SISTERS OF SATAN

Feature Writer: Kenneth Harding

Feature Title: SISTERS OF SATAN

Published: Unknown / ASSTR

Synopsis:  Sold into whoredom by her vengeful sister, Jane Clifford experiences her first sexual defilements, the sting of the lash, bite of bonds-and the acrid taste of a man’s turgid organ. But at the end of her ordeal she is to savor the sweet taste of complete revenge.

Sisters Of Satan

CHAPTER ONE

Marge Clifford found that her hands were trembling as she reached for a cigarette out of her silver case and lit it. She was thinking of Jane, her younger sister, and she was visualizing Jane in the scene which she was about to witness … a scene which she had paid for as a kind of voyeuse.

Marge Clifford was twenty-four years old, svelte, about five feet six inches in height, her auburn hair drawn back in a plaited bun at the back of her neck, to leave her forehead and small ears bare. Her cheekbones were high-set, and her gray-green eyes were almost almond-shaped, giving her a most exotic mien. Her lips were small and thin, almost ascetic, and her nose was sharply aquiline with widely flaring wings, which denoted her mercurial and sensual temperament.

She had only two desires in life: to avenge herself on Jane and to marry Edward Morrissey, her somewhat intellectual and diffident fianc’. And Jane was connected with both of those desires, because in Marge Clifford’s book, Jane was attempting to take Edward away from her. . .

Henry Clifford had been a vice-president of a large electronics firm in Redwood City, California, having got his schooling at Caltech and himself being a native of Los Angeles. He had fallen in love at Caltech with a pretty young coed, extremely brilliant and considered to be a man-hater by the entire student body. But Frances Delton had responded to him with a consummate passion which was all the more thrilling because she was chaste and supremely beautiful, even with her horn-rimmed glasses and her rather prim coiffure. They had been idyllically happy, and Jane and Marge had been born to them. But golden-haired, sweet dispositioned Jane had always seemed to be their special favorite, and they had made the mistake of letting the older girl, Marge, realize this. As children, the girls had often fought over a doll or a dish of ice cream, and always good-natured Jane had yielded to Marge’s insistence upon being first. She was ingenuous and sweet, and Marge contemptuously considered her little more than a Pollyanna, a goody-goody creatine who would forever be idolized by people when she, Marge, had so much more brains and beauty and imagination and deserved preference.

Henry Clifford had died of a heart attack when Jane became twenty, and his still lovely wife, Frances, had followed him in death three months later after an attack of pneumonia which had undermined her overwrought body. So that it might be well said that she died of grief for her beloved husband.

The girls had been left a sizable fortune of about a hundred thousand dollars in stocks, bonds and cash, as well as the house in which their parents had lived since their marriage. It was a charming little house near Burlingame, a considerable drive from Redwood City, but Henry Clifford had always loved the scenic view and the quiet residential beauty of the community. The two sisters had gone to the University of California at Berkeley. Jane had majored in literature and Romance languages, while Marge had taken history and geo-politics. Since Marge was legally of age in California at the time of their parents’ death, there was no problem over the inheritance. Henry Clifford’s attorney, the sedate old Benjamin Maundy, who had an office on Montgomery Street in San Francisco, competently arranged for the dispensing of funds and the setting up of trusts so that each daughter would have half of the estate too draw upon. Marge wasn’t particularly happy about that, for she felt that, as the older and the first to come into her majority, she should have had a larger share than half. Also, she felt that the house should have been left to her instead of being divided equally between herself and Jane; she decidedly did not wish to live with Jane under dual ownership.

Rut the last straw had been Edward Morrissey. He was an attorney, twenty-nine, wore glasses, had brown hair, was six feet tall, with a sturdy and athletic body, but he was decidedly intellectual and apparently interested more in museums and fine novels and classical music than in making love. Marge had met him through her parents’ attorney one afternoon, and there had been a challenge for her in seeing this handsome, bespectacled and very poised young man flush and stammer in her presence. She told herself that he certainly must be a virgin and that it would be amusing to conquer him and to dominate him, and so she had set about interesting him in her. But she had had to bear up through numerous concerts at the War Memorial Auditorium and through visits to museums, when what she really wanted was to have him strip her quiveringly voluptuous young body and make passionate love to her. And then she would really have a hold on him, and would be able to dole out her favors and make him crawl to her for pussy.

Marge Clifford had in general a contempt of most people, considering herself infinitely superior to them. She had allowed Edward Morrissey a few liberties, holding him at bay, and coyly intimating that it wouldn’t be until they were married that he could love her. So, himself being chaste and continent, the young lawyer had eagerly agreed and proposed.

But two weeks ago, Marge had come home early from San Francisco where she had spent the day shopping for a new wardrobe, and she had found Jane in the living room of their little house in Burlingame, with Edward sitting on the couch beside her, his arm apparently around her waist. He had gotten up right away and blushed-as he always did, the fool!-and had told her that Jane had asked him for some advice about investing her part of the estate. Marge had calmly accepted the explanation! She hadn’t even made a scene with Jane. But she hadn’t forgiven her little golden-haired bitch of a sister, and she never would because, since that unexpected meeting, Edward hadn’t called her as he usually did, and they had had only one or two dates, and by now she was convinced that Jane had stolen him from her.

Marge Clifford, like her younger sister, was a virgin, it was true. But that was not to say that she was not sensual and sadistic. In her childhood, she had often played games with the neighborhood children, and invariably these had turned into forfeit games, whereby the loser accepted a spanking. Marge had found at an early age the erotic delight of turning some girl of her own age, or boy either, across her lap and pretending to be a stern mother and smacking the “child’s” bottom soundly until her victim cried. Then she was always quick to make a joke of it, and to poke fun at the weeping “culprit,” so that nothing was thought of the matter. But these games, practiced over the years, had inculcated in Marge Clifford a keenly sadistic bent, and like a narcotics addict, she had come to the point of having to “feed the habit.” That was what she was doing now in this elegantly furnished living room in a small house located at the very edge of the suburb of San Mateo.

It was not a house of ill fame, by any means. Marge had heard about it from a book dealer in San Francisco, from whom she occasionally purchased flagrantly erotic literature dealing with the themes-the invariable themes-of flagellation, bondage and subjugation.

It so happened that the book dealer was himself a patron of that house and himself a devotee of subjugation, except that he wished to be beaten and humbled by a woman. The owners of the house were extremely reputable, and not a word of suspicion had ever been breathed about them, despite their proclivity. Their names were Mr. and Mrs. William Sanderman, and they happened to be the aunt and uncle of two very pretty nieces, whose foster-parents they had practically become after the death, ten years ago, of the young girls’ parents. William Sanderman himself had been the brother of their father, but his wife shared his lasciviously sadistic views. And by the time the nieces had reached the ages of twelve and thirteen respectively, the Sandermans had initiated them into a humiliating and ritualistic ceremonial of crime and punishment … a set of rules was established for the two young girls, one impossible to follow at so tender an age. Naturally, omission or commission of certain deeds brought with it the inevitable corrections hand spankings, but only given after long and mortifying preparations and penances.

Then, according to the book dealer, the Sandermans’ fortunes had suddenly dipped in the stock market, and William Sanderman had happened to mention to his book dealer friend one day that unless some way of supplementing his income could be found, he might well have to sell the little house in San Mateo and take a job as a laborer. He and his wife had always been accustomed to luxury, for they themselves had inherited money, but they had squandered it with their own taste for fine wines and esoteric meals at the most expensive restaurants in San Francisco, and in travel, books and paintings.

The book dealer had jokingly suggested that if only they could open a secret bordello for exclusive and wealthy clients, they could make a fortune. William Sanderman had looked at him blankly, then chuckled and said, “Actually, Steve, there must be those who would pay to see corporal punishment. From all I’ve read on the subject, it’s something that excites the spectator or the devotee who sublimates it in his own mind to an almost blindingly overpowering degree.”

And that was how, over the past two or three years, the unfortunate young nieces of the Sandermans had had to endure the unspeakable shame of having strangers watch their chastisements … sometimes openly and sometimes in secret. Marge Clifford had become a patron about a year ago, and she was about to watch Delia Sanderman punish both girls here and now…

And as she leaned forward in her deep armchair, her trembling fingers gripping the cigarette, her eyes humid and dilated with expectancy, she conjured up a thrillingly satisfying mental image of Jane … lovely, sweet, innocent Jane forced to prepare herself for punishment, to lift skirt and slip, to tuck them up carefully to her armpits, to stoop forward in front of the executioner, to insert her fingers under the waistband of her panties and to roll them down neatly to mid-thigh. Then, in that humble bent-over pose, her bottom naked and ready, to recite the formula, begging the executioner for a good sound spanking on her naked seat to punish her for this or that crime. And then to place herself humbly across the man’s or woman’s lap, balancing by her palms on the floor, pressing her body close in to her executioner’s body, and answering the question of whether she was ready for her punishment by an equally demeaning and ritualistic reply.

Marge Clifford saw herself watching her own sister having to strip her lovely virginal body naked and offer it up to fustigation. And she told herself that one day soon she would pay Jane back for distracting Edward’s attentions from her and realize, in burning and thrilling reality, this fantasy of corporal punishment which so inflamed her warped and sadistic nature.

CHAPTER TWO

Marge Clifford slowly crossed her legs, and forced herself to lean back in the armchair as she smiled at Delia Sanderman. Both of them knew why she was here, but it was so much better when everything seemed realistic and natural, just like an unexpected domestic happening. Marge had to hand it to Delia Sanderman; the woman was smart and that was why she and her husband had been able to make such a nice little profit on affairs like this, without even having their nieces suspect. Of course, if the girls had even dreamed that their aunt and uncle were compelling them to accept chastisement in front of relative strangers in exchange for money which the strangers paid to watch, they would probably rebel. But worse than that, it would simply have a commercial taint to it, and it would destroy-a least for Marge Clifford-all the exquisite suspense and the anticipation of waiting to see just who was going to be spanked on this or that occasion when she arranged for her visit, under what pretext, how severe the punishment would be and how long it would last.

Then there were all the other thousand and one delicious little nuances: watching the girl blush and try to stammer an apology, listening to her agonized and humiliated words as she tried to falter out a prayer to have the punishment put oft until at least the visitor would leave … sometimes even asking to have double punishment if only it might be done in privacy. And of course the answer was always no. And sometimes, if Delia Sanderman wanted a little bonus, she would sternly inform her young niece that just because the girl had dared to make such a fuss in front of a guest, it would mean extra spanks. Then the delightful preparations, an entire ceremonial unto itself. The slow disrobing-never quite naked, although Marge Clifford herself would have adored watching that!-halting the culprit midway through these preparations, with a stern lecture and forcing the unhappy girl to answer questions as to whether she was going to be very humble and very obedient and not resist when she had her spanking, and also whether she was making good resolutions for the future so that a deplorable incident like this would never again recur … but of course it would. It would whenever Delia and Howard Sanderman were greedy for a little extra cash, which was most of the time.

Marge Clifford had begun to find even these charmingly banal scenes of corporal punishment a bit too mild for her esoteric tastes. But then, she told herself, it was because she was becoming obsessed with the idea of turning the tables on that sweet innocent darling sister of hers at long last. It wouldn’t be just a hand-spanking or a bottom-warming with the hairbrush for Jane, if she really could have her way. Oh no. It would be tied over a stool, with a good hard strap; or, better still, blindfolded and strung up by the thumbs, in a dark room that would be soundproofed, of course, and making Jane wait with her heart pounding wildly and all her senses straining for the sound of foot-steps that would mean the end of the suspense and the beginning of the flogging. What Marge Clifford really yearned for was to see a creamy naked young body jerk and twist under a curling lash of a whip that would wrap round the naked flesh, circle the breasts and the belly and the inner thighs as well as the buttocks with angry red streaks; hear the plaintive screams of torment that would exude from a gaping mouth, and see the face contorted and bathed in tears.

She had begun to hate Jane with every particle in her body, and the last straw had been seeing her fianc’ Edward with his arm around that playacting little creep. Because by now Marge was quite convinced that Jane had got away with murder all these years, acting like such an innocent virgin, such a pure intellectual, that even her own parents had been taken in. That was why she, Marge, hadn’t got the lion’s share of the inheritance. One of these days, if she could ever work things out, she would have her revenge.

But meanwhile, as she tried to be nonchalant and smoke her cigarette and exchange meaningless conversation with Delia Sanderman who sat across from her on the wide low couch, she knew that her nipples were hardening and her loins were tingling with frantic expectation to see a young supple body forced across Delia Sanderman’s lap, the skirt and slip rolled up, the panties slowly and inexorably descended over a contracting naked behind, while the victim sobbed and begged at least to have that final veil left her if she must be spanked before a visitor. It was like hot iron in her veins, until her temples had begun to pound and her heart to beat, and she could feel the twitching of her own pussy as the moment grew more and more imminent. But of course Delia Sanderman was such a clever woman that she would spin it out till the last possible moment. That, after all, was why Marge Clifford paid her a premium.

“I expected Peggy will be in any minute now,” Delia Sanderman casually remarked. She was a strikingly handsome woman, but the traces of her own sensual sadism were apparent in her somewhat sharp features. At forty-five, and of slightly more than medium height, she had kept herself in excellent condition. Her black hair was hardly at all streaked with gray, and was coiffured in a chic guiche bob, with a pointed curl projecting forward at the side of each cheek and, in combination with her oval-shaped face, accentuating her sophisticated and supercilious visage. Her nose was slightly aquiline with the tip uptilted, and the nostrils closely set together and quite thin. Her mouth was wide but thin, the upper lip a trifle more pronounced. Her cheekbones were slanted, and her dark-blue eyes were closely set together, with quite short lashes. Her thin penciled brows made exaggerated arcs to heighten the illusion of enormous and implacably gazing eyes. She wore a magenta-colored cotton dress whose hems edged just over suave knees sheathed in smoke-hued nylons, and her black, glossy leather pumps had four-inch tapering heels. Her voice was a husky contralto, disdainful and deliberate.

Her husband William, two years her senior, was tall and sick and ascetic, with an unruly shock of graying brown hair, but his features were weak, with a slightly receding chin, watery blue eyes and a somewhat bulbous nose. It was plain that Delia Sanderman was the ruling genius of the family … indeed, it was really she, knowing his latent tastes for exotic sexual pleasures, who had slyly suggested to him the method whereby they could increase their income and at the same time give free rein to their own shared carnal interests. For Delia Sanderman was a dominant sadist, and although her husband had a sadistic flair towards his young nieces, he had also an incipient masochism which led him to ecstatic gratification when Delia occasionally donned a leather training costume, and either high-heeled pumps or gleaming knee-length boots, and rode astride him, flicking her riding crop over his sinewy, lean buttocks.

However, Delia drew the line very strictly at anything beyond corporal punishment for Peggy and Susan, and even though she loved her husband and catered to his sexual weaknesses, she had no intention of allowing him to enjoy the virginities of these delightful and nubile young beauties. Occasionally, as a rare treat to reward him-when, to be sure, their revenue soared from “sharing” domestic disciplinary scenes such as Marge Clifford was longing to witness now with visitors who were willing to pay for the privilege-Delia Sanderman would summon a call girl who had no aversion to being tied up and spanked if her fee was adequate enough, and would let her husband “rape” the girl after she herself had put the pretty prostitute through a rigorous bondage and humiliation ceremonial which terminated in a sound spanking or occasionally a flogging.

Delia Sanderman now returned calmly to the reading of her woman’s home magazine and seemed completely to ignore her impatient guest. Marge Clifford bit her lips with exasperation. The throbbing of her pulses was becoming disconcerting now, and she could feel the lips of her pussy twitch and moisten as her furious exacerbation grew. She hoped at least that when either Peggy or Susan returned to the house, Delia would make it an especially severe and humiliating chastisement. Her jaded nerves needed something like that, for she was still boiling inwardly at Jane’s treachery. That little bitch, making sheep’s eyes at dear Edward. Oh, what she wouldn’t do to have Jane in a torture cell, tied up and naked, with a good whip in her hand! How she’d make the golden-haired little slut plead for mercy and beg to do anything debased, even to licking between her toes, if only the whip would stop falling on her naked flesh!

She closed her eyes and her body quivered voluptuously as she gave herself up to these erotic fantasies. Then she heard Delia Sanderman put down her magazine and say, “One of the girls has just come in. I imagine it’ll be Peggy. She’ll be in shortly, Miss Clifford.”

Feverishly, Marge Clifford crushed out her cigarette, rummaged in her purse, took out her compact and quickly appraised herself in the little round hand mirror set inside the lid. A touch of lipstick, and the compact was restored, and she lit a fresh cigarette as she leaned back, crossing her legs and trying to appear nonchalant as if what was about to follow had been the farthest from her expectations.

At that moment, Peggy Sanderman entered the living room, and stopped dead in her tracks, her pretty mouth opening in surprise to the handsome, haughty auburn-haired young woman in the armchair. Then her fair skin colored hotly and she bit her lips, for she recognized her aunt’s visitor as the same one who had witnessed her being humiliatingly spanked on two previous occasions. Marge Clifford had, to be exact, seen Susan, the older girl, spanked on that other occasion. Each time she came, she had been hoping against hope that Delia Sanderman would contrive some pretext for punishing both lovely sisters at the same time before her eager eyes, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Perhaps if she intimated this afternoon and suggested a slightly higher bonus, it could be arranged. They were both so lovely and ingenuous and fresh and young, and their reactions, even though this was a commercial transaction, were exquisitely satisfying to her cruelly morbid nature. It would be a dreadful shame if Peggy and Susan ever learned that their aunt and uncle were doing what amounted to selling box seats at their punishments, in-it would be!

Peggy Sanderman was about fifteen and a half, but already magnificently developed. She was about five feet five inches in height, but appeared taller because of her delightfully long and supple legs. Her calves were slim and sinuous, and her thighs were long and slender but not without alluringly feminine rondure as they neared the promontories of her agile and voluptuous young bottom. Her hair was light brown and worn in a long pageboy with the ends turned under, falling to her shoulder-blades. Her face was delightfully rounded, vivacious and quite expressive. Large soft blue eyes, a dainty Grecian nose, a soft sweet almost ripe mouth with tremulous upper Hp, and dimpled chin. Her skin was a warm vivid pink, the skin of a baby, glowing with health, and it was also extremely sensitive as Marge Clifford well knew from those two past visits when she had witnessed what a hairbrush or even Delia Sandermans’s crisp, slim hand could inflict on it by way of discoloration and discomfort.

Peggy wore a short pink cotton dress whose hem reached only about mid-thigh. She had on white pantie-hose, which delectably shaped out her slim long legs, and the rather short skirt had a kind of provocative immodesty to it. Marge Clifford had learned that Delia Sanderman purposely had her nieces wear suggestive attire because it furnished an ideal pretext for a scolding or the censorious comment that they were acting like bold hussies by stopping to talk with boys. Moreover, such attire was infinitely more suggestive when the moment of chastisement was at hand, because it augmented the humiliation of each charming girl.

“Peggy, this is Miss Clifford,” Delia Sanderman said dryly.

“I-I know. H-how are you, Miss C-Clifford?” pretty Peggy quavered. She had a clear sweet voice, but it was discernibly unsteady now, as she glanced nervously back at her aunt. Marge could see that the girl was twisting her dainty slim fingers in apprehensive anguish, and a new shivering wave of lascivious anticipation surged through her being. She would have given a great deal if she could have taken Peggy across her lap herself, hoisted up the short skirt, inserted her fingers in the waistband of that body sheath and slowly pulled it down to expose the surprisingly plump and delightfully rounded, tightly spaced pink buttocks. But there again Delia Sanderman drew the line, believing with a certain sanctimonious righteousness that so long as she and her husband attended to the girls, there could be no hint of sexual collusion or scandalous indecency;

“Where’s your sister, Peggy? Delia Sanderman demanded.

