not long ago, one of these public relations men for a big textile company was "assigned" a visiting vice president of a large midwestern dress manufacturer. They were in the textile company's showroom where models were showing samples of the company's materials made up into women's under-things.
The PR man sensed that an exotic young model, newly arrived from Buenos Aires, had caught his companion's interest-so much so that he could scarcely take his eyes off her. "I see you like that girl," he remarked casually.
"Yeah," the buyer said gruffly. "That dish has got just about everything. There's something about these foreign dames-the way they move their bodies when they walk or something...."
"How would you like to have her?" came the soft query.
The sixty-two-year-old purchasing agent blinked. "What do you mean-have her?"
"You know what I mean," winked the PR man. The older man hemmed and hawed for a short time, then allowed himself to be talked into it. "He wanted the girl, but he didn't want her," the PR man reported. "Never in his life had he been to bed with anyone but his wife. I got the idea that if he could just have a beautiful doll one night out of his whole long life, we could expect any sort of order we wanted out of him. And this thinking paid off plenty."
The models who go in for this take certain risks. Some of the men they blithely accept as partners for the night might prove to be sadists or perverts. The abovementioned PR man once provided a mild-looking client with a girl who was subsequently beaten when the client went berserk in the bedroom and attacked her. The whole affair was hushed up, and the client wound up paying plenty of "blood money" to keep it quiet.
But generally speaking, a PR pimp will know his clients pretty well and coach his girls beforehand. Some clients like sophisticated women. Some like innocent or dumb types. Some enjoy the feeling that the woman is courting them. Others like to think that they are sweeping her off her dainty little feet.
Whatever the buyer wants, the girl must attempt to satisfy it. Otherwise she will hear about it from the company, and possibly be blacklisted and have to return to the somewhat "harder" work of figure modeling.
We have examined some of the myriad ways in which girls become innocently enmeshed in the figure modeling business, blackmailed, debauched, finally winding up either as prostitutes or participants in disgusting pornographic stag movies. A great billion-dollar-a-year trade has sprung up, dependent on innocent young bodies and the pervert ed desires of men all over the United States. Big and small, bookstores and magazine stands are gradually taking a part in this scandalous trade. Censorship has been ineffective, Supreme Court decisions confusing, and police efforts ludicrous in society's attempt to stamp out this insidious practice.
Where will it end? No one knows. It is to be hoped that the readers of this brief study will be roused to joining local committees actively engaged in the fight against pornographic pictures and films. No one questions the constitutional right of book publishers to print any sort of work they choose-this is a right specifically guaranteed as the right of free speech in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. What is in question is the right of pornographers to make and distribute pornographic PHOTOS and FILMS that are unquestionably perverting our youth and rousing grown men and women to scandalous levels of indecency and depravity. At the time the Constitution was written, the photograph and moving picture were not yet in existence, but there would seem to be little doubt that the founding fathers, good family men all, certainly did not have in mind the grisly debauchery to be found in photos and film today, when they guaranteed the right to free speech. The photo does not speak, it merely APPEARS.
There is another aspect of the body trade that has unfortunately not been able to find space in this brief work-and that is the way in which thousands of innocent young girls are debauched yearly through their attempts to reach stardom via the beauty contest route. This is a tale so huge and sordid that the author has thought it better to make it the subject of a separate, complete work, which will be published as The Beauty Business.