“She-she had to stay after school a few minutes, Aunt Delia,” Peggy stammered, covertly glancing at Marge Clifford and then back at her aunt. Her blue eyes were already wide and misty with the hint of oncoming tears. The “clientele” of the Sandermans was quite select; only about half a dozen men and women, all carefully screened by the avaricious and shrewd aunt, were admitted within this sanctum sanctorum to witness what was essentially a private domestic matter. But by now both sisters were unhappily aware of the fact that almost every time their aunt or uncle called them to a reckoning and sentenced them to spanking, there was someone else present. As a matter-of-fact, after the first such incident, both Peggy and Susan had tearfully pleaded with their aunt and uncle not to shame them so, protesting that they were much too old by now to be so chastised in front of strangers. To this, Delia Sanderman had coldly retorted: “Then all you have to do is mind, young ladies, and you won’t have to be embarrassed, you know.”

On Marge Clifford’s last visit, just two weeks ago, Susan (whom she had watched being chastised on that occasion) had implored her aunt, after Marge had left the house, to give her double spanks but please not to let anyone watch her getting them, especially on the bare. Delia had simply warned her young niece that any more discussion on the subject might well lead to double spanks anyhow, and this threat was sufficient to cow even the older girl into a meek though anguished resignation to her fate.

“Stay after school?” her aunt repeated arching those eloquent eyebrows of hers, “And why, if you please?”

“I-I don’t know, really, Aunt Delia,” Peggy Sanderman shifted nervously from foot to foot and bowed her head.

“I don’t think that’s very accurate, Peggy,” her aunt crisply retorted. “I’m sure that Susan must have told you, since you both have the same homeroom. Now you know I don’t like fibs, young lady, and I think you also know what they have cost you in the past, don’t you, Peggy?”

“Y-yes, Aunt D-Della.” Peggy Sanderman was becoming even more discomfited, judging from the way she had clasped her hands in front of her and was twisting her slim dainty fingers, while her cheeks were hotly flushed and her eyes lowered.

“But I’m sure you do know the reason after all. What is it, and I want the truth, Peggy!” her aunt insisted.

“She-she got into an argument with Miss Brendon in civics, and Miss Brendon said she wanted her to stay after class and write a paper saying she was sorry she had been-been insu-insu-” here Peggy floundered.

“Insubordinate, I believe that is the word you are trying to say, isn’t it, Peggy?” her aunt finished for her.

“Yes, Aunt Delia,” Peggy’s voice was hardly audible.

“Well!” Delia Sanderman exclaimed, “In that case, I am afraid that Susan will have something coming when she gets back home. But meanwhile, young lady, I have a score to settle with you.”

At this, Peggy Sanderman stiffened, raised her head, and then, with a frantic glance at Marge Clifford, gasped out, “Oh, please, Aunt Delia, please not in front of her! Please, I beg of you, whatever it is, I’m sorry and-and I will take my punishment bravely, but please not in front of her!”

Delia Sanderman frowned as she stared coldly at her younger niece for a long and silent moment. Then she resumed in a deliberate, dry and impersonal voice, “I am really distressed at the immature way you carry on, especially when there are visitors here, Peggy. You know perfectly well that I don’t permit arguments or discussions, since you are a minor and, as your legal guardian as well as your only living relative, besides your uncle, of course, I am in full charge of you. My responsibility is a very grave one, Peggy, and I cannot permit anything to interfere with the carrying out of what I consider to be my duty in making certain that you and your sister are brought up as proper young ladies of whom the community can one day be proud when you reach your maturity. Is that clear?”

Again Peggy shivered, bowed her head and, with a muffled sound which sounded suspiciously like a sob, faltered, “Y-yes, Aunt D-Del-la.”

“I am enchanted to hear you say so,” the mature brunette sarcastically retorted. “But to get back to matters at hand, Peggy. This morning, after you had gone to school, I made an inspection of your room. Haven’t I told you repeatedly that I want to see all your clothes hung up neatly in the closet and not scattered all over the furniture? And your bathroom was a perfect mess. You didn’t even scour the washbasin after shampooing your hair last night, you know. Do you think I have nothing better to do than clean up after you as if you were still a baby?”

“I-I’m sorry, Aunt Delia,” the girl’s voice was low and husky with the promise of sudden tears now. She had turned slightly so that her back was to Marge Clifford, as if by this ingenuous maneuver she could obliterate and banish the unwelcome visitor.

“You’ll be a good deal sorrier before much longer, I’m afraid, my dear,” was the cold answer. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to spank you, Peggy. And there will be a little extra due, I’m afraid also, for several reasons. Can you think what they can be?”

Marge Clifford’s heart was pounding as if it would burst inside of her. Delia Sanderman was an absolute artist in evoking these exquisite nuances of prolongation and preparation before, during and after a spanking, and even though these chastisements were comparatively benign so far as she herself was concerned, Marge Clifford found them as exhilarating as a potent drug just because of the woman’s aptitude for making her lovely and luckless young nieces drink the bitter lees of shame and humiliation.

For here was a categorical question which contained a diabolical trap for poor Peggy. It was not incumbent upon her to explain why she was going to be punished, and if she did not hit upon all the reasons which were now being mulled over in her aunt’s devious and cunning mind, she ran the risk of receiving even more than had already been planned for the warming of her voluptuous young virgin bottom.

“Well, Peggy? I am waiting,” Delia Sander-man’s voice became imperious and peremptory.

The unhappy young girl trembled, bit her lips, made a gesture as if to turn her head back to look at Marge in the armchair, and then, clasping her hands and twisting her long slim fingers till the knuckles whitened, stammered, “I … I deserve to be p-punished, Aunt D-Del-la, because my room was untidy and-and-and because I didn’t clean out my washbasin after shampooing my hair-”

“I know that already, girl!” her aunt sternly interrupted. “What else?”

Poor Peggy caught her breath in an audible whimpering sob as she strove frantically to propitiate her growingly irate and imminent executioner: “And-and because I-I didn’t tell you exactly why Susan is being kept after school, not-not right out, I didn’t. I didn’t mean to not tell you, Aunt Delia!” she added imploringly.

“Haven’t you finished, Peggy? Are you quite sure you have told me all the reasons why I should spank you this afternoon?” the inflexible brunette matron pursued.

With a lugubrious sigh, Peggy Sanderman hung her head and fell silent, but her lovely fingers continued to twist furtively and constantly as she awaited the dire verdict from this woman who was judge, jury and executioner combined. Only, now and again, to agonize her thoroughly, there was the added torment of an audience … even an audience of one to witness the long and frantically mortifying prologue which invariably prefaced each juvenile correction to which her tender bottom was condemned in this house.

“Well, Peggy, all I can say is that your memory is very short. Don’t you recall that I just checked you for arguing with me about my decision to spank you in front of Miss Clifford? “Ohh!”

“I see you do remember now. But it’s too late, I’m afraid. Very well, Peggy, you know what to do. And I advise you to be as diligent and humble in preparing yourself for and accepting this chastisement as you can possibly be, since I am already quite vexed with you,” came the stony edict.

Marge Clifford could see tears begin to course down the girl’s satiny pink cheeks, which were brightly flushed with the vivid stain of her mortification as Peggy now turned and walked slowly over to a mahogany secretary in a corner of the spacious and handsomely furnished living room. Opening the top drawer at the right, the pretty young blonde took out a black oval-shaped wooden hairbrush, closed the drawer and slowly and with obvious reluctance turned back towards the couch on which her aunt sat expectantly awaiting her.

Arrived at her aunt’s right, Peggy handed Delia Sanderman the hairbrush handle foremost and quavered in a voice which strove for composure, “Here is the hairbrush for you to spank me with, Aunt Delia.”

“You may proceed, Peggy,” the mature brunette decreed. She took the hairbrush and placed it over to her right at the far edge of the couch, against the back, to have it in readiness when the moment should arrive. Marge Clifford, who was about to witness the fourth chastisement in this household-for the privilege of which she had paid $150 each time-leaned forward in her armchair, her eyes sparkling and her pear-shaped breasts rising and falling more quickly now. Peggy’s face was scarlet and her long curly lashes were fluttering as she blinked her eyes in a futile effort to hold back the now really surging tears. Stooping, she drew up the hems of her pink cotton skirt and lofted the garment up to her armpits, rolling it as neatly as she could and with remarkable attention, considering the dolorous circumstances. Marge Clifford’s eyes devoured the pink loveliness of the slim, gracefully indented back, whose satiny expanse was covered only by the narrow bandeau of a rather snug white nylon brassiere and by the waistband, quite tight and of durable elastic, of the white pantie-hose, whose clinging fabric shaped out the charmingly and surprisingly spacious bottom globes of the adolescent. This preparation done, Peggy slowly stretched herself out along the couch and over her aunt’s lap, squirming a little so that her loins would be exactly over her aunt’s thighs, and turned her face towards the back of the couch. She had angled herself so that she was turned in that direction rather than to the outside of the couch, again a maneuver she had learned from long and painfully repeated experience.

Delia Sanderman was in no hurry whatsoever. She waited another moment while Peggy put her hands behind her back, crossing one wrist over the other just above the waistband of the body sheath. This done, she put out her right fore-finger and tapped the small of Peggy’s lissome back, at which the blonde adolescent at once arched her loins off Delia Sander-man’s lap to permit the lowering of the pantie-hose from her bottom. Marge Clifford’s eyes feasted on the flexing muscular interplay along those slim high-set calves and the long, graceful and beautifully chiseled thighs. The buttocks were tense and contracting so as to diminish the gradually widening furrow between their hemispheric mounds. They were saucily rounded, upstanding and particularly prominent at the summits, and in view of the slenderness of the girl’s build, at once compelled an observer’s gaze. The antiseptic white shade of the body-sheath was also not without its own lasciviously disturbing connotations, for it was the shade worn by nurses and beauticians as a general rule, and while it had a sexlessness to it, the fact that it served as both panties and stockings for pretty young Peggy Sanderman seemed paradoxically to emphasize her nubile and delightful development.

Delia Sanderman inserted her strong slim fingers under the waistband of the sheath, briskly dragged it from the waist and began to peel it down with a greater deliberation now over the hillocks which pitifully sought to huddle together in Peggy’s understandably anguished instinct of shielding her most intimate regions from the offending eyes of the visitor who sat opposite her in the armchair. But because of this very prolongation, it was necessary for the unhappy girl to keep herself arched up just off her aunt’s lap, which called for supreme muscular stress and also set into relief the mobile plasticity of her lower limbs and of her loins and hips. When at last the sheath had been drawn down to about mid-thigh, rolled neatly and turned inside out, Marge Clifford could see the breathtaking sweep of naked healthy pink young flesh from those slender thighs on past the voluptuous young nether rotundities and up to the narrow band which signified the girl’s brassiere.

Peggy Sanderman had two adorable dimples, located just to the left of each bottom summit, and they came and went spasmodically, as if her flesh was winking at the onlooker, while she now gradually lowered herself back to her aunt’s lap, her wrists still crossed behind her back, her face turned towards the back of the couch. Her dainty little toes dug down into the upholstery as she studied herself and waited, but her face was scarlet to the temples and even the earlobes as she realized that the most intimate portion of her body was exposed to Marge Clifford’s devouring gaze.

Delia Sanderman placed her left hand against the crossed slim wrists and announced, “I am going to give you a hand-smacking to begin with, Peggy, to prepare your naughty bottom for the hairbrush. Tins of course is the customary procedure. However, for your failure to explain exactly why your sister is being kept after school today, you will receive fifteen extra spanks with the hairbrush. Then, for making a fuss over Miss Clifford’s happening to be my guest this afternoon-and by the way, you are of course expected to apologize to her when you have had your punishment for having interrupted our pleasant little visit with the need for your being disciplined-there will be a dozen extra on the backs of your thighs. Finally, after the preliminary spanking, I shall proceed to punish you for the sloppiness of your room and your failure to clean your washbasin, and for those two faults you will receive a total of forty spanks with the back of the brush on your naked bottom. Are you ready now for me to begin, Peggy?”

Marge Clifford clenched her thighs together, for the itching and moist titillation in her loins was becoming virtually intolerable. She found herself lewdly wishing that dear Edward could be here now, lying with her on an adjacent couch, his good stiff ramrod thrust up to the hairs inside her squirming quim, while they both watched Peggy under the hairbrush. It would be a rather severe spanking, after all, much to her delight. Sixty-seven blows from that oval-shaped wooden hairbrush would follow the hand spanking which, from past experience, Marge Clifford knew would last at least from twenty-five to thirty slaps, necessary to color the charming pink bottom a very vivid red and to render it sensitive enough to feel the stinging kisses of the hairbrush.

Peggy Sanderman had closed her eyes, and Marge could see her body stiffen and shiver as very faintly she now answered that cruel question with a faint and trembling, “Y-yes, Aunt D-Della.”

CHAPTER THREE

As she announced her readiness for the correction, Peggy Sanderman thrust the toes of her dainty brown loafers against the hard upholstery of the couch, and the muscles tightened all along her calves and thighs and buttocks. Delia Sanderman tightened her grip on the slim, quivering wrists with her left hand, and then glided her right palm over the naked hillocks of her niece’s behind. Marge’s thigh muscles were contracted, too, and they were contracted together as tightly as could be, because the pulsating fever in her quim was making her half-faint with lascivious desire. Into her mind there leaped the idea of somehow trapping her sister, Jane, and bringing her over to the Sandermans for a lengthy and rigorous period of subjugation. She made a mental note to talk to Delia about this, and then pushed everything else out of her mind to watch the exciting scene before her.

Peggy had tensed her slim young body, and pressed her face against the back of the couch as, ostrich-like, she tried to blot out Marge’s presence as well as to pretend that this wasn’t happening to her. But the twitching flesh of her up-reared hindquarters indicated all too well the tension of her young emotions. Marge’s eyes scanned the girl and she could make out the lovely curve of the side of Peggy’s left tittie; the young blonde had small but delightfully firm and orange-like love-globes which the thin and tight white nylon brassiere snugged most delineatingly. But that was only for a moment, for now her gaze returned to that vulnerable and apprehensively quivering posterior over which Delia Sanderman’s right palm lingered so deliberately, moving slowly as if to appraise those shapely nether contours and determine the most sensitive places for the application of punishment. At last she ceased this obviously ceremonial prelude, and then, taking a deep breath, raised her right hand and brought it down smartly on Peggy’s right hip. The girl started convulsively and her pretty ankles crossed as her loafers shifted and then thrust down hard again; this time just her left foot so applied as a kind of fulcrum to give herself what small security she could against the oncoming and painful heat that Delia Sanderman was about to engender in her naked behind.

A second slap rang out crisply as the top of the other hip felt the impact of the chastening palm. Two bright pink splotches were outlined on the flawlessly smooth young flesh, and Peggy’s buttocks tightened to diminish once again that darkly mysterious cleft between the mounds of her lovely naked seat.

There followed two equally stinging, noisy slaps to the base of each buttock, and then again Delia Sanderman paused to consider the condemned posterior before her. During this interim, she shoved Peggy’s gathered wrists a little towards her own body, by way of further constraint of the girl’s expected agitated move merits when the spanking began to become painful. Then, once again her right hand resumed its task, and each lower bottom summit received a tingling slap. At the sixth spank, a very faint “Ooohhh!” was heard, muffled by the fact that Peggy’s lovely mouth was pressed against the back of the couch.

The slaps had been mildly severe, but they had not yet taxed the endurance of the adolescent. However, Delia Sanderman now began to spank with greater force, and her hand rose higher and descended with a more emphatic arc to flatten one of the resilient mounds or the other, as she now without a pause of more than ten seconds between each slap, visited her niece’s naked seat with sonorous and suggestively lascivious spanks. Each time her hand made impact with that upturned naked posterior, it lingered a moment, as if caressing the flesh it had just smitten.

By the time fifteen spanks had been administered, Peggy Sanderman had recrossed her lovely long legs half a dozen times, squirmed nervously this way and that, and her hips began to jerk convulsively each time her aunt’s stinging palm visited the gradually reddening bare flesh of her vulnerably upreared backside.

Thus far she had been quite stoic, and only an occasional flurried gasp had announced the discomfort of the smarting slap. Once again her aunt paused, and with her left hand again shifted Peggy’s crossed wrists a little higher and more to the girl’s left, while the young blonde culprit took advantage of this respite to shift her loins slightly forward on her aunt’s left thigh. Marge Clifford watched, spellbound, for it was obvious that the teenager was extremely well disciplined to maintain this position, especially in the matter of keeping her body tightly pressed against her executioner’s. Now the slaps grew louder and harder, and they began to fall at a space of about five seconds between each succeeding slap. Delia Sanderman had begun once again at the tops of Peggy’s lovely rounded hips and was working downwards, alternating on the cheeks until she reached the base, after which with a slightly longer pause, she inflicted two more slaps at the top of each now every rosy hips, and then continued the inexorable, alternating descent of the blows.

By the time thirty had been reached, Peggy was gasping and squirming more and more convulsively and crossing and uncrossing her slim ankles more and more frequently. Her loafers twisted this way and that, and the muscles of her thighs and calves gave vent to long, spasmodic flexions. Yet not once did she seem to try to swerve her hips away from the proximity of her aunt, though Marge could see the increase of the now very active interplay of the girl’s bottom. Once again Delia Sanderman paused, then leaned over to whisper something to her niece. Promptly, with a little whimpering sob, Peggy clutched her elbows behind her back, and Delia Sanderman pressed her left palm down over the folded arms. Then again she resumed the spanking.

Now, warming to her task, her face intent, her eyes narrowed and humid, her lips parted and moist, the handsome brunette matron concentrated the loud, stinging slaps against the summits of Peggy’s naked bottom. They seemed to flatten the resilient rondures, and then again, as the subtle pause for caress came, the girl’s buttocks seemed to spring up to offer themselves anew for the castigation.

These slaps were spaced about ten seconds apart again, and each of them had begun to draw nervous little “Ooooooohhhhh’s and “Ahhhhh’s” from the pretty young victim. Also, it was noticed that Peggy had turned her face away from the back of the couch and was now staring down at the surface itself, her fingers twisting convulsively as she continued to grasp her own elbows, while her long, shapely legs squirmed and crossed again and again, now this way and now that. Yet she still did not dare to move her hips about too energetically, and she remained with her left hip’s edge pressed against her aunt’s belly.

Delia Sanderman concluded with what Marge Clifford made out to be the forty-fourth spank with a really furious downward sweeping arc of her right arm, which made her palm bite right across the crease which separated the plump bottom hillocks of her now plaintively sobbing young niece. At this final and harsh blow, Peggy Sanderman lifted her face and then glanced frantically back at Marge in the armchair, her nostrils dilating and shrinking and her mouth twisted in a piteous rictus of embarrassment and distress, humiliation and genuine suffering. With that last slap, Delia’s hand remained pressed against the fulminating, naked and furiously reddened globes of her niece’s bottom, while Peggy gave vent to sobbing gasps and uncontrollable tears which rivuleted down her cheeks. Marge Clifford could not take her eyes off that voluptuous young posterior, lasciviously admiring the contrast between its now flaming hue against the soft pink beauty of the upper thighs and lower back.

“Are you feeling sorry for having been such a naughty girl, Peggy?” Delia Sanderman asked, her niece.

“Why-why, yes, Aunt D-D-Della,” Peggy tearfully gasped. Now she had her face pressed against the upholstery of the couch, and her shoulders were visibly shaken with muffled though still stoically controlled sobs.

“I should think so,” Delia Sanderman rebuked her in a stem voice, “and you see what your little nonsense about being punished in front of Miss Clifford has earned you, young lady. Because, don’t forget that after you get the forty spanks with the hairbrush for your untidiness, you are to have fifteen more on your bare bottom. And then, of course, we shall conclude with the twelve on your thighs. Are you ready now for the hairbrush, Peggy?”

“Y-y-yes, Aunt D-Della,” poor Peggy quavered tearfully in a muffled voice, and this time she glanced nervously back at her aunt. Marge Clifford devoured that exquisitely poignant, sweet young face, flushed and tearstained, the lips and nostrils quivering uncontrollably. For her this nuance of suffering was a fiercely exacerbating as a prick rubbing against the twitching lips of her own vulva. With her right hand she pressed her purse down against her crotch as a kind of onanistic irritant, and her own cheeks were flushed as she watched Delia Sanderman reach over with her right hand for the hairbrush, lift it from the couch and then press down all the harder with her left palm over her niece’s crossed forearms.

“Very well,” she intoned. “We shall start with the forty first of all for your sloppiness and untidiness, young lady. Remember to stay in position-you may cry all you like, as you know.”

Peggy’s face dug into the surface of the couch and she tried to hide herself, as with a last nervous flurry of preparation before the assault on her flaming bottom with that ugly-looking black wooden brush, she squirmed just a little to be closer to her aunt’s body and to clench her legs together as tightly as she could, at the same time pressing her loafers down against the upholstery at the other end of the couch.

Slowly, Delia Sanderman raised her right arm, and her eyes caught Marge’s at that moment. A conspiratorial, knowing smile made her thin lips curve, and then she glanced down at the trembling bare bottom below, and tightening her lips, she descended the hairbrush with a sharp SPATT against the outer edge of the girl’s right hip.

“OOOOHHHHH, Aunt Delia!” Peggy’s voice was strained and higher pitched than usual as her hips seemed to jerk under the impact of the hairbrush. Her right loafer kicked up in the air, then dug down against the couch, but long, spasmodic tremors rippled through her thighs and calves, and despite the discoloration of her naked bottom, through those luscious globes as well. It seemed that her fingernails were digging into her elbows as she fought for stoicism under this more chalorous portion of the chastisement

The second spank was lodged on the other hip and over its outer edge as well. This time Peggy’s bottom seemed to leap up a little, then to flatten itself over Delia Sanderman’s lap, the cheeks huddling and then yawning to expose for a thrilling instant the shadowy grotto which lay between these succulent young nether hemispheres. There was an equally high-pitched wail of “AAAHHH!” from the young sufferer, who again turned her face towards the back of the couch.

Just as she had commenced with the preliminary hand spanking, Delia Sanderman applied the hairbrush first to the top and to the base of both buttocks to commence the definitive pattern which she had evolved in these many sessions with her unfortunate and helpless young nieces. Each of those blows against the base of Peggy’s shapely naked backside produced sobbing wails, convulsive reddenings of the bare hips, desultory rubbings-together of the long, shapely stockinged thighs and first Peggy’s left loafer, then her right kicked up in the air as proof that the tender area of her exposed virginal bottom was now really undergoing extreme discomfort.

The fifth spank landed the squat wooden back of the hairbrush right over the middle of both buttocks, bridging the shadowy crease between them, flattening the flesh which seemed to spring up violently after the impact and drawing a piteous “OWWI Ohh, Aunt Delia, please, I’ll be a good girl, I promise I will!” from the tearful blonde.

Marge Clifford found herself counting to herself, her mouth dry, her eyes burning as with fever and her heart pounding erratically. Her fingers curled like talons over the arms of the stuffed chair in which she sat, her body taut with absorption and suspense, following each detail of the exquisite domestic discipline unfolding before her. Her warped nature made her sustain as much erotic stimulus as if a man had been disrobing her and indulging in the sweet and devious byplay which prefaces a good fucking, and the corner of her purse continued to press down forcefully against her tender crotch, as if she sought the aid of an artificial phallus to bring her to completion of orgasm.

Once again Delia Sanderman paused, studied the flaming and twitching buttocks, without relinquishing the pressure of her left palm against her niece’s folded arms, and again the brush rose and fell with a crisp flurry of four stinging and noisy cracks, first the upper right summit, then the left, then the lower right summit and then the left. Peggy’s head was flung back, her eyes wide and glistening with tears as she cried out piteously, while her hips lunged and jerked and twisted, her feet kicking up and down simultaneously.

“OWWI Oh, please, Aunt Delia, I’ll be so good-OOOHHHH! Ohh, please don’t spank so hard, please don’t!”

And this time under that brisk and stinging flurry, the charming young girl had wriggled to the edge of her aunt’s lap, while her feet flailed the air, and her fingers twisted frantically as if yearning to dash towards her bottom and protect the now vividly reddened and inflamed globes.

Once again Delia Sanderman paused. She laid the hairbrush down, bristle side against the naked skin, on the small of poor Peggy’s back, while her left hand pressed against the side of the girl’s right hip and pulled her back closer up against her own body. Then she resumed her grip of those gathered and folded forearms, retrieved the brush and at once applied two stinging smacks on the upper right summit of that furiously colored bottom so helplessly upturned before her.

“OWWEEEEOHHHII! Oh please, not so hard, I’ll keep my room tidy, I promise I will, Aunt Delia!” the sufferer squealed, as again her loafers threshed the air. When they finally came to rest on the surface of the couch, she rapidly crossed and recrossed her ankles and then uncrossed and crossed them again with the other leg atop, squirmingly trying to find some less uncomfortable pose in which to endure the now burning chastisement.

By the time the count had reached twenty, Peggy was weeping disconsolately and looking back at her aunt every time the brush descended. She would tense herself and contract the muscles of her flaming bottom, which would then leap as the surface of the hairbrush came wickedly down upon it, then her lips would lunge and twist and jerk in the most convulsive and uncontrollable gyrations. Tears streamed down her face, and her lips were twisted poignantly as she again pleaded for a lessening of the severity of the spanks and reiterated her promise never again to offend.

With twenty, the handsome brunette matron once again paused, laid the brush down again, with the wooden surface this time against the flaming skin of Peggy’s naked backside, put both hands to the girl’s outer right hip and drew her again closer to her body. Then she ordered, “Lift yourself, clasp your hands under you and He over them, so you aren’t tempted to cover up, young lady, because you know what that will cost you.” Peggy sobbingly obeyed, and as she lifted herself, the glittering eyes of Marge Clifford concentrated on the surprisingly thickly hirsute dark brown thatch of pussy-hair at the apex of Peggy’s long, slender thighs.

Delia Sanderman now seized the down fucked bodys heath and pulled it still further down, so that the stockings were pulled to the hollows of Peggy’s dimpled knees. The enchantingly soft pink satiny skin of the as yet untouched thighs made a salacious and vivid contrast between the furiously naming state of her bottom-cheeks. These twitched and shrank and gaped in uncontrollable spasms and Peggy’s audible sniffles and sobs became a sort of erotic music which made Marge Clifford’s loins flood with the hot, sticky liqueur of love-cream.

Once again the hairbrush was lifted off the girl’s naked bottom and now Peggy began to sob heartrendingly as she turned her tearstained, contorted face over her shoulder to implore mercy: “Oh please, Aunt D-Della, please not so hard, please, please!”

“I should think you would have more pride than to make such a cowardly spectacle of yourself with Miss Clifford present,” her aunt gravely retorted. Her left hand had pressed against the small of Peggy’s back. Now the brush rose again and there was no reprieve. It rose and flashed down in a stinging arc and there was a loud SMACKKK which intoned its burning impact against the lower right summit of the young girl’s naked seat.

“AIIII! OHHHH! OH-OH-OH-it hurts so much, Aunt Delia! I’ll be so good if you’ll only let me off, please, please!” Peggy wailed as again her loafers flailed the air and her hips flung from left to right, convulsively jerking, arching up and down spasmodically. Marge Clifford had shoved the angle of her purse as far into her crotch as she could, and now she tried to shift her crossed legs so as to achieve an even deeper angle of penetration. She could feel the thin lips of her panties rub against the lips of her vulva, and she knew that they were moist, and the burning pangs of lascivious desire filled her. She had to close her eyes for a moment and draw a deep breath, so passionately roused was she by this scene.

Now, as if in answer to Peggy’s plea, Delia Sanderman began to spank more quickly, as if intent on hastening the end of the ordeal for the weeping girl. But judging from Peggy’s wails and sobs and cries, and sometimes her incoherently babbled supplications for mercy and her promises never to offend again, this acceleration of the tempo of the hairbrush was far from benign. The brush seemed to dance off Peggy’s flaming, swollen bottom globes, alternating on them from hips to thighs and back again, until a count of thirty-five had been reached. Several times during that relentless progression of the punishment, the mature brunette had had to draw Peggy’s writhing body back against her own, and each time she reprimanded the weeping girl for “carrying on like this in front of my guest, Miss Clifford.” Another pause, and then as if by a kind of sadistic addition to poor Peggy’s martyrdom, Delia Sanderman laid the hairbrush bristle-side down on the middle of the girl’s pink satiny back and tugged the body sheath down to the girl’s calves, covering the loafers and laying bare the charming, long, pink-skinned legs in their sleek, coltish, yet unmistakably feminine loveliness.

Now the last eight spanks of the punishment proper were meted out, four to each upper botto globe, amid squeals and sobs and frantic twistings of the burning hips of the almost naked young sufferer. Several times she lifted up her head and shoulders so Marge could see the small, deliciously firm orange-shaped titties panting and shuddering with Peggy’s sobs and groans, and then there was a long pause. Delia Sanderman put the hairbrush back at the end of the couch and ordered, “I’m going to give you a minute to rest before I give you the fifteen on your bottom and then the twelve on your thighs, young lady. Get up and pull off those pantyhose and take off your loafers too, while you’re at it.” She released her pressure on the small of the girl’s back, and Peggy slid her legs to the floor, awkwardly straightening while her aunt helped her by gripping her by an arm steady her.

Weeping bitterly, heedless now of her nakedness before Marge Clifford, the weeping girl lifted each foot and dragged the white sheath off, then scuffed off her loafers, and at last stood quite naked except for the white nylon bra which snugged over the orange-firm rounds of her charming young titties. Her thighs were quivering and trembling violently, and Marge Clifford again could see the dark brown muff between them. But now the scarlet bottom stood out so violently and lubriciously that her gaze was drawn to it and nothing else.

CHAPTER FOUR

Peggy was unabashedly crying now, and she was rubbing her flaming hindquarters, stark naked except for the skimpy light nylon bra. Just at that moment, a key turned in the lock, and Peggy’s sister Susan crossed the threshold of the living room. She uttered a startled “Oh my goodness!” and stood rooted there, her eyes very wide with dismay. Seeing her, Peggy promptly clamped a hand over her dark-brown pussy-thatch, and swiftly knelt down before the couch in a desperate attempt to hide her nakedness from her own sister, while her crying redoubled in emotional intensity.

“Stop that whining at once, Peggy, or I’ll give you something to whine about,” her aunt angrily reprimanded without losing the last aplomb. “Well, Susan, it’s high time you were back. No, don’t leave. You’ve got something coming to you too, you know.”

“But, Aunt Delia,” Susan Sanderman protested, and her pale ivory cheeks turned scarlet as she saw Marge Clifford’s flushed and excited face.

“Be quiet, young lady!” her aunt snapped. “You might just as well prepare yourself, because you’re next after Peggy here. I just found out why you were kept in after class. It’s disgraceful, a big grownup girl like you arguing with the teacher in front of the whole class!

That’s insubordination. I think I understand why, too, Susan. You think that you’re repressed here in your home with your Uncle William and me, so you try to take out your resentment in class. Well, Susan, if you felt that you could escape being punished because you did it away from home, you’re going to find out that you’re very much mistaken. Now what you can do is to take off your dress and then your slip, go stand in the corner and get ready. Your face to the wall, your arms straight at your sides, at attention. Is that understood?”

“Please-Aunt D-Della,” the lovely brunette gasped, “not in front of her!”

“Your sister is getting about a dozen extra for making a fuss about my guest having to watch her getting her spanking, Susan. If I hear just one more word on the subject, you’ll get about thirty extra. And you know that I mean what I say, young lady!”

It was evident to Marge Clifford that Susan Sanderman, though seventeen, was quite well apprised of her aunt’s disciplinary methods. And an exultant thrill ran through the beautiful, perverse auburn-haired young woman in the armchair: she was in rare luck this afternoon, because she was going to watch Susan getting punished as well as Peggy. Doubtless Delia Sanderman, after both girls had been sent back to their rooms in tears, would hint that the fee ought to be somewhat higher because two spankings had been on display rather than one, but she wouldn’t mind that at all. Because in her mind there was fomenting a fanciful, really outlandish plan whereby she could have revenge on her sister Jane and make certain that dear Edward wouldn’t ever stray from the fold again until they were safely married. And just having the idea was worth every penny that she might have to pay Delia Sanderman.

Susan Sanderman was exceptionally pretty, and seemed naturally more mature than Peggy. Her black hair, however, had been formed into a single thick braid which hung to her shoulder blades, and the rest of her hair had been pulled up from her high-arching forehead and combed straight back and then made into the braid. Her face was slightly oval, rather sensitive. Her eyes were dark brown, closely spaced together between the bridge of a dainty straight nose with rather thin and widely flaring nostrils. Her mouth was ripe and small, with a rather more pronounced lower hp which gave her a rather wistful quality-particularly when, as now, that sweet virginal mouth had begun to quiver with apprehension over its owner’s ensuing ordeal. She had a tiny little black mole just below and to the rear of her left cheekbone.

Susan was about an inch taller than Peggy, with a lovely willowy figure. But, just like Peggy, and perhaps for the same insidiously humiliating reason, her aunt had made her wear a very fetching miniskirt of multicolored rayon, with a red rayon blouse that had quite short sleeves. Charcoal-brown pantie-hose sheathed her long slim legs; and the miniskirt, which descended only to about mid-thigh, clung rather tightly to the broadly oval, resilient cheeks of her superb young behind. Against the blouse, the dazzlingly ripe pears of her virgin titties thrust out, spaced widely apart, straining at the thin bra which held them in check. Altogether, Susan Sanderman was an even more mouthwatering specimen of pulchritude than Peggy.

At her aunt’s command, she bit her lips and then turned to one side away from Marge Clifford as she began very quickly to unbutton her blouse and to remove it, putting it on the back of a short chair near the front door. The miniskirt followed, and she stood in a white nylon bra which was just filmy enough to let Marge Clifford see the wide light coral circles of the aureoles and the vivaciously pert nipples which prodded the cusps of the nylon sheath. Just under the blouse, there had been a short slip, tailored to the measurements of the miniskirt. And now that it was off along with the blouse, Susan Sanderman stood there in her charcoal-brown body sheath and white nylon bra and her loafers, her body a voluptuous young state of pale ivory.

“Well, don’t just stand there exhibiting yourself, you shameless girl,” her aunt reprimanded. “Go to the corner and face the wall, arms at your sides! And don’t let me catch you turning back, Susan, or for sure you’ll get extras. I’m sorry, Miss Clifford, it seems that this is the day for my nieces to really disgrace themselves and me in the process.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Sanderman,” Marge Clifford hastily replied, trying to sound sympathetic and not in the least concerned with the highly embarrassing spectacle she had just witnessed and the one she was going to see immediately after Peggy’s punishment had been doled out to its final hairbrush stroke. “I’m only sorry that these poor girls have to be embarrassed by my presence.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Miss Clifford,” Delia Sanderman hypocritically replied, “but actually I think it’s an excellent thing that you are here. Maybe if they feel the shame of having to see a comparative stranger watch them getting spanked like naughty little girls, they’ll begin to act their age. All right now, Peggy, come back across my lap. But this time, I want your legs down on the floor. I’m sure you’re going to be struggling pretty soon, considering how you carried on over the beginning of your spanking. Come over this waythat’s it. Now get down here at once, you naughty girl!”

Peggy had reluctantly moved towards her aunt’s right, new tears streaking her already wet cheeks, but Delia Sanderman hadn’t waited for complete resignation. She had grasped the unhappy blonde by an elbow and drawn her suddenly down across her lap and towards her, so that Peggy’s lovely bare legs angled down towards the floor. At the same time, she had moved her right leg away so that she could immediately clamp it over Peggy’s slim sinuous calves and thereby pinion the virtually naked youngster at an angle over her left knee and in a way that would uprear Peggy’s already flaming and swollen bottom still more vulnerably for the resumption of the spanking.

“Your hands behind your back this minute,” she commanded Peggy, who tearfully obeyed.

Once again Delia Sanderman clamped her left hand over the gathered wrists, retrieved the hairbrush with her right hand, and then summarized: “Now then, young lady, the fifteen extras on your bare bottom. And then twelve on the backs of your thighs. Try not to disgrace yourself by too much yowling or wriggling around, because Miss Clifford will think that you’re just a little baby, when you’re nearly sixteen. Are you ready, Peggy?”

“Y-y-y-yes, Aunt-Aunt D-Della,” Peggy moaned. She buried her face on the surface of the couch and closed her eyes. A long shiver ran through her voluptuously abandoned body, and Marge Clifford could see the scarlet buttocks tighten and then yawn as the unfortunate young girl tried to tense herself for the resumption of this atrociously painful smacking. The preliminary hand spanking and the forty strokes of the hairbrush had left Peggy’s charmingly saucy buttocks violently splotched, and the bright scarlet was beginning to turn dark red. The prospect of fifteen more swats on the bare behind with that hairbrush, Marge Clifford told herself, would have made even her quail.

Smack! Smack! Without further ado, Delia Sanderman lifted the hairbrush and brought it down very crisply against the very center of each buttock in turn, first the right cheek, and then its equally suffering twin. Peggy’s hips lunged and lurched, and at the outset of the maneuver, her behind seemed to loom up in a way that exposed to Marge Clifford’s glittering eyes the dark thatch of pussy fur visible just between those luscious and now piteously swollen and burning bottom globes. “Owwwl Ohhh, it hurts, it hurts, oh please, Aunt Delia, not so hard there!” the girl wailed.

Now again her face turned back towards her aunt as the latter inexorably lifted the black wooden hairbrush, paused it in the air a moment and then brought it down with another and even sharper Thwack! against the outer edge of the right bottom-summit. There was a wail and a squeal and Peggy’s long bare legs started to thresh about as if she were trying to break out from under her aunt’s clamping limb. Also, her elbows jerked convulsively, and Delia Sanderman had to bear down vigorously with her left hand on the captive wrist to prevent their owner’s trying to cover up her blazing bottom. “Will you stop that, young lady?” she scolded, applying two or three quick little stinging taps with the hairbrush over the base of both flaming buttocks. “You just shift yourself back closer to me, and try to behave in a dignified way, or Miss Clifford is going to think you’re just a five-year-old baby. All that nonsense over a few little spanks from a hairbrush, of all things I”

Peggy sobbingly obeyed, squirming herself closer to her aunt, but by now her pride was gone and it was evident that her bottom was paining her atrociously. So when the fourth officially counted-out spank of the extras landed with full force on the left upper summit towards the crease of her voluptuous young naked behind, she tilted back her head and emitted a strident “Eeeowwwl Oooohhh! Oh please, I’ll be so good, so good, Aunt Delia!”

And again her body wriggled and jerked frantically.

Delia Sanderman’s lips were set, her eyes were narrowed, and her magnificent bosom rose and fell with turbulence as she proceeded to inflict the last eleven spanks all over that burning and naked behind, spacing the spanks out to about twenty seconds between each blow. Peggy could not endure the martyrdom of her throbbingly swollen buttocks any longer, and her tearful cries and poignant plaints, together with her frenzied wrigglings, made Marge Clifford’s pussy moisten even more. The tension in the auburn-haired beauty’s loins was by now intolerable, and if this had actually been a house of assignation, she would have brazenly asked for either Lesbian or normal heterosexual relief. As it was, she had to content herself by jamming the corner of her puse deeper into her crotch and squirming stealthily about in an effort to try to bring herself to climax so desperately needed.

Once again Delia Sanderman rested the brush, bristled side down, on the small of her niece’s back, while she ordered the girl to clasp her hands and put them under her. This done, she shifted herself a little and again ordered poor weeping Peggy to squirm forward an inch or two, so that she would have the girl’s as yet untouched long slender thighs fully within the range of the wicked hairbrush. Then, putting her left palm down flat and hard against Peggy’s cheekbone, and retrieving the brush, she proceeded to distribute the twelve sharply applied smacks of the back of the brush from the base of the naked swollen, angrily red behind to the girl’s knee hollows, alternating on each thigh and pausing nearly thirty seconds between spanks.

It was finally over. Peggy abandoned herself, and now had plunged her hands to her face and her shoulders were quaking with her violent sobs. The lascivious pattern of bright red splotches all over her thighs contrasted in turn with the darker and angrier inflammation of her spacious young bottom, and then against the pure pink satin of the lovely deeply hollowed back. But now Delia Sanderman was waiting for the concluding ritual, which in itself was a martyrizing ordeal in humiliation and subjugation, and Marge Clifford also was yearning to hear the shamefully mortifying formula which poor Peggy Sanderman had to mouth to her aunt’s entire satisfaction-lest she run the risk of being kept over that austere and punitive lap for additional correction.

Delia Sanderman unlocked her leg from over Peggy’s, and sat waiting, the hairbrush in her right hand, steadying her niece’s trembling and sob-shaken body. Very slowly Peggy slid herself down to the floor onto her knees, and then carefully straightened, with a gasp and a grimace of pain as the maneuver cost her waves of burning suffering. But she did not plunge her hands back to her bottom this time, for that was forbidden at the end of a spanking. Instead, she clasped them in humble prayer, and, her eyes drowned in tears, her pretty mouth trembling uncontrollably, she quavered tremulously, “Th-thank you for sp-sp-spanking me, Aunt D-Della. It was for my own good. I apologize for having made such a-such a f-fuss and I’ll be awfully tidy with my room from now on, I promise.”

Without a word, her aunt extended her right hand and presented the flat of the wooden hairbrush towards Peggy’s mouth. Marge Clifford was shuddering with overwhelming lust as she saw the weeping young girl press her trembling lips to the gleaming surface of that wooden instrument of castigation. And then, having completed this debasing ritual, Peggy shifted a little so that she could kiss her aunt’s hand, the hand which had wielded that infernal instrument of punishment against her tender young flesh, and once again in a faltering, tearful voice, she stammered, “Thank you for taking so much trouble with me, dear Aunt D-Della. I-I promise to try to be a very good girl from now on.

“Very well. Now go over to Miss Clifford and beg her pardon for having interrupted our visit with your naughtiness,” her aunt commanded.

The weeping young blonde crawled forward on her knees, and Marge Clifford tried to assume a composed and indifferent attitude. But her eyes devoured the muff of pussy fur at the apex of Peggy’s thighs, the shuddering titties which rose and fell so violently now against the thin snugging white nylon sheath of the bra, and she scarcely listened to Peggy’s faintly audible petition of “Please ex-excuse me, M-Miss C-Clifford, for making you w-watch me get-get p-punished for being such a n-naughty girl.”

“I’m sorry too, Peggy,” she murmured. Peggy now rose, not without another grimace of pain, and moved to the corner of the room where she stood with her arms at her sides, head bowed, her blazing bottom on display.

And now it was Susan Sanderman’s time for reckoning. Her aunt sternly summoned her to stand before her, and lectured her for a few moments on the impropriety of arguing with a teacher, especially at her age. Then she was ordered to clamber onto the couch and drape herself across Delia Sanderman’s lap. This done, she was forced to lift herself a little so that her aunt could tug down her pantie-hose to about mid-thigh, revealing the pale ivory bottom ovals with their lasciviously widening furrow which provided the exquisite glimpse of the black curls of her mound of Venus as well as the ambery-shadowy creasage leading to her nether orifice of sexual pleasure.

But because she was older, Susan was commanded to extend her arms and grasp with both hands the end of the couch and warned not to leave that position. She was then sentenced to thirty-five spanks of the hairbrush after a preliminary hand spanking, which Delia Sanderman now proceeded to inflict. It comprised about forty sharp slaps all over the voluptuous white bottom which soon changed from vivid pink to brilliant crimson. And then the brush began to descend, at what seemed slower intervals to Marge Clifford, who was fairly grateful to her hostess for this mark of consideration and thus prolonging the exciting punishment. For Susan’s bottom was even more fascinating to watch under the hairbrush: it was more mobile, more vividly suggestive in its squirmings, and because the girl was older and had been admonished to take her punishment with greater stoicism than her younger sister, it was a delight for the sadistic auburn-haired young woman to watch poor Susan’s frantic attempts to keep from crying out and to keep her fingers gripping the end of the couch when the sonorous whacks from the black wooden weapon of fustigation began to make her hips lunge and twist and jerk convulsively from side to side.

Her head tilted back, her eyes shining with tears and very wide, Susan managed during the first eighteen blows to suppress all but a few groans and gasps. But when her aunt paused and readjusted the girl’s almost naked body over her lap, and then pressed down harder with her left palm on the small of Susan’s back, and When the hairbrush began to fall with even noisier impact on the already flaming cheeks, Susan Sanderman demonstrated that even at seventeen the most courageous girl cannot hold back cries and groans and sobs when her bottom is in flames.

At the twenty-second, Susan plunged her right hand back to her naked rear end and glanced back piteously at her executioner. “That will be ten extra,” Delia Sanderman said quietly. “Take your hand away at once and hold on to the couch. If I have to hold your wrists, Susan, you’ll get fifty, do you understand?”

The crying brunette nodded and reluctantly resumed her grasp of the end of the couch. Her legs kicked up wildly now from the twenty-second spank,-which was “officially” repeated because she had tried to cover up-through the final blow. And the wild twistings and lungings and archings of those once pale ivory hips provided Marge Clifford with the exquisitely salacious view of Susan’s virgin cunt as often her voluptuous young body arched up and squirmed free of her aunt’s punitive lap.

She too had to kiss the hairbrush and her aunt’s hand, stammer tearfully the formula of penitence, and then crawl over to Marge Clifford to implore pardon for having embarrassed the visitor.

And then at last both girls, weeping like babies, were sent off to their rooms, and Delia Sanderman turned to her paying guest: “I hadn’t quite expected to have to spank Susan too, my dear Miss Clifford.”

“I understand. I’ll pay you double. It was certainly worth it.”

“That’s most generous of you, Miss Clifford. You know, thanks to appreciative friends like you, my two nieces are taking better to discipline. I think it’s very wise to intensify it, don’t you? They’re at such an impressionable age, you know. Any day now I expect to hear that both Susan and Peggy have steady boyfriends. Naturally that will be sternly prevented.”

“Oh by all means. Discipline is very essential.”

“I thought you would agree. So William and I have decided that starting next Monday, Miss Clifford, we’re going to give each girl a ledger book and tell her to mark down her faults in it. Then every Saturday, quite apart from whatever immediate punishment she may have earned, we will add up the demerits and decide what punishment is in order. I imagine you would like to be present.”

“Indeed I would!”

“But those sessions will be a little more severe, you see. And I think that a fee of $200 isn’t too much to ask?”

“Not at all. If you like, I’ll give you a deposit in advance.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Clifford,” Delia Sanderman smiled and raised her hand protestingly. “You’re already such a good customer that I feel you’re a part of this little family. And you’ve no idea how it helps these wayward girls to know that someone like you is going to watch and see how they act under a spanking. It causes them a great deal more distress, as you can obviously see for yourself.”

“Oh yes!”

“Well then, may I give you some tea now?”

“Yes, Mrs. Sanderman. Because you see, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. I don’t know if you can help, or your husband, but I thought that you might have some ideas,” Marge Clifford said succinctly.

And after the tea and little cakes which the handsome brunette matron served, the auburn-haired perverse young woman leaned forward and in a conspiratorial tone murmured, “What I’m going to tell you is most confidential, Mrs. Sanderman.”

“You may call me Delia, my dear. I think you know that I am trustworthy now, and I know a good deal about you through Mr. Benderson.”

“I’m very grateful to him. I never knew when I went to his shop that he had such good friends as you,” Marge Clifford smiled.

“How can we help you, William and I?” the handsome brunette encouragingly drawled.

“You’ve never met my sister, Delia. She’s just the opposite of what I am. A sweet innocent saccharine creature without a brain in her head. And now she’s had the gall to make a play for my fianc’.”

“How distressing for you, my dear.”

“That’s true. When we were kids, she got all the attention, even though I had the best grades in school and was way ahead of her mentally and in every other way. But when our parents died, they had their will so that each of us got half of the house and of the estate. That wasn’t fair either, but unfortunately it’s the law.”

“If you’ll permit me to say so,” Delia Sanderman smiled rather ironically, “I don’t think either of you has any reason to complain over your legacy. William has done a little checking on your background, Marge dear, or of course we wouldn’t have accepted you here as our personal guest for such-shall we say, private little s’ances as this.”

“That may well be true. And it isn’t that I’m greedy, Delia. I just want to pay my sister back for all the annoyances she’s caused me over the years. And I hate her guts for what she’s trying to do right under my very nose, a pure little virgin trying to get my dear Edward away from me.

“I suppose you would like to see her treated the way William and I punish our naughty nieces?”

The eyes of the two women met, and Marge’s were shining now as she nodded. “Of course I would. But I want something more drastic than a spanking. Oh, she’s to have plenty of that too, but that’s only the start of it.”

“I see you have things pretty well worked out in your mind, Marge. We might be able to help you. Why don’t you tell me straight out what it is you want us to do?”

Marge Clifford’s lips were trembling now and her pussy was feverish with heat. She opened her purse with quivering fingers and lit a cigarette, before she dared to answer. Finally she said, “I wish she could be abducted and made a kind of slave. Brought down a couple of pegs from that snooty way she has of having her head in the clouds. She’s such a goody-goody that if I even smoke a cigarette in front of her, she looks reproachfully at me. In my own house, tool”

“That’s very drastic. And it would cost a great deal of money-even assuming we could do anything to help you,” Delia Sanderman warily replied.

“I have about twenty-five thousand dollars in a separate bank account which my aunt gave me two years ago, Delia. I’d be willing to spend every penny of it to have Jane learn her lesson just that way. Does that interest you?”

“Of course it does, Marge dear. Let me think about it. I’ll talk it over with William this evening when he gets home. It may be that we can help you. But it has to be done very carefully so that there isn’t any interference from the law. You wouldn’t want that, nor would we.”

“Then it’s agreed. I’ll wait for your call, Delia. And you must be sure to call me when Peggy and Susan have to read off their demerits to you.”

The handsome brunette woman smiled slowly. “You shall have first choice always, Marge. William and I like people who pay their way promptly and don’t mind the cost of what they want.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Delia Sanderman discussed Marge Clifford’s astonishing proposal with her husband that evening, after both Peggy and Susan had been sent to their rooms upon having finished their supper. The dominating brunette matron had, needless to sav, informed William Sanderman of the naughtiness of his nieces and how she had been obliged to spank them both this afternoon in front of Marge Clifford. She had also shown him the liberal fee which their auburn-haired visitor had paid for the privilege of witnessing these two rather severe spankings.

“Dash it all,” he said with a kind of petulant grimace, for he was essentially a weak and rather vain man and it was obvious that Delia was the brains of the menage, “Why couldn’t I have been here to see it. But if they were really naughty, Delia my dear, perhaps I should give them a little supplement just before bedtime?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, William,” she looked at him sharply. “You know you’ll only get excited. Besides, I can assure you that both Peggy and Susan have very sore and burning bottoms even now, as you probably noticed when they were squirming about on the cushions they had to put on their chairs during dinnertime. No, you’d get much too excited and you might forget that they are your nieces, after all.”

“What a thing to say about your own husband!” he gasped, but nonetheless he flushed and looked down when Delia’s eyes stared unyieldingly at him. It was true. He really wanted to fuck them both, and if only he could and do it in such a wav that neither of the girls would dare to tell Delia, he would certainly risk the danger. It would be incest as well as statutory rape, of course. And the hazards were far too great; that was all that held him back.

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll see that you’re looked after,” she said almost contemptuously. “Right now, I want you to think very seriously about Marge Clifford’s problem. We can make a great deal of money if you can work something out. Don’t you have contacts in Baja California or in Mexico? Didn’t one of your good friends retire to the province of Jalisco about ten years ago? It seems to me I often noticed a letter from him.”

“Yes, that’s right. You mean Bob Dewars. Actually, he’s moved to Mexico City now. He runs a small hotel on the outskirts there. Doing very well too, from what I hear. Yes, we went to college together. He always did have unusual tastes.”

“I know,” Delia Sanderman said grimly, “like having a teenage girl picked up by a couple of you big important fraternity men in a jalopy, blindfolding and gagging her, and taking her back to the frat house for a gang bang. It was just a good thing that the father of the head of that crazy fraternity of yours had money enough to buy off the girl’s father and get the charges reduced, or I might never have met and married you, William.”

“I know, my dear. Yes, Bob was a heller all right. And he still is.” William Sanderman chuckled. “He’s actually running a few girls in his hotel right now. That’s the difference between profit and loss these days, my dear. I certainly wish we could do this with Peggy and Susan. I could sell their maidenheads for at least a thousand dollars each.”

“I won’t have it, and I don’t want to hear that subject ever again in this house,” Delia rebuked him, her lips tightening and her eyes very angrily bright. “What you really mean, you wretched old lecher, is that you want to fuck them yourself and you hope that I won’t ever find out. And you think that maybe if you could sell them, then you could force them to give in to you because they’d already done it, isn’t that right?”

Once again William Sanderman flushed and lowered his eyes, because Delia’s shaft had gone home to the mark. “A man can entertain fantasies, can’t he?” he tried to placate her in a whining voice.

“The trouble with you, William, is that your fantasies have a very bad habit of being put into practice. And you’re not at all business-like. You still take credit for making money on these little correctional moments we have with our nieces, don’t you? You even boast to that sickeningly kinky book dealer that you’re the one who thought it all up. First of all, I don’t trust him too much because he’s got a feminine nature at core, and you know yourself he wants to be dominated and beaten by a woman. And a man like that, if he were ever interrogated by the police, would crack wide open and then we’d both be in jail. No thank you. From now on you keep your mouth shut around him. Just look blank if he tries to talk to you about expanding these punishment sessions. We’ve clientele enough as it is, and we’re doing rather comfortably at the bank.”

“Thank God for that!”

“Yes, I know. But your tastes are still rather expensive, William, I don’t mind telling you. That’s why I want you to shove the idea of Peggy and Susan out of your silly head and put your mind to some real work for a change.”

“And what’s that?”

“Do you think you could think seriously for a while for the sum of twenty thousand dollars?” she asked him.

“My God, I could work out Einstein’s relativity theory for that much!” he gasped.

“Well, that’s precisely what Marge Clifford is willing to spend if we can help her get her younger sister Jane away from here and maybe in some correctional house. It’s a very dangerous thing, you know. You can get the gas chamber in this state for kidnapping, just like poor Caryl Chessman. You know, if he hadn’t taken that girl he raped out of the car and back into his a couple of hundred feet away, technically, he wouldn’t have been guilty of kidnapping at all and he might never have died in the gas chamber,” Delia Sanderman cynically remarked.

“You mean-this Clifford girl wants us to arrange the kidnapping of her sister?”

“That’s it exactly. But something more than that. I could see by the way she watched Peggy and Susan get it over my lap this afternoon that she was just dying to have Jane treated that way. So it’s got to be a place where Jane could be kept in captivity, humiliated and shamed and spanked a good deal. Now what about your friend Bob?”

“He’s about the only good contact I’ve got. And he’s a real rounder. Naturally he’s still a bachelor. I think he could set it up for us. Of course you’d have to split the money with him.”

“I’d be willing to pay five thousand dollars, which would leave us fifteen. Not a bad day’s work if we can arrange it swiftly and conveniently and without getting involved,” Delia Sanderman said.

“Maybe-”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe I could even have some fun with this younger Clifford girl-that is, if her sister didn’t mind,” William Sanderman hesitantly suggested, his face flushing vividly.

“We’ll see about that. I don’t like the idea right off because the sooner we abduct this girl, if we’re going to do it at all, the faster we have to move her out of the vicinity and off to Mexico or Baja California. And I know your tastes only too well. You’d probably want to keep her for the whole week, and by then the police would be hammering on our door. I don’t have any desire to order my last meal in San Quentin before I walk past the little green door and sit down and have to take a long deep breath, thank you.”

“Delia, you’re mean to me,” he whined.

“Oh no I’m not. Come here, you great big baby. Get down on your knees and do what I like you to do. And I’ll do as much for you,” Delia Sanderman murmured throatily.

With a gasp, his eyes shining, William Sanderman sank down on his knees and crawled towards her on the other side of the kitchen table. Delia Sanderman had shoved back her chair and now hoisted her dress and slip up past her waist, then spread her thighs. Her husband ran his hands caressingly along her stockinged thighs, which flexed and quivered voluptuously. Her face was a mask of intense anticipation as she saw him bow his head and press his lips against the dark triangular outline of her cunt-hair which showed through the thin white pan-tie-girdle which snugged out her loins and buttocks. With a groan, she put her left hand on the back of his neck to force him to this ritualistic homage of her pussy, while her right hand cupped one of her swelling titties.

She felt his tongue thrust against the thin material, and her pussy twitched and quivered voluptuously, for she had already been roused by having spanked and humiliated Peggy and Susan that afternoon. Finally he began to rub his nose rapidly against the crotch of the sheath, and Delia Sanderman arched herself up and pressed her cunt forcibly against him to accentuate the frictional pressure which was beginning to rouse her to the supreme ecstasy.

Knowing now what she wanted, he turned his lips and began to kiss the inside of one of her thighs very near her crotch, while his right forefinger resumed where his nose had left off in probing and rubbing right over the clitoris. With a sobbing cry, Delia Sanderman arched and squirmed and gave down her love cream.

Then he stretched himself out across her lap, on his back, putting his hands out behind him and reaching down to palm the floor, while he angled his toes against it from the other side of the chair. His prick was already thrusting violently against his fly, and Delia opened it, drew out the swollen organ, with its plumb-shaped meatus, and as she began to caress his inner thighs and his belly, she bowed her head down and took the tip of his prick into her mouth and began to suck it slowly.

Soon, in the kitchen, William Sanderman’s groans and babbled words of lustful excitement rose, as his prick jerked with the surge of seminal jet to the puckering lips which his handsome and domineering wife continued to suck and to furl with the tip of her nimble pink tongue. And when at last he ejaculated, Delia Sanderman swallowed it down to the last drop, and then licked his cockhead clean.

Wanly he straightened up with a groan at the stress in his muscles from this unnatural position. His limp cock dangling out of his open fly, he said hoarsely to her, “That was wonderful! Now what do you want me to do and how does Bob fit into this thing as you see it, Delia darling?”

Marge Clifford had started what would be a chain reaction, but one that would boomerang upon her and drag her down to the depths from the heights of vanity and egotism into which she had risen.

CHAPTER SIX

At the very moment that Marge Clifford was watching the chastisement of Peggy and Susan Sanderman, lovely golden-haired Jane Clifford was on the telephone with Edward Morrissey.

She sat in her bedroom, and was using the extension phone on the table. If there had been phone vision, the bashful and handsome young attorney might well have been inspired to take more aggressive action than he had shown thus far to the opposite sex. For Jane was wearing only a green satin negligee loosely belted and dainty matching mules. Under it, her ripely endowed twenty-two-year-old body was delectably naked.

Jane was perhaps half an inch shorter than her sister, and her golden hair was swept back from her brow, kept straight and full till it was turned under at the ends at the sides of her jaw and the back of her neck. Hers was a rounded face, serene and lovely, with very dark blue eyes set widely apart, a Grecian nose, an en-chantingly full ripe sweet mouth without the slightest hint of malice or arrogance.

Her skin was surprisingly pale white, more typical of a brunette than of a blonde, and her body was really memorably sculptured.

Her breasts were full and ripe and round and spaced rather widely apart and high on her chest, without any need whatsoever for a bra.

The aurolae were wide and of a brownish-coral, while her dainty nipple buds, crinkly and soft, were of a pale pink tint that was absolutely bewitching. From the suave goblet of her belly where a shallow and wide nook marked her navel, there was the lovely recession of the lower abdomen and then the plump mound of her virgin cunt, profusely covered with dark blonde curls. Indeed, if Jane was embarrassed about anything, it was that she was exceptionally hairy over her private parts, and this hirsuteness even ran along the gradually broadening cleft between her buttocks in route to her plump, dainty virgin ass-hole.

Jane Clifford’s thighs were magnificently rounded, neither too short nor too long, and her calves were saucily curved. She had a soft clear sweet voice not unlike that of adolescent Peggy Sanderman, but there was also a good deal of soberness to it. For all that her older sister considered her a goody-goody, Jane Clifford was practical and sensible to the extreme. And she was concerned at the moment on the phone because Marge’s extravagance might, if continued, loot the estate long before any such catastrophe should normally be expected.

“You know, Edward dear, I do wish you’d marry my sister and teach her how to be a good sensible budgeteering housewife,” she laughed softly. “I just happened to look over some of these bills, and they’re really ridiculous. I mean, Marge has absolutely no realization of things like plumbing and heating bills, and whenever there are repairs, she never tries to shop around to find someone who can do a good job without charging a young fortune. Just because we happen to be heiresses and have a little money in the bank, doesn’t mean we’re going to throw it away to impress our neighbors.”

“You’re quite right, Jane,” Edward said. He had a pleasant, resonant voice, and a most courteous manner. “But you see, Marge really is of age, just as you are and she has a perfect right to do whatever she wants with her half of the money. It’s clearly stipulated in the will only that the estate shall be divided equally between both daughters, who shall at the time of arriving at their maturity have full disposition of their funds. I personally think you’re quite wise in having invested in mutual funds and bonds, Jane, but I think it would be rather pushing of me to try to tell Marge anything at all. She is my fiancee, you know, and she might resent it.”

“My dear man,” Jane said exasperatedly, “you’re a very fine person and I deeply respect you. But Marge loves you. Don’t you think she would take your advice to heart?”

“Frankly, no,” he chuckled, “I’m not great shakes as a lover, Jane. I never was the romantic type. I feel a little embarrassed in the presence of a girl who’s quite smart and on the ball the way your sister is. And I still look upon it as a kind of miracle that she’s allowed me to think that one day I might be her husband.”

“What you ought to do, Edward Morrissey,” Jane said tartly, “is take her out in your car to some lonely beach, take along a picnic supper, and just plain seduce her. Then she’d have to marry you.”

“Why, Jane Clifford!” he gasped, and then burst into laughter. “You’re really amazing, Jane, you really are. Everybody takes you for a quite little mouse, but you can surprise people.”

“Of course I can. Marge doesn’t think so, though. Marge thinks I’m just a sweet simple-minded little schoolgirl who always got the breaks and got away with murder while she got the scoldings.”

“I really don’t think that’s true.”

“Pardon me, but it is, Edward. I know my sister doesn’t really like me. I think I’ve always known it.”

“Well, I’ll agree that it’s often a good idea for two people who are as close together as you and Marge are to have a vacation from each other once in a while. Just the way a husband and wife would. I suppose it is rather difficult living by yourselves in that lovely house way out there in that very swanky residential community and not having too many friends.”

“I have a few from college, of course, although I haven’t asked too many out lately,” Jane avowed. “But it would be nice to get away for a vacation. The trouble is, I really don’t feel like going anywhere. At least not alone.”

“Why don’t you and Marge go somewhere, then? like maybe Hawaii or Mexico? Acapulco is lovely this time of year.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Jane said thoughtfully. “I’ve really always wanted to go to Mexico. Maybe if we just went along like a couple of tourists and had fun, Marge might get over her peevishness. She’s really been quite moody lately, and sometimes when I talk to her she doesn’t even answer me. That’s why I’d wish you’d hurry up and marry her and give her something to think about.”

“You really astonish me sometimes, Jane,” Edward chuckled. “But I tell you what. You girls go ahead and have your vacation. I think I’m going to have to go with my mother to Kennebunkport-that’s in Maine, you know. She’s been wanting to go for the last four or five years, because she’s got a dear old cousin out there, and it really is beautiful along the Atlantic coast.”

“It would also be a nice place for a honeymoon, Edward,” Jane said pointedly.

“You’ll make a wonderful sister-in-law, Jane. But that won’t be for a little while yet. Let’s wait till the summer’s over and then we’ll see. But what about you?”

“What about me?” Jane Clifford countered.

“A lovely girl like you certainly out to have a fellow by now.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll wind up an old maid.” Jane began to loosen her negligee. The folds gaped to show those magnificent round titties of hers, and she smiled at herself in the mirror. The outlandish notion had just come to her that if Edward Morrissey could see her right now, she was just wondering whether he would still prefer Marge. Not that she begrudged her sister any happiness at all. In fact, she’d always admired and respected Marge because Marge did have a keen mind. Only there had always been a sort of barrier between them, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. In the last year, Marge had really become mysterious. She was going off to see people in San Mateo, people whose names she didn’t even care to mention, without explaining anything at all or even inviting Jane along. It was all very puzzling. And yet through it all, Jane had the feeling that Marge was bitterly resentful of the adolescence and the childhood they had spent together. Yes, it was true. Mom and Dad had really shown too much preference to her, and she really hadn’t wanted them to do it. She’d been perfectly happy to go along and be a kid sister to Marge and learn from her and respect her and look up to her. But now maybe it was too late. Or maybe, Edward was right. Maybe they really should share a vacation together and learn to understand each other much better.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Edward Morrissey said after a few moments of silence.

“Oh-I’m sorry, Edward. What I was thinking was, the other day when you were over her telling me about the mutual funds and bonds I had decided to buy, I think Marge saw us together.”

“What about it? She knows that I’m an attorney working in a large office that specializes in financial investments and corporation law.”

“I know. But what if she thought that I was actually making a play for you, Edward?”

“Why, that’s absurd!”

Jane Clifford became a little nettled. “I don’t really see what’s so absurd about it, Edward,” she said primly. “I’m really not so bad looking after all, you know. Maybe if I had made a play for you, you’d have noticed me as a woman instead of as just one of the two Clifford sisters.”

“Now that’s not fair. Anyhow, I told you I wasn’t really a model romantic type. I’ll be honest with you, Jane, I’m still a little scared of Marge myself. I’m rather awkward, you know, and I’m always afraid I’ll put my foot in it whenever we go out to dinner or anything like that.”

“I told you, take a picnic basket out to some deserted beach and make love to her.”

“Now you’re talking very naughtily, and I don’t believe you would really want me to do anything like that to your sister.”

“It would make a man of you, Edward. She’d respect you, if you went ahead and forced her to be good to you,” Jane said thoughtfully.

“Well, I must say, this conversation is taking an unusual turn. Maybe I’d better say goodbye now, Jane. But think it over, I mean what I said about the vacation.”

“I’ll do just that,” Jane Clifford said.

She hung up the phone, and then stood up slowly and let her negligee slither in a heap to her deliciously chiseled bare white ankles. She studied herself critically in the mirror. No, she wasn’t bad-looking at all. And if Edward Morrissey were here right now, he might even make a pass at her, which was more than he had done with Marge. She knew that because Marge had sometimes irritatedly remarked that Edward had his mind on concerts and books and fine restaurants but not at all on the essential things of life.

Yes, it was high time the two of them began to learn what made each other tick just a little better than they already knew. A vacation would be the ideal way, an easy going, relaxing trip. Why, for that matter, they could even drive to Mexico. It would be awfully pleasant. It might be the start of a happy new life for both of them.

Jane Clifford had no way of knowing that her sister was already planning just such a vacation, but that the round-trip part of it would be reserved for just one of them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Exactly a week from the day on which Marge Clifford had visited the Sanderman house, she and her sister Jane left on a three-week vacation. It was early July and the California weather was already warm. Since Mexico promised to be still warmer, the two lovely sisters dressed for comfort during the extended motor trip. Marge was driving her Impala, and she had put four suitcases in the back, two for each of them. But en route, both girls wore white linen shorts and matching blouses, with only panties and bras and open-toe thong sandals.

Jane had been pleasantly surprised when, hesitantly proposing a vacation to her sister, Marge had quite eagerly acquiesced. “We really haven’t had one for about two or three years, Marge,” she had tentatively begun-the very day after the spankings of Peggy and Susan–and I think it would be good for both of us. We’ve both been a little on edge lately.”

“You’re so right, dear,” Marge had laughed softly. “Why, do you know, I was actually starting to get mad at you, and here you are my own flesh and blood sister. I think it would be wonderful to have a vacation. Any plans for where you’d like to go, Jane?”

Golden-haired Jane had shrugged and said, “Wherever you want, it’s all right with me.”

“Tell you what,” Marge had proposed, her face fighting up, “let’s go on down past San Diego along the coastline. That’s Route 101, and it’s really beautiful. From there we can go on just to the start of Baja, California, and then head down along the border to Nogales and from there directly into Mexico City. Maybe we can see Guadalahara and maybe even Acapulco. I’ll pack our bathing suits.”

“Wonderful!” Jane had enthused. And then she had added almost solicitously, “You know, Marge darling, nothing would please me more than if you were going on a honeymoon instead with Edward Morrissey.”

“That drip!” Marge had contemptuously sneered. “It’ll take a powder keg under him to make him set a date. He isn’t the demonstrative sort, or hadn’t you noticed, dear sister?” And there had been just a veiled note of bitter sarcasm in that last question which had made Jane’s lovely forehead wrinkle with surprise, but in the very next breath Marge Clifford had gone on airily, “Don’t mind me, Jane honey. I’m practically an old maid at twenty-four. I do like him, of course. Rut sometimes I wish he’d be more aggressive. I’m certainly not going to be the one who sets the date. That’s the man’s job. Unless I want to dominate him, and I don’t think I’d like that kind of marriage. I want a strong bossy man. Rut maybe Edward won’t ever be that. Still, you can never tell. All right, I’ll pack for both of us, and I’ll use my car. Okay?”

And so on this July Monday morning, a little after dawn, the white Impala left Burlingame and headed out to Route 101, which goes along the magnificent coastline of the Big Sur and Monterey and Carmel, that area so immortalized by the great American poet Robinson Jeffers. They arrived in San Diego about seven-thirty that evening and stopped at a motel. There was a pleasant little restaurant right by the motel, so the girls didn’t have to dress for dinner. It had been a glorious trip, and Jane had taken along her new movie camera and shot a great deal of footage of the somber and majestically beautiful coastline. She felt pleasantly relaxed, and the warm sun on her bare thighs and arms felt very good. Marge seemed happier too. Yes, this trip was a really wonderful idea, and she’d drop Edward Morrissey a note and mail it off in the morning just to let him know that his suggestion for both of their taking a vacation together had been a first-rate idea.

She showered and went right to bed, in a pair of green cotton pajamas which molded out her ripely rounded young body in a most mouthwatering way. Marge excused herself for a minute, saying she wanted to get the local evening papers and see what the weather predictions were for that part of the country they would head the next morning.

The auburn-haired older girl walked down the paved sidewalk along the cabins of the motel to the office, where the bespectacled, gray-haired night clerk was already beginning to doze-nothing really ever happened in San Diego, at least not at this motel-and purchased the evening paper. Then she went to the public phone booth, put her hand in the pocket of her shorts, and drew out a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. Next, dropping a coin into the box, she dialed the long-distance operator. A few moments later, she was dropping coins as rapidly as she could until she heard the operator’s “Thank you. I’m ringing your number, Miss.”

“Mr. Dewars? This is Marge Clifford. Yes. Delia Sanderman gave me your number, and said to tell you that her husband Bill says Hello. That’s right. Then you’ve got her letter already-that’s just fine. Yes, I brought along the money. Five thousand for you, and I’ve already paid Delia the same amount. She’ll get the balance after I hear from you that everything has been done as per the letter.”

She waited a few moments as the somewhat hoarse voice of the man at the other end of the wire explained how things were going to be handled, and then she said, “That sounds fine to me. I’m glad you thought of that, Mr. Dewars. It’ll be ever so much convincing if we’re both held up. I don’t want my dear little sister to get even so much as an inkling of what’s going to happen to her or that I had anything to do with it, you understand. I can probably arrange a little bonus for you if you do a nice job. And, of course, if she should turn up missing for good-Mexico is such a huge country and there’s so many backwoods places there where mail never gets through-why, I think I could express my gratitude in a very tangible way. Yes, that’s right. And you want us to stop at Mendoza, just as we get into Baja California. Right. We ought to be there by about tomorrow noon, I’d say. I’m not going to go in any hurry. That’s right. It’s a white Impala, and we’ll be wearing play shorts and blouses. I’ve got auburn hair, and dear little Jane has hair the color of gold-which is very appropriate, don’t you think, Mr. Dewars. Fine. Good night and thanks.”

She hung up the phone and left the booth, and on her face was the expression of a cat that has just lingeringly and luxuriously lapped up a bowl of cream.

She lit a cigarette, walked outside and stared up at the starry sky. There was a full moon tonight. In about another week, she’d be heading back for Burlingame and for Edward Morrissey. Naturally the poor dear boy would be terribly upset about Jane’s accident. But she’d make him forget soon enough. And once Jane was out of the way, maybe she could really go to work on him and get him to give her what she needed. She shivered and passed a hand down her inner thighs. Then she glanced around guiltily, afraid that perhaps someone had seen her salacious gesture. Her pussy was beginning to tingle again with that delicious tantalizing itch it always had when she was getting randy-just the way it had last week while she was in the Sanderman’s living room waiting for one of the girls to get back home. It was nice that school was so late in California, up until the last week in June, because that had given Delia a perfect pretext to punish both girls. Only what they had got had been love taps compared to what dear little Janie was going to get. Her pure innocent little sister winding up in a Mexican whorehouse-that would really be a laugh!

Contentedly, she crushed out her cigarette under her sandaled heel, and went back dowi the paved walk to their cabin. The lights were already out. Well, let dear little Janie get he beauty sleep. She was going to need it tomor row.

CHAPTER EIGHT

There wasn’t much traffic on the highway going southward from San Diego this morning. Of course there would be tomorrow, since it would be the day before the Fourth of July. It was just perfect this way. Not much traffic and then about fifteen miles past the state line, the little village of Mendoza. There, there would be a crossroads which could be taken on into No-gales, after skirting Yuma, but of course they’d never get there. This fellow Bob Dewars had really got things worked out beautifully. It had been just a stroke of genius for that book dealer to have sent her to Delia Sanderman. Everything was going to work out just beautifully.

She glanced over at her golden-haired sister beside her. Jane was eagerly absorbed in looking out of the car window to her right, admiring the scenery. By this evening, a good many men would be admiring Jane’s scenery, Marge thought with cynical amusement. She had put the money in the glove compartment in the dashboard, in a little metal canister. Delia Sanderman had told her that Bob Dewars was to get five thousand for his part, and she had already accepted the same amount as a guarantee of good faith. When Bob Dewars had accomplished his mission, and Jane was safely incarcerated in that Mexican whorehouse, he would send a coded telegram to Delia back in Burlingame. Then Marge was to give Delia the remaining ten thousand. At the last moment, this Mr. Dewars had become a little greedy, and asked for seventy-five hundred instead of the agreed-upon five. But Delia Sanderman had assured her that it was all right, that still left a very neat profit for herself of over thirteen thousand dollars. And besides, Bob Dewars might have to spend a little extra on lining up some of the characters who were going to play the little drama which would take place on the narrowed two-lane road to the north of Mendoza …

It was an exceptionally hot day. Marge had had to stop for water to make sure that the car wouldn’t be stalled. And the white glaze on the Impala was already dirtied and there were signs where it was going to crack from the heat. Well, when Jane was safely out of the way, Marge could well afford a brand-new car if she felt that way.

Marge was complimenting herself on her own astuteness. If she’d already paid out the whole twenty thousand dollars, there would have been nothing to prevent this Bob Dewars from abducting her too. Wouldn’t that be a thought? She shivered, and stealthily glanced at her serenely happy golden-haired sister who was still looking at the scenery. That would really be something. Two virginal sisters in a Mexican whorehouse. But the thought was that greasers and Latin Americans in general had a yen for rubies, which was what Bob Dewars had told her. And that meant blondes. And with her golden hair and pale white skin, Jane would really keep the boys busy-and they in turn would keep her busier still. She wouldn’t be a goody-goody after tonight. It was really a most ingenious plan. And nothing could go wrong with it. This Mr. Dewars had told her that Jane would be taken to a brothel near La Paz to start with, and that was a free port where there was almost no trouble from any authorities at all. After that, she could be moved farther and farther into the interior of Mexico, into little towns where the law never bothered going, until she was finally forgotten or dead. It wouldn’t be a great loss, either. And then the rest of Jane’s money in the account and, of course, a clear path to Edward Morrissey’s affections, would all be hers.

“Are you sure this is the right road, Marge?” Jane Clifford turned to her sister.

“Of course it is, silly. Don’t you think I looked at the map?”

“I know. But it does seem such a roundabout way to go to Nogales. Why didn’t we cut to the east when we left San Diego instead of coming farther down south all the way into Baja California?”

“Because I’ve never seen this area before, and it’s certainly very scenic,” was Marge’s reply.

“Yes,” Jane dubiously agreed, “but it’s also very deserted and lonely. And if anything went wrong with the car, well, I haven’t seen a gas station around for miles.”

“You worry too much, dear,” Marge complacently retorted. “I tanked up in San Diego, and I’ve got about ten more gallons, and there’s certain to be a gas station in the next few miles.

Now I’m going to turn east the way you wanted, and connect back with a main highway.”

“I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Marge. It’s just that neither of us has ever been out this way before, and we’re all alone and depending on this car. You know, people can die of sun stroke in the desert.”

“They can die by crossing the street back where we live, too, little sister,” Marge said tightly with a swift vindictive look at Jane which the latter didn’t notice. “But set your mind at ease. Here’s the highway now and we won’t have any trouble. And there’s a filling station about a quarter of a mile down the road-see it?”

It was, indeed, the locale where the abduction was to be staged. Marge Clifford could hardly hold back a smile of long-awaited triumph. At last she was going to be rid of her darling little Pollyannish sister. And there wasn’t any need to feel sorry for Jane, either. So she’d lose out on Edward Morrissey, but in return she’d have more men than she could ever dream of handling. How they’d go for those luscious round white thighs of hers and that furry little muff between them!

She was going to watch, too Bob Dewars had told her that it was a little risky, but for an extra five hundred he could arrange it. There was an old ranch house about three miles to the south of that isolated gas station, where Jane would be taken first. It belonged to a friend of his, a Senor Pedro Corbajo. And in the bedroom there was a very wide closet with a hole bored from the inside, like a little kind of peephole, from which she could watch and see how they were going to break Jane in. Senor Corbajo was a big wheel in the white slave business down in Mexico. Ostensibly, he was an elderly ranchero who often had business in Mexico City, and he left the little place just beyond Mendoza to the supervision of his coarse Mexican-Indian overseer Toltes. Toltes was a good deal of a sadist and Senor Corbajo often used him in the other houses to work over some of the recruits who weren’t so cooperative as they were expected to be when estimable gentlemen with money in their wallets came to pay the girls a visit. Marge Clifford felt her pussylips twitch and moisten again, just as she had done a week ago in the Sanderman living room.

“So I’ll stop and fill up the gas tank, Jane,” she turned to the golden-haired beauty with an engaging smile. “And then we’ll head straight on towards Nogales. Okay?”

“Fine, Marge. I was only worried for you. Neither of us have ever really had to rough it, you know. And I just didn’t want anything to spoil our vacation.”

“It won’t, I promise you, dear. This is going to be the loveliest vacation I’ve ever had,” Marge Clifford said, and there was a ring of truth to this statement at least.

A few minutes later, the white Impala pulled into the little gas station. It was dusty and fore-lorn, and there was only one attendant, a squat Mexican with a big sombrero, of indeterminate age. He doffed the sombrero with a flourish and his leathery, swarthy face twisted in what was meant to be a smile as he inquired in faltering

English of what possible service he could render the lovely Senoritas.

“Fill up the tank, if you please,” Marge said peremptorily. Then, turning to Jane, she added, “I have to go to the washroom for a minute. Stay here and keep an eye on things, darling.”

“Oh, Marge, it looks so dirty,” Jane protested.

“Can’t help it, nature calls,” Marge giggled with a salacious wink. Yes, little sister, she thought to herself, by tonight, you’re going to be amazed how much you will have learned to get over your squeamishness. And you can kiss all your cherries goodbye!

She had already opened the dashboard compartment and taken out the little metal canister with the money for Bob Dewars. The remaining ten thousand was back in another little canister hidden in her desk back in Burlingame, to be delivered to Delia Sanderman when she was satisfied that Jane was safely out of the way once and for all. She had also brought along some travelers’ checks, about two thousand dollars in all, to meet the extra tariff which Bob Dewars had so unexpectedly raised on the phone. Still and all, though it annoyed her, she couldn’t back out now. Here Jane was hundreds of miles away from Burlingame, and nobody knew exactly where they were going except in the general direction of Mexico City, so it would be pointless to argue over a few thousand dollars. Besides, all the rest of Jane’s money, once Jane was officially declared dead after seven years, would be hers. And maybe darling Edward, once she married him and began to dole out pussy and made him really beg for it and pant for it and drool for it, would find legal ways and means of getting her the money before the end of the seven years.

The attendant put the hose into the tank, and turned on the dispenser, as he followed Marge around the side of the service station. When she saw that she was out of Jane’s sight, she handed him the canister and winked and said in Spanish, “Para Senor Dewars, comprende?”

“Si, Senorita!” the attendant winked back. “Eet weel be only a leetle moment and then it will happen as you know, Senorita.” He took off his sombrero again and scratched his greasy, rumpled black hair in which a few patches of gray were showing. “I thenk maybe it already starts to happen now.”

A station wagon had suddenly pulled up behind the Impala. Two dark-skinned men in corduroy trousers and open-throat blouses and heavy work shoes, had got out and were advancing towards the Impala. One of them began to strike up a conversation with Jane, who smiled at him in a friendly way and tried to understand what he was saying. But she spoke very little Spanish, and he had a guttural voice and she couldn’t quite make out his idiom. Suddenly he reached in, pulled up the door lock, and then flung open the front door of the car. In the same movement, he grabbed Jane by her wrist and dragged her out of the car.

“Marge! Help me, my God-get the attendant-someone’s trying to kidnap me!” Jane screamed. With her free hand, doubling it into a fist, she tried to strike at her attacker. But with a laugh, he bent, lifted her up by the waist and flung her over his shoulders as if she had been a sack of potatoes. Then he trundled her to the back of the station wagon and flung her down inside, while his companion swiftly looped a rope around her ankles and then another at her wrists which were drawn behind her back. Finally, the two of them stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth and tied a red bandanna over it, knotting it tightly at the back of her neck. Her eyes bulged, and she wriggled and twisted, frantic with desperate fear. But the fear was for her sister as well as for herself.

Now they returned to the rear of the service station where Marge had stepped to hide. They doffed their sombreros, and the man who had first accosted Jane politely said, “It is necessary we do the same with you, Senorita. You will understand, of course. I shall be as gentle as I can, I and my amigo, Juan.”

Marge nodded and smiled. Her wrists were pulled behind her back, and tied tightly. Then her ankles were corded. Finally, as with her sister, a dirty handkerchief was stuffed into her mouth and a bandanna wrapped around that and knotted at the back of her neck. Then the two men lifted her up and carried her to the station wagon, where they flung her down beside Jane, locked up the back, and drew the little shades which had been most ingeniously attached inside the windows at the rear of the station wagon. There was one also for the back, so that no one could see that two helplessly bound and gagged girls were being transported to their destiny!

CHAPTER NINE

The station wagon drove away at once from the filling station, and towards the southeast for about five miles, then took a winding, narrow dirt road to reach the hacienda of Senor Pedro Corbajo.

The entrance to the ranch, a sprawling adobe-brick structure, was hidden by rows of hedges of manzanita, wild rose, thorny briars and barrel cacti, with several crooked beech trees giving plentiful shade to the courtyard. There was a metal gate which opened in half, and a grizzled peon hastened to open it as the station wagon approached.

On the veranda of the ranch house, two men lounged in a swing on the porch, straw hats pulled down over their foreheads, each with a tall frosted glass in his right hand, while just beyond him there stood a pretty Mexican girl in sleeveless, deeply cut blouse of multi-printed cotton with a gaudy, bright-colored skirt. The girl was naked under these two garments, for the convenience of the patrons. There were occasionally wealthy turistas who made reservations for a delightfully relaxing weekend at the Ranchero Corbajo, the fixed price for which was $500, and this tariff included a personal and very comely maid who would not only do the rooms, but perform all sexual services which the customer might desire during his stay. Plentiful food and enough tequila to satisfy the ordinary man were included for another $100, and the clientele of this secluded and little-known hacienda were extremely wealthy and demanding. Pedro Corbajo, who lounged in the swing nearest the wide door of the house, was a man of fifty-four, gray-haired, lean and wiry, and his handsomely aristocratic features might well have passed for those of a genuine hidalgo of Spain. He had a hawk-like nose, a domineering chin, jaws that seemed carved out of granite, and a high forehead. His eyes were bright and alert, a gentle dark brown-but all the girls who worked at the hacienda knew how steely they could turn at a moment’s notice when it was a matter of discipline.

Pedro Corbajo owned a dozen such going enterprises throughout Mexico, and his latest addition, completed six months ago, was only a few miles from the world-famed tourist resort of Acapulco. He lived frugally, to all appearances, and he made several visits to Mexico City during the year to bank his money and to hold meetings with his jefes at the various houses (for of his dozen, eight were run by men who had been tested and carefully supervised throughout their apprenticeship as “bouncers” or trainers of recruits). But his favorite of all the houses was this little estate near Mendoza, the sleepy little village in Baja California. First of all, there was hardly any danger of legal intervention in this locale. The county sheriff, so named, was a fat, indolent Mexican who looked the other way and gratefully accepted the envelope containing many hundred-peso notes which Pedro Corbajo sent to his office each month as a regular tribute for his discretion.

Depending on the demands of each of these houses, there were central clearing stations for new girls, many of whom of course came of their own volition, but some of whom (like Jane Clifford) had been abducted or lured by false advertisements offering glamorous jobs for dancers and singers and chorines to appear in night clubs of Acapulco and Mexico City. And the Ranchero Corbajo was one of the initiatory holding places for all new girls.

There were in all about a dozen pretty “maids” already in service at this house as the two men who had abducted Jane and pretended to abduct her older sister Marge now lifted the bound and gagged sisters out of the station-wagon. Some seven of these girls had already spent the two essential weeks of their initiation, learning that they were not to be employed in any such glamorous positions as they had been led to believe but would be trained to service the lustful desires of any man with the price. Several of these had already tasted the lash and the solitary dungeon, and one especially was still rebellious even after two weeks of brutal treatment. She had been turned over to Toltes, the coarse, vicious Mexican-Indian overseer of the hacienda. Daily whippings, violations by Toltes and several of the peons who worked on the estate, had thus far failed to break her spirit. At this moment the unfortunate Carmencita Perez, a flashing-eyed full-bosomed and wide-hipped young beauty of twenty-one, abducted from Nogales, was bound in the windowless and subterranean “burial chamber,” which Pedro Corbajo fervently believed would bring her to her senses.

This “burial chamber” was nothing more, nor less, than a shaft dug out of the earth and below the cellar, into which the girl had been tied in the position of crapaudine, her knees drawn up against her titties, her wrists tightly fixed to her calves, and a rope circling her back and shins to compress her still further. She lay in damp earth, and a lid had been placed over the dug-out shaft, sufficient air passing through a small round hole in this lid to enable her to breathe. There were large san beetles stirring in the earth around her, and some of them had begun to crawl upon her naked feet and calves, while she twisted and moaned inarticulately, for she was gagged and blindfolded as well. Usually only four or five hours of this treatment sufficed to render docile the most rebellious captive, but Carmencita Perez had already been in this hellhole since dawn.

At noon, the lid had been lifted up and the grinning, saturnine face of the overseer Toltes had appeared to contemplate the naked captive. Then he had artfully lowered a rubber hose with a wide funnel, and deftly pressed it against her mouth, upon which one of his henchmen had turned on the spigot and poured cold water against her gagged mouth. He poured enough water, filtrated through the gag, to provide her with assuagement for her thirst, but there would be no food for her until she capitulated. He had called to her, “Listen, little bird, you can fly out of this cage just by nodding your head three times. You’ll be a good girl and you will give the padrones all they want of you, it is understood? No? Verdad, you are a stubborn one. But we shall see this evening when you grow faint with hunger. And you will eat my cojones first to show that you are going to be good again. Adios.” With this, the lid had been replaced and poor Carmencita had been left in her “burial chamber” until evening.

As the two men pushed the struggling Marge and Jane Clifford up the stone steps leading to the veranda of the ranch house, both men in the swings slowly rose and contemplated the newcomers. The other man was Bob Dewars, an adventurer who was about forty-four, dark as an Indian himself, who had been a civil engineer, a miner and prospector in Venezuela and Ecuador, and who was as criminally amoral as his bordello-owning associate Pedro Corbajo. For it was Bob Dewars who often helped entrap helpless and unsuspecting young women to turn them over to the brothel owner. He had been a former college chum of William Sanderman, had long ago forfeited his American citizenship and was quite content to bask in the luxury and sexual comfort provided for him by his chief sponsor, the eminent Pedro Corbajo.

He had intimated to his host that he had already prearranged a deal whereby a very beautiful American heiress would be turned over to the Corbajo red-light houses, and that he had already been paid by a private individual who wished this girl to disappear. All the profits which she would naturally earn while working at any of the dozen houses owned by Pedro Corbajo would of course revert to Corbajo himself. And with this arrangement, the aristocratic Mexican had absolutely no fault to find, though he quite well knew that Bob Dewars must have received a staggering fee to risk the danger over the border of involving himself directly.

As golden-haired Jane Clifford was forced onto the veranda, her wrists behind her back, her ankles tied together, and the bandanna fixed over the gag in her mouth, the gray-haired Corbajo arched his eyebrows and nodded. By all the saints, this rubia was really a prize! The customers would go mad for her, with that pale white skin and those big tetas. What legs she has, and what a magnificent behind! Toltes would go out of his dark skin working her over if the little bitch didn’t prove to be cooperative.”

Bob Dewars leaned over and whispered something into his ear, and gestured toward au-burn-haired Marge Clifford. Again the owner of the bordellos arched his eyebrows elegantly. This was something new and quite absorbingly interesting. A sister who hated her sister and who was willing to spend good money to turn her over without any questions asked as to her possible future. Because once a girl entered the Corbajo houses, she might as well be dead so far as the rest of the world was concerned. Her name would be changed, of course, and if necessary her hair dyed. In some extreme cases, Corbajo had even added a Mexico City dentist to payroll. They pull out some perfectly good molars and bicuspids and replace them with gold teeth, just as a final precaution so that the unfortunate young woman on whom this operation had been performed could not be found by private detectives.

The red-haired one, at the same time, Corbajo thought to himself, was in some ways even more exciting. But she was apparently the one who was making the arrangements with the Senor Dewars. She must really be a cunning bitch. He felt a certain admiration for her, because this was a thing he understood. Abductions and dispositions of people wasn’t quite so fashionable anymore as it had been years ago. In the good old days, when the Emperor Maximillian had stupidly tried to reign over a nation which hated his guts because he represented the treacherous French, there were crimes of revenge and arrangements such as this. He thought that the red-haired one had style and imagination. Later he would talk with her. But for the moment he would listen to what the Senor Dewars had to say concerning the rubia whose name was Jane Clifford.

“You will take them, boys,” he told the two men who had abducted the sisters,” into my own bedroom. You will have Toltes come in, in about an hour, and tell him to bring a whip. I think a quirt will do very nicely.”

“Esta buen, Patron!” the man who had accosted Jane Clifford grinned and nodded.

“First let there be a little refreshment. Some enchiladas, some frijoles and tacos, and a little tequila, of course. Though since these charming gringos are from the Estados Unidos, they will probably prefer that detestable drink known as-how do you say it, Senor Dewars?”

“Cokes,” William Sanderman’s ex-college chum chuckled. He was rather stout, but almost six feet tall, with thinning dark brown hair which gray had already touched at the temples and at the sides. His face was mottled, with coarse veins, the signs of a drinker and a sensualist. His lips were fleshy and he had a two-day stubble on his cheeks and jowls. He wore dirty, rumpled linen trousers, and a sleeveless sport-shirt which had been purchased in Acapulco some months ago. Pedro Corbajo glanced at him with a grimace of disgust. Unfortunately, the Senor Dewars was useful to him, but one day he was going to take the man aside and talk to him about the niceties of existence. Meanwhile he would be politically discreet because Dewars was still a very valuable ally.

Jane and Marge Clifford were lifted up in the air by the two captors, taken inside the ranch-house, down a long narrow hall and then into an enormous bedroom with a four-postered canopied bed covered with a magnificent brocaded drape. It was the bedroom of the brothel owner himself. In here, every new girl who ultimately was to pass into one of the Corbajo houses throughout Mexico received her initiation. Marge Clifford felt herself trembling violently, and the lips of her pussy were sticky and hot with love cream. The man carrying her took her into the closet, letting her down gently, whispering to her, “You will find a little hole through which you can watch, Senorita. You understand that I must do this, it will look more realistic to your sister.”

“Of course. I understand. Thank you. And you’ll tell Mr. Dewars that he’s going to get his bonus. He’ll know what I mean.”

The man tipped his hat courteously, and then went out of the closet, locking the door. Marge Clifford lay still bound, but a smile of ineffable ecstasy was on her blushed, excited face. At long last her secret revenge on that bitchy golden-haired sister of hers was going to take place!

CHAPTER TEN

Jane Clifford made a few attempts to twist loose from the cords which were lashed around her wrists and ankles, but discovered that it wasn’t any use. Turning her face this way and that, she tried to ease the constriction of the bandanna over the dirty handkerchief which had been stuffed into her mouth as a gag, and that didn’t help either. There wasn’t any help for it. She was a captive, and she would just have to He there on this bed and find out exactly what this all meant. She wondered why they had put Marge into the closet. It looked very ominous. Maybe they were going to deal with Marge later.

Despite being two years younger than her auburn-haired sister and being accepted by most people who first saw her as just a lovely, sweet and innocent girl, Jane Clifford had a good deal of practical common sense. Her first guess was that she and her sister had been kidnapped for ransom. One sometimes reads about things Like this in Mexico. At the moment, the thought that she might be forced to endure bodily harm didn’t come to her.

She tried to call out to Marge, but all she could do was make a muffled sound. No, it was hopeless. The best thing to do was to wait and see what was going to happen. She had never been in any real physical danger in all her life, and she wasn’t going to get hysterical about this. There must be an explanation of some kind. And if it was a question of ransom, that could be arranged with Edward Morrissey; these people here could put in a call to him, and she would willingly see to it that the money was forwarded. It was just too bad that a thing like this had to happen on the first vacation she and Marge had taken together in a long, long time.

In about fifteen minutes, the door to the huge and luxuriously furnished bedroom opened, and the two men who had abducted her and Marge entered with trays of food, a bottle of tequila and two glasses. They sat these down on a low table near the bed, and then stood looking down at her, commenting on her voluptuous young figure in obscene Spanish jargon which she could hardly understand at all. But she inferred that they were talking about her body and that they would like to go to bed with her. This she could have understood if only from the lewd glitter in their eyes and their smirking, wet lips … and finally, the self-explanatory projections at their crotches. It was true that Jane Clifford was a virgin, but it wasn’t true that she was totally ignorant. She knew perfectly well what the difference between male and female anatomy was, and she had begun to experience vague stirrings in her own soft dark-blonde-thatched pussy the last year or two, especially when she met Edward Morrissey. She thought he was gentle and delightfully bashful, a very old fashioned trait which she particularly liked in this age of know-it-all assurance and brassiness. She hadn’t really thought too much about any steady boyfriend. There had been a couple of fellows at college who had dated her and who had even kissed her and tried to do a little necking, but she wouldn’t let them. Not because she was a prude by any means, but simply because she didn’t feel her bodily chemistry responding to theirs. It was as simple as that.

But she couldn’t help blushing as she stared up at the two men who stood close together muttering in Spanish, feasting their eyes on the magnificent rhythmic swell of her titties, and the flexing muscles of her rounded thighs. She had begun to wish already that she had worn a decent dress instead of these scanty play shorts and the blouse. There was far too much of her bare skin showing, and it was giving these men ideas. Tied as she was, she couldn’t resist them even if they did try something. They looked dirty and unkempt, like animals.

Finally they walked out, not without a last long look at her there on the bed, and then slammed the door, evidently in some pique because they weren’t going to be allowed to touch this gorgeous gringa rubia.

In the Corbajo houses, no new girl-unless of course she was a rebellious and mutinous fighter from the very start-was ever broken in by anyone else than Senor Pedro Corbajo himself. Marge Clifford didn’t know this, but it really didn’t matter to her as she managed to get to her knees inside the closet and adjust her eyes to the round little peephole which had been cut out of the closet door. She just wanted to see her sister fucked and whipped and enslaved. And then she would go back home with a sob story to tell dear Edward, and everybody would make a big search for poor dear little Jane, and, of course, they wouldn’t find her. Because by then, she’d be carried off to some other house farther into Mexico, and disguised if need be. Bob Dewars had told her this in so many words when she had made that phone call to him from San Diego.

And then the door again opened, and this time Jane Clifford shuddered and her eyes grew very wide. There was the man she had seen get out of the swing on the veranda, the tall, lean, gray-haired man who looked like a Spanish nobleman. And what disturbed her most was that all he was wearing was a bathrobe, and not even slippers. The bathrobe was loosely belted, and she could see his hairy chest-thick, matted gray hair. And his dark brown eyes were narrowed and calculating as he slowly approached the bed.

“I bid you welcome to Mendoza and to the Ranchero Corbajo,” he said courteously and in perfect English. “You see that my men here have brought in a little something for your refreshment. I trust that you will do me the honor of partaking it with me. But first, of course, let me take away this unpleasant gag. I fear my men are much too zealous in my service. But you understand the need for precaution, I am sure.”

So saying, he bent towards her, reached behind her neck and deftly unknotted the bandanna, and then whisked it off along with it the dirty handkerchief which had been crammed into her mouth.

“I-I don’t understand all this. And I speak only a very little Spanish,” she faltered.

“It is not necessary, Senorita. I speak excellent English. The fact is simply that you have been abducted here and that I own a number of private houses which are put at the disposal of my worthy customers. They, you see, after a week in the fields or at their businesses, come to these houses in search of enjoyment and pleasure. And what greater pleasure can there be in life than to hold the body of a beautiful young woman in their arms? Naturally, for a price.”

Jane Clifford’s blood ran cold. She understood now. She hadn’t believed that white slavery still existed in the twentieth century. But she was evidently caught up in just such a traffic, and this pleasant and unassuming spacious ranch house was nothing more nor less than a whorehouse.

“There must be some mistake,” she said in her clear sweet voice, trying not to show her loss of composure. “I am an American citizen, my name is Jane Clifford, and I live in Burlingame, in California. My sister and I were driving to Mexico for a vacation. To detain us against our will would have serious consequences for you. And we certainly are not whores.”

Pedro Corbajo chuckled, and then slapped his thigh and burst into a roar of laughter. “No, I would be doing you an injustice, Senorita Clifford, if I said that you were.” Then his face grew grave and his eyes narrowed: “But you will learn to be, that is the essential thing. And as a mark of the special favor which I am going to show you, because you are very beautiful and certainly of good breeding and family, I myself shall do you the honor of initiating you into what your duties will be in one or another of my houses. May I offer you something to eat, and a glass of tequila first, Senorita?”

“No, I want nothing. I only want to be untied and taken back to my sister’s car, along with her, and allowed to go on our way. If the American Consul hears about this, you will certainly go to prison.”

“I don’t think so, Senorita Clifford. You, see, no one knows that you are missing yet. And by the time any inquiry is made, you will be sent from house to house till you reach the farthest southern province of Mexico, where for hundreds of miles there is not even a hacienda and where there is certainly no law. So you see how useless it is. And since I believe that you are sensible, Senorita Clifford, I do not think you will wish to struggle and to put up needless resistance. It could only be harmful to you, not to me. We have our ways of teaching unruly putas to behave themselves.”

Jane Clifford swallowed, and her eyes widened with a growing fear. However banteringly sarcastic his words had been, she had no doubt that he meant every one of them.

“I’m going to untie your legs now, Senorita,” he blandly continued. “Then we shall have a little something to eat and drink and become better acquainted. I must warn you that if inside of-here he glanced at a superb silver wristwatch set with platinum and diamonds-half an hour you haven’t made the best of your lot by being companionable, my overseer Toltes will enter here with a quirt. It is made of rawhide, Senorita, and it is used on horses and also on silly girls who don’t know how to obey without such a lesson. You understand me?”

Jane Clifford shuddered violently. Yes, she understood. He was going to fuck her. But there was nothing she could do about it at all. With her wrists tied behind her, it would be an unequal struggle against just this man; indeed, he looked formidable enough despite his gray hair to be able to overcome her by sheer force even if her wrists weren’t tied. “Yes,” she said faintly.

A mocking little smile curved his lips. “You are most reasonable to begin with. Let us see if you can continue thus. Then when Toltes enters, I shall have the pleasure of sending him away. It would be more pleasant for you, too, I can assure you. Let me just tell you this one thing before I untie you, Senorita Clifford. There is a naughty little girl here. She has actually been here about a week. She fought like a tigress with tooth and nail against me. I had Toltes give her the whip and possess her as often as he wished. But since all this did not seem to render her sensible, I had him bury her in a kind of long excavation under the cellar of this ranchero. She is tied and she is naked and she has only a little air to breath. She is given just enough water so that she won’t die of thirst, but no food. She has been there since this morning, and if she doesn’t yield, she will stay there all night long. Toltes is in charge of this little affair. Be guided by what I tell you, Senorita Clifford.”

With this, he began to untie the cords around her slim ankles. She could see that his eyes were feasting on her bare calves and thighs, admiring the contours of her bottom through the snugly fitting play shorts. And also that he was staring at her crotch, at that rather plump and prominent apex at the peak of her thighs. Instinctively, she tried to clench her legs to diminish that all too intimate and vulnerable area. He chuckled softly: “I am sure you must be a virgin, Senorita Clifford. But have no fear, I have broken in many such a timid girl and now she is a passionate puta earning a great deal of money for herself and for the Corbajo houses throughout Mexico. I predict that you will be a veritable sensation, with that fine pale white skin, and that lovely long golden hair.” He reached out a hand and caressed her rumpled tresses. Jane closed her eyes and shivered again. Slowly her ankles began to ache as circulation was restored to them. She lay there helplessly, know that it would do absolutely no good to resist. The story he had just told her about Toltes had terrified her.

In the closet, Marge Clifford was squirming about on her knees, and her wrists bound behind her became a kind of Tantalus for her. She longed to have her fingers free so that she could begin to frig herself while watching this delicious scene. There was goody-goody Jane, on that huge four-poster canopied bed, and that sexy-looking greaser standing over her and talking to her, and she could hear every word. He was going to give it to that little bitch. He was going to make a woman of her. That would teach Jane to go around making sheeps eyes at her own fianc’! And how she hoped that Jane would put up a fight, how she hoped that Toltes would come in with that quirt and rip Jane’s play shorts and blouse off and thrash her on the bare flesh of her heinie and her legs and her back and her titties too, yes, and in between those rounded bare legs, right on her pussy!

He turned now to the trays of food and liquor which the peons had brought in, picked up a taco and held it to her lips. “Eat something, Senorita Clifford. It will give you strength. I must tell you that I am a very vigorous and demanding man, even though I am in my fifties. No girl in any of my houses has any reason to complain of the initiation I gave her. Quite a few of them have begged me for mercy, said that they couldn’t stand any more loving. But with you, Senorita Clifford, I feel I shall outdo even myself. You are really delicious.” His long slim hand gently caressed her bare left knee, and his fingertips grazingly ascended the round pale white column on towards the sensitive inner thigh and near the tight sheath of her shorts. Her eyes fixed on his hand, as if hypnotized by it, and her body was quivering violently as all her muscles leaped into readiness to defend herself. It wouldn’t do any good to kick, she knew. And he would beat her or have that man he called Toltes beat her with a quirt. It was horrible. There was only one thing to do. And that was to yield herself without violence and without a struggle and pray that he would be appeased and less vigilant with her so that she would have a chance to escape.

“Must I be tied Like this?” she heard herself asking, and she actually managed to force a smile to her soft red lips.

Senor Pedro Corbajo drew back his hand and straightened, a delighted smile on his lips. “But of course not, Senorita Clifford. I am enchanted to find you so realistic about this situation which could otherwise become most unpleasant. It would grieve me if you were to complain of my hospitality your first day in Mexico. By all means, there’s no need to keep you bound like this. Please sit up and I will untie your wrists at once.”

Jane Clifford obeyed, and she saw his eyes linger on her titties, and then she felt his fingers at her wrists, loosening the cords, and then she was free.

He seated himself on the edge of the bed, reached the tray and handed her a taco. “Try it,” he said with a charming little smile. “At least, try to keep me company. It’s been an exhausting morning, and I didn’t eat too much lunch. In Mexico, we take a siesta in the early afternoon to avoid the heat. But now I am refreshed, and you are making me feel young again, Senorita Clifford. And try some tequila also. It goes very well with love, you know.”

He uncorked the bottle, poured about two fingers into a glass and handed it to her. She sipped it. It was deceptively mild, and her throat was a little parched. She felt the potent liquor tingling at the tip of her stomach, sending warm and pleasant waves through her viscera. She managed a smile at him as she bit into a taco. It was really delicious. She swung her lovely rounded bare legs down to the floor, and on the edge of the bed, beside this whore-master, this owner of a dozen brothels, this man of the most insidious cruelty who would as soon order the flogging and the torture of a rebellious captive as he would a bottle of wine from his steward, lovely golden-haired sensitive virginal Jane Clifford found herself conversing as if she were keeping an amorous assignation and not being in imminent danger of losing her cherry on this very bed to the man who was going to turn her into a whore.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Marge Clifford had glued her eye to the peephole in the closet, and her knees were aching from the tension of keeping herself erect and at the proper level for seeing on into the luxurious bedchamber of Pedro Corbajo. But her mouth was agape with surprise, because the last thing in the world she had expected was to have Jane Clifford give in to that greaser. She had been telling herself that it would seem like an eternity to wait half an hour until Toltes came into the room with a quirt to use on Jane’s bare white ass and titties. And now it looked as if she wasn’t going to get to see this at all. It was a damn shame, and it was also a dirty trick to thwart her revenge this way. She might have expected something like this from that little bitch, she thought bitterly. But of course she didn’t dare open her mouth and call out to Pedro Corbajo to go ahead and have Jane whipped anyway, because then Jane would know all about the plot.

She had to console herself with the recollection that all girls who came to Mendoza were eventually sent on to other whorehouses in the provinces, and that for all her big talk and brave attitude, Jane Clifford was going to have to spread her white legs and accept the cock of anybody who had the price to pay to enter her room. And there would be lots of men to whom

Jane wouldn’t behave quite so sweetly as she was acting up to this gray-haired greaser who ran the show, and that was for sure.

Meanwhile, Pedro Corbajo was thoroughly enjoying himself. This was really a novel experience. Very rarely did he encounter anything except tears and wailing and useless supplications, and the most poignant stories and pleas for mercy, from the new girls whom he considered it his obligation to initiate into their future role as putas. Indeed, not unlike Marge Clifford herself, he regretted this a little, because he would have enjoyed seeing what Toltes’ quirt could do to this delicious pale white skin of the lovely gringa. On the other hand, if she actually were as cooperative as her words and attitude now indicated, it would be a delightful night. There were moments when even he, who had any woman he wished and as often as he wished, tired of violence and rape. Yes, by all means it was zestfully enjoyable, and to thrust your prick deep into the tight hole of a virgin until you felt your cojones rub against her pussy-hairs made you feel muij macho, muij hombre. But a long, leisurely and mutually pleasant fuck had much to recommend. One could have as many climaxes as there was sap in one’s balls, whereas with rape your first duty was to rid your bladder of the excessive fluid which had been gathered up during your fight to get between the thighs of the rebellious bitch who didn’t want to give what she had between her wriggly legs.

“Try a frijole, Senorita Clifford,” he urged with a pleasant smile. “And a little more tequila. It goes down gently, and it leaves fire in the belly. This is good for love.”

“I’m sure it is, Senor-Senor-”

“Pedro Corbajo, at your service. And very much at your service as soon as you are willing, Senorita. I should like to call you Jane, if I may. And you may call me Pedro, it will be very intimate and very pleasant that way, no es verdad?”

“As you like, P-Pedro,” Jane’s voice had begun to quaver just a little. The moment was coming, and she knew that it was like the hour of truth which they wrote about in the bullring. The only difference was that she would be the matador and he the bull, and she would be the one who got gored. She felt the lips of her pussy begin to twitch and shrink in psychosomatic apprehension. It was a natural and instinctive virgin dread which assaulted her lusciously young vibrant loins now.

“One thing before we begin, Senorita Jane,” he murmured as he finished his glass of tequila. “You need have no fears about a baby. To begin with, years ago, knowing that I should never marry and that my business gave me, after all, many, many wives,” here he smiled lasciviously, “I had a slight operation performed to render me sterile. Therefore you may receive my seed without fear or restraint, and it will also be more pleasurable for you that way. Later, after you have been put to work in one of the houses-and since you are so amiable, I shall let you choose where you would like to work-one of the doctors who is on my payroll will perform a similar operation which will prevent your pregnancy. Then you may give that lovely body of yours over entirely to love. And now, would you like a cigarette?”

Jane Clifford’s teeth were chattering, and she felt her cheeks growing hot with blushes. It was as if she were going up against the wall and the firing squad was standing there with loaded rifles ready for the command. The last cigarette of the condemned. “Yes-I-I would, P-Pedro,” she heard herself faltering.

He fumbled in the pocket of his bathrobe, took out a silver case, opened it and proffered a row of the almost black, and extremely strong Mexican cigarettes. She took one, and so did he, and he procured a lighter, flicked it to the tip of her cigarette until it glowed red. Jane coughed and grimaced: “My goodness, it’s very strong.”

“What would you, Senorita Jane,” he chuckled. “Everything in Mexico is strong. And the men most of all. You shall see this for yourself very shortly. Finish your cigarette, there is no hurry.”

At this moment there was a discreet knock at the door, and then it opened to reveal the Mexican-Indian overseer Toltes. He held an ugly quirt with a heavy laded handle in his right hand, and he stared greedily at the golden-haired young woman in play shorts and blouse sitting on the edge of the patrons bed.

“The patron desires?” he said in his guttural voice, his eyes wide with surprise at what he saw.

“I have no need of you this evening, it would appear, Toltes. Go see to Carmencita. Have you looked in on the little bitch lately?”

“I have, Senor Patron. She still refuses to cooperate.”

“All the devils in hell take that obstinate little slut!” Pedro Corbajo swore, his face twisting with anger. “I have it! You know the room in which we used to dry out the gourds and pot the plants for shipment farther into Mexico?” at this he winked at the Mexican-Indian overseer, for a part of Pedro Corbajo’s huge profits came from narcotics which were smuggled very ingeniously by being hidden in the earth of potted plants which were in turn shipped to various hotels and restaurants in the larger cities of Mexico and where he had henchmen working to intercept these shipments.

“But of course, mi Senor!”

“Tie her up in such a way that her bare bottom rests upon the needles of the flowering cacti, Toltes! Every few moments, return to the room and caress her gently with a feather in one hand and a whip in the other. I think she will see the light of day before the dawn.” At this witticism, he burst into mocking laughter, and Jane Clifford closed her eyes and shuddered. But when he turned to her again, she had resumed her polite, if forced smile. “Toltes, leave the quirt,” he added as an afterthought. “It may be that this lovely gringa may desire the burning kisses it will impart, as a stimulant to our noche de corazon”

The Mexican-Indian chuckled, tossed the leaded quirt onto the foot of the bed, bowed and closed the door behind him.

Pedro Corbajo rose, unfastened the loose belt of his bathrobe, and let it fall to the floor. He was naked, and his prick was gigantic, or so it seemed to the dazzled eyes of Jane Clifford. Eight violently swollen inches, with an oblong meatus that seemed to be set off from the shaft itself by a wide and deeply indented ridge. The lips were puckering visibly, evidence that Pedro Cobajo’s spunk was pent-up and restless to be voided. And Jane Clifford knew with a sinking feeling exactly where it was going to be voided: right between her quivering, twitching, pale white thighs. The moment had come.

In her closet, Marge Clifford sucked in her breath and her eyes widened, too, at the sight of that enormous phallus. For a moment, she even wished that she might replace Jane on that magnificent bed. But the one ray of hope was that Corbajo had ordered his overseer to leave the quirt. If only her little bitch of a sister would kick up a fuss, then she’d have a chance to see him use it on that white backside and those big round titties of Jane’s I

“And now, my lovely Senorita Jane, if you will do me the honor of showing me your delicious body, we shall begin our night of love,” Pedro Corbajo said with a gallant little bow which made his swollen prick jiggle in the air and belied the romantic invitation he had just proffered.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Marge Clifford, breathless, her pussy moist and twitching with excitement, saw her golden-haired sister rise slowly from the edge of the bed, then unbutton her blouse and let it drop to the floor.

“Que tetas magnificas!” Pedro Carbajo breathed. “Do not keep me waiting long till my fingers can appreciate their firmness, Senorita Jane!”

Bravely, Jane Clifford reached back and opened the hooks and eyes of the bandeau and let the white nylon sheath join the blouse. Her magnificent cantaloupe-round boobies thrust out boldly, their brownish-coral wide love-circles lining the crinkly coral tidbits of thin nipples in their centers. Her face was flushed now, and her nostrils were dilating as she compelled herself to submit in a way that would be least injurious to her person and her pride. She reasoned practically that at the least refusal, this unscrupulous and worldly man would not hesitate to use that heavy quirt at the end of the bed, or summon that savage-looking overseer he had called Toltes to aid him in overcoming her revolt. Nonetheless, Jane Clifford felt the insides of her thighs prickling with gooseflesh. No man until this moment had ever seen her naked, much less touched those magnificently naked titties which she now exposed so passively to the eyes and, soon, she knew, to the emboldened touch of Pedro Corbajo. She waited a moment, trembling, trying to regain her composure. It was a strange feeling, this, to offer herself to a stranger, when she had never permitted so much as a boy’s hand to creep under her skirt up to her furry twat. And with almost a clinical impersonality, Jane Clifford began to analyze her own sensations as they progressed and as the moments loomed before her for this moment of truth which would mean the sacrifice of her maidenhead.

His prick seemed to tilt up, turgid as it was and angrily throbbing. Covertly, she perceived the heavily laden balls, gnarled and crinkly and very hairy, almost hidden by the thick shaggy bush of gray pubic hair. The dark, angrily swelling blue veins along the shaft of his enormous prick made that protuberance seem a timeless obscenity, a violent weapon of disaster and profanation. And now her pussylips twitched more than ever as she heard him hoarsely order, “And now the rest, before I die of impatience, Senorita Jane!”

She unbuttoned the play shorts and let them slither down around her pale white thighs and calves. Now only a frail white nylon sheath covered the most elemental and intimate part of her anatomy from the menace of his prong. And the dark blonde muff of pussy curls covering the soft pink lips of her twitching cunt were not, she knew, barrier enough to hold his rutting urgency back from the pillaging of her virgin cherry.

She fought for time, and now, with a placating little smile that tried to hide the trembling lips and the dilating, shattered eyes, Jane Clifford asked, “Might I have that cigarette now, Senor Corbajo?”

“Only if you call me Pedro, querida!” he chuckled thickly. He groped for his discarded bathrobe, took out the silver cigarette case and opened it for her. Her fingers trembled as she selected another of the dark little cigarettes with the tobacco that was almost black and so vile and strong that she had choked and been forced to put out the very first one after only a few puffs.

He struck his lighter again to the tip, standing very close to her so that his meatus almost brushed her pussy-hair, kissing it through that single thickness of the filmy nylon panties.

But before Jane Clifford could make the supreme gesture of inserting her finger in the waistband of her panties and baring her loins for the very first fucking of her young life, the brothel owner seized them and ripped them from her pale white body, and she was naked in her thong sandals. With a flurried little cry, she instinctively clapped a hand over the thick dark golden thatch which triangulated the apex of her rounded thighs and signaled the temple of her maidenhead.

“A virgin, no es verdad?” He chuckled thickly as his sinewy hands gripped the cheeks of her behind and squeezed and molded them, while his prickhead rubbed against her shielding hand, demanding entry to that treasure which she sought to guard. “By all the saints, this will be a rare treat, my little gringa rubia!”

So saying, Pedro Corbajo lifted her up by the buttocks, and Jane Clifford gasped at the enormous strength in his fingers, and at the pain in her voluptuous behind from his kneading, gripping fingers. He pressed her back onto the edge of the bed, then stooped, seized her calves, and before she knew what he was about to do, lofted them upward and back, so that her knees drove against her panting titties. In this lubricious pose, with her buttocks upturned just off the edge of the bed, she exposed to the enormous weapon thrusting out from between his hairy thighs, the gaping pink fulcrum of her cunt and the ambery crease which separated the succulent roundures of her nether hemispheres.

“It will be much easier this way, believe me, lovely little Senorita Jane,” he panted. His face twisted in a frown of rapt concentration, and setting his sinewy fingers with a vise-like grip into her soft calves, he aimed his prickhead at the gaping cleft of her tender young cunt, and pressed forward, sucking in his breath at the exquisite feel of her young, warm, pink vulva on his throbbing lance tip.

Jane averted her face to one side, balancing herself with her palms on the bed, her face crimson with shame at this ignoble and lubricious pose which jammed her knees back against her heaving titties and spread her like a hen for this dissection. Then suddenly she felt the hot burrowing rigidity of his prong prod up against the resisting hymeneal seal of her cherry, and she gasped, “Oh please-ouch-please be gentle-it-it hurts-” and then her mouth gaped and her eyes bulged in a piercing shriek of “EEEEEOWWWWOOOUUUUU!! ! ”

For with a formidable lunge, Pedro Corbajo had pierced her hymen and was rooted in her hot, tight love tract to the very hilt. She felt herself stuffed up, distended, stretched, and the lacerating pain of that shattering of the maidenhead made her body jerk fitfully. At the same time, perhaps to distract her and by a kind of cruel kindness, his fingernails had gouged her milky calves, as he kept her knees flattening down her rebellious bubbies, pinioning her and fixing her to her fate of being fucked.

He made no move to retreat or press home the advantage he had already gained so painfully. like a connoisseur, which indeed he was, the naked Mexican brothel-owner remained bent to her, as in a tableau or a stone statue of a timeless act immortalized and perpetuated within the dimensional qualities of the art: she could feel every inch of his swollen sword buried in her scabbard, and the pulsations of her protesting cunt and the twitching of her vaginal walls as they sought to repel the hitherto unknown invasion of her most secret channel caused him ineffable delight.

The cords of her neck stood out, and the crimson of her cheeks had spread to her forehead and ears and throat. Her eyes closed again, glassy with tears, and she ground her tears to keep from eying out or begging for mercy. What had been done had been done; it was irrevocable now. All she could hope for was a cessation of the pain, which already had begun to diminish and deaden, though the throbbing acuteness of his own prick-vibrations inside of her seemed to be transmitted as by the most sensitive of electronic receptacles. It was as if she had become the sounding-board of all his own emanations, fixed and a part of him, integral. She was conscious, too, that her anus was puckering and twitching, as if she wanted to defecate and couldn’t. It was shameful, and yet withal there was a curious warm and glowing sensation beginning in the very base of her womb, permeating her loins with its own masterful and superimposing volition.

“Now it will go more easily, little one,” he muttered. Then she felt him draw himself slightly back, and back still more, and it seemed to her that her body was receding with him, and she felt her hips arch up as if to call him back. She closed her eyes very tightly, but she could not prevent her nostrils from flaring and shrinking, nor her titties from resuming their upheaval against the pulled-back rigidity of her bare knees. Now she felt his rasping ramrod slip back to the very brink of her cunt, where it had all begun, and suddenly she cried out: “AAHHH-OHHHH GOD!” because he had suddenly thrust himself back to the balls inside of her, and the brutal shock had started all the twitching and the twinge of the laceration and also the ungovernable hot wave that had begun so subtly in the deepest recesses of her vaginal chasm.

Now Pedro Corbajo began to fuck Jane Clifford with a rhythmic regularity-deep to the hilt, a long pause while he savored all the twitching and fluttering and spasmodic pulsations, and then slowly and lingeringly back to the very lips of the vulva where he had begun his journey into the paradise of her virgin cunt. Then, a new and rampant assault which thrust him back to his hairs, till she could feel their pubes grinding together and knew that the merger of their bodies was a cohesion, not just in words but in cogent physical fact. She was his, he had possessed her and she belonged to him by the juncture of prick to cunt. It was as simple as that.

She had bled but very little, and this acted as a kind of lubricant as he continued to fuck her with that same progression and that same dalliance. The wave of warmth inside of her grew more and more potent, surging along the crannies of her vaginal scabbard each time his prick pulled back, and now it seemed to her that she yearned to have him always deep within her, without stirring, so that she could hold and know and measure his entity which had conquered her own spirit and her flesh.

His fingernails were not so cruel now to the sweet curves of her quivering calves, yet she knew that his fingers dominated her flesh and forced her to retain this obscene and straddled doubled-in-two pose because it suited him and because it enslaved her beyond the power of thinking or reasoning or rebelling. She had never been so conscious of her body as at this moment, and she knew precisely that was why he had selected this position in which to conquer her, for she was only flesh, woman-flesh, to be possessed and subjugated and ordained unto his being and his decision, for she was nothing.

In the closet, her auburn-haired sister squirmed frantically on her knees, wrenching at her bonds, trying desperately to free her hands so she could frig herself, but she could not. For her there was agony and frustration also in this Tantalus, because the revenge she had planned for Jane Clifford was by no means so benign. At this moment, she would have given back all that money all over again to be in Jane’s position there, on the edge of the bed, with her own knees bent back against her pear-shaped titties, being spread and distended and gouged by that mammoth rod which slipped in and out of her sister’s quivering, quaking cunt.

And then, suddenly, with a bellow of delight, Pedro Corbajo thrust home a last time, and Marge Clifford saw his loins jerk as the spasm seized him, and Jane cried out as the bubbling lava gushed deep into her very viscera, and it was done.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pedro Corbajo was understandably delighted with Jane Clifford’s valiant submission. So much so, indeed, that after he had withdrawn from her deflorated love chasm, he pushed a little buzzer at the bedside and summoned one of the charmingly attractive “maid” now diligently pursuing her own initiation in this singular hacienda. This girl, called Luz, was tall and slim, with a marvelously smooth and warm brown skin of the true Mexican, and a delectably lithe figure. She was eighteen, and she had run away from her farm home near Jalisco because her parents had wanted her to marry a doddering old man who owned most of the land around the humble village. One of Corbajo’s agents had come upon her working as a tavern girl in a little town about fifty miles to the north, and had promised her a most lucrative position in the household of the wealthy haciendero, who was, of course, none other than Pedro Corbajo himself. When Luz discovered that this position would be simply that of a whore, she also discovered that her passionate nature made her welcome to the vigorous and enthusiastic lusts of men who knew how to sate her own fiercely sensual nature. She had been at this house three months, and was rapidly becoming a favorite, as she was already with the brothel owner.

Pedro Corbajo had Luz minister to Jane’s lacerated love channel, and then, at his order, and much to Jane’s blushing confusion, the tall Mexican beauty (who wore only a lace-trimmed petticoat and red slippers with high heels) clambered onto the bed and, lifting Jane’s legs as Pedro Corbajo himself had lifted them when he had effected his conquest of her cherry, began to gamahuch the soft plump pussy of the golden-haired young woman.

This perverse but exquisite palliative caused Jane Clifford to achieve her very own first climax, and it eased away all the pain of her defloration.

Then, as Marge Clifford still watched in her agonized frustration hidden in the closet, her knees aching from their long repose on the hard floor while she kept her eye fixed at the peephole, Luz knelt down and, winding her long satiny brown arms around the naked brothel owner’s hips, began to French him with as much expert and diligent care as she had shown in gamahuching the golden-haired younger sister of that female Judas who had delivered her into the hands of Pedro Corbajo.

And when the gray-haired wiry owner of the ranchero Corbajo was again massively renewed, he mounted the bed and, lying on his side, pulled Jane Clifford to him and began to French kiss her while his fingers stroked her back and thighs and buttocks as he prodded his hot, turgid prick against the soft abdomen and the silky dark blonde pussy curls while Luz knelt behind Jane and, bending down, nimbly ran her soft pink tongue over Jane’s neck and shoulder blades and the backs of the young woman’s dainty little ears until Jane’s latent passion was again aroused.

To her own great surprise, Jane Clifford found herself beginning to enjoy this furious unleashing of all her carnal senses. Perhaps it is true that when a woman of keen intelligence, as well as beauty, finds herself besieged by insuperable odds and fatalistically resigns herself to the inevitable, she thus realizes that what is done to her is not of her own volition. The psychiatrists hold that many a woman who reports a rape to the authorities may have secretly enjoyed the brutal and obscene force of it simply because, in our conventional society, there are still those who think a woman a whore if she admits to experiencing pleasure during intercourse even with her own legal consort. Be that as it may, the golden-haired younger sister of Marge Clifford, having made the initial step of undressing before the man who had taken her cherry, continued her docility against his insatiable erotic demands that evening because she knew that it was in her own best interests not to rebel against them.

Pedro Corbajo, for all his fifty-odd years, was like a young bull in bed. After he had made love to Jane Clifford for the second and far more prolonged time, drawing her to her very first climax as a woman being fucked by a vigorous male, he had Luz bring them hot chocolate and dainty, freshly baked cakes as well as a bottle of excellent port. This time, Jane Clifford discovered that she was ravenously hungry. She sat up in bed, her beautiful rumpled golden hair falling about her cheeks and shoulders, heedless of her nakedness, as she munched the cakes and sipped her chocolate, while Pedro sat propped up by pillows beside her, Luz’s head in his lap, and while he dropped bits of cake into the Mexican girl’s open mouth, his left hand admiringly fondled Jane’s round satiny white titties till the nipples were dark and stiff with a new longing.

The third time, he made Jane kneel on all fours, and ordered her to put her mouth to Luz’s pussy and repay the Mexican girl for the sweet solacing which Luz had given Jane after the latter had lost her cherry. At first, Jane was understandably reluctant to perform this Lesbian ritual, but when the brothel owner knelt behind her and, reaching under her to knead her swelling boobies with his sinewy fingers and to thrust his stiff prong back into her quaking cunt, the tides of passion which this new frictional cohesion brought about caused her to abandon all such hesitance and to salute Luz’s pulsating quim with lips and tongue as well.

“Valgame Dios!” he swore as he shot his gism into Jane’s churning pussy and felt her round satiny bottom globes wriggle and jerk against his belly in her own throes of climax, “You are without a doubt the best new puta I have enjoyed in many months! I shall send you to my best house in Mexico City, where, unless I mistake, you will become the favorite of my wealthiest and most generous clients. Now then, my little golden-haired querida, before we sleep together in each other’s arms, lie between my legs and put your sweet mouth on my cojones! And while you do this, our charming companion Luz will teach you a new delight.”

Once again Jane Clifford conquered her repugnance as for the first time in her life she began to French a man’s cock, but immediately she was distracted as the lovely, slim, naked Mexican girl crouched behind her and, opening Jane’s buttocks with her slim fingers, applied her tongue deftly to Jane’s voluptuous virgin ass-hole. Indeed, the golden-haired beauty experienced a furiously passionate climax just from that delicious caress which the French so aptly call the “feuille de rose.”

So it was almost midnight before Pedro Corbajo at last declared himself amply satisfied with the new young gringa whore and finally sought repose, with Jane lying beside him at his right and Luz at his left. And Marge Clifford, forgotten in her closet and half-fainting with her own savagely roused and unsatisfied lusts from all that she had witnessed, was left to seek her own repose as best she could, her wrists and ankles still bound, and perhaps herself more captive than she knew … .

It was not until nearly noon of the next day, when Jane Clifford had been escorted by the cruel overseer Toltes himself to one of the most elegant rooms in the ranch house, that Pedro Corbajo, still wearing only his bathrobe, opened the closet door and chuckled as he saw the auburn-haired beauty lying on her side on the floor, exhausted and haggard from lack of proper sleep. “All right, Senorita” he told her “Your sister has been disposed of and you need have no further worries about her. The Senor

Dewars has explained everything to me. I am grateful to you. You have delivered into my hands a most delicious creature who will make thousands of pesos for me. Now one of my men will take you to a room, bring you something to eat and to drink, and you may refresh yourself with a good hot bath before you drive back home.”

He lifted her up, and his eyes appraisingly considered her svelte beauty. In her play shorts and blouse, with her long sinuous bare legs and the bold pears of her titties thrusting their points against the filmy bra and the thin blouse, she stirred him. But the arrangement had been made, and he would abide by it, even though privately he was of the opinion that it would be very profitable to keep Marge Clifford here against her will also. He could foresee many profitable opportunities under such an arrangement: two sisters in a luxurious room, their charms offered at an exorbitant rate to the richest of clients. Under the whip, they could be made to perform Lesbian niceties to rouse the passions of their purchaser for the night or for the weekend. However, Bob Dewars had told him about Marge Clifford’s vindictive desire to dispose of her sister and of the high price she had paid for this ingeniously contrived abduction. And even a brothel owner has honor of a kind, so he sent her to her room with Jaime, an ugly hunchback with dangling long arms and extraordinarily strong fingers, of whose services he made considerable use by sending the hunchback to those houses where there were occasional mutinous girls who needed a good lesson in discipline to make them eager to toil on their backs-or any other position which the clients demanded-for the fortunes of Pedro Corbajo.

Two hours later, Marge Clifford was driven back to the filling station in the station wagon, climbed into her white Impala and drove rapidly back over the border on her way back to Burlingame….

Ten days had passed, and Marge Clifford and Edward Morrissey were having dinner at Ernie’s in San Francisco. The bespectacled, mild-mannered young attorney had received a phone call from his auburn-haired fiancee as soon as she had driven into San Diego. Marge Clifford had hysterically told him that as they had driven out of Nogales, a car had forced them off the road, half a dozen masked men, swarthy and Spanish-speaking, had dragged Jane into their car and warned her not to try to follow or to call for help, and had then driven off in the direction of the Mexican border. Edward Morrissey had immediately telephoned the police and the FBI, and had then put in several long-distance phone calls to the border authorities as well as to the American Consul in Mexico City. Marge had told him that she had understood only a few words and that one of the abductors had said something about ransom. But tonight, ten days after this alleged kidnapping, there was still no word of Jane’s whereabouts.

“I feel so guilty, so responsible, Edward darling,” Marge Clifford sobbed as she daubed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “If only we’d never gone on that vacation! Or if we’d just gone to Los Angeles or maybe San Diego. It’s all my fault. I wanted to see Mexico, and now my poor sister is gone and God knows what has happened to her!”

“I’m doing everything I can, Marge dear,” Edward Morrissey said. “The International police are looking for her right now. And the authorities in Mexico City, who are naturally on the friendliest terms with our country, will do everything in their power to find Jane and bring her back and turn her kidnappers over to justice.”

“You’re so good and kind and helpful, Edward dear.” Marge Clifford looked up, her eyes very wide and glistening with tears. “I’m so alone now, and I need you so much. You know, we’re engaged, but I want so much to be your wife. I’d feel safer and cared for, Edward. Can’t we set a date for it, please?”

“I wish I could, Marge dear. You know I’m very fond of you. But I don’t think we should do anything about our own personal happiness until we can find Jane again. Now don’t cry. I can’t stand to see a woman crying.” He shifted uneasily in his chair, took out a handkerchief and handed it to her, for her own was already rumpled and wet … with the tears of a Judas. “I’m sure everything will turn out in the end. And then there’ll be time enough to talk about marriage, won’t there, Marge?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was mid-September and a beautifully bright and sunny day along the Avenida del Sol, one of Mexico City’s swankiest residential streets. Here, if the tourist walked along, he would be impressed by the American-like nigh-rise buildings with liveried doormen, and elegant limousines rolling up to the curbs and distinguished, well groomed men and beautifully gowned women emerging to be saluted with deference by the obsequious doormen.

On the fourteenth floor of one of these new buildings, Miguel De Perenza occupied a sumptuous eight-room apartment, complete with Japanese valet, an exquisite French manicurist who was also an expert masseuse, and his current mistress.

Miguel De Perenza was forty-five, rugged as a matador, with a strong, muscular body and the face of a poet. This paradox had brought many women to his bed, where he had acquitted himself nobly. He was the assistant director of a thriving bank situated on the Calle de Palinas, and he had also inherited a fortune from his ranch-owning father. He had never married, nor did he need to. Even at fourteen, he had possessed, as his father had admiringly remarked to a crony, “the cojones of a real hombre, and do you know, the little bastard screwed my own mistress last night? Yes, Don Salazar, I came home early and what did I find but my own precocious bastard of a son on top of Eleanora, and the little rogue was actually making my red-haired bitch groan with passion! I was about to kill them both when I observed the admirable vigor of this flesh of my own loins, and I ended up by applauding him and then each of us seized Eleanora and made her two holes one.”

Since that halcyon day, Miguel De Perenza had never lacked for pussy. His exploits as a cock smith had preceded him on the day when he entered the bank as a junior cashier, and the beautiful, stately office manager, Madelana Colon, a widow of thirty-four but with the body of an adolescent, had marked him as her own the moment he strode confidently behind his cage and, with a flashing smile, engaged his very first customer of the day. By that Friday night, on his first week of employment he and Madelana were lovers.

Miguel De Perenza had one foible: he had the soul of a voyeur and what excited him most was to watch himself or others making love. Consequently, his sumptuous bedroom was completely mirrored at ceiling and all walls, and the bed itself was a huge round low edifice piled with dome-like cushions, which could revolve slowly by means of pushing a little button set in a panel on the bed table. It was mid-afternoon, now, and Miguel De Perenza was lying on this bed naked, turned on his side, towards his beautiful golden-haired mistress Jane Clifford. On his face was a look of unutterable ecstasy, and small wonder: Jane lay on her left side facing him, but her head was at the level of his loins, and with her slim fingers she had taken her golden curls and was fondling his stiffening prick. From time to time, she flicked out her nimble pink tongue and wrapped it over the tip of his meatus, forcing him to groan with exalted lust.

Pedro Corbanjo had sent his lovely new gringa rubia to the house in Mexico City at the end of her very first week in his hacienda. He had spent every day and night of that week with her, and he had reluctantly sent her off with his most trusted confidante, Manuel Garcia. She had been taken to the elegant house which occupied two stories and had its own vast yard and garden with a tiny little summer-house at the rear (in which numerous customers enjoyed the favors of the occupants of the two-story mansion) to take up her new profession as a puta of high price under the shrewd management of Carlos Molinas, Corbanjo’s most successful manager.

There were twenty girls in this house, of varied races and nationality. A wealthy client could obtain as his bed partner a Chinese girl from Hong Kong, a tall, chocolate-skinned Negress from the Dutch East Indies, a sensual and lasciviously beautiful Cuban from Havana, even a dainty blonde cocotte from Paris. Jane Clifford had given Carlos no trouble, and from the outset had made herself as ingratiating as possible to the bevy of wealthy clients who nightly patronized the elegant house. Her first customer had been a retired Mexican Army Colonel who was extremely fastidious and demanding of the girls who serviced his extramarital demands. He had seen Jane’s golden hair and pale white skin (Carlos had dressed her in a sleeveless black nylon jacket cut low enough to show the inner curves of her magnificent round titties, and filmy black nylon pantaloons and high heeled pumps). The pumps were green, and the combination of the green and black against her pale white skin and golden hair had been absolutely devastating. The Colonel had engaged her services for the entire night, and had champagne and caviar sent up to the beautifully furnished salon to which he had been assigned, and he had begun by requiring Jane to kneel down and French him delicately, using her tongue exclusively on his balls and tickling the insides of his hairy thighs until he felt himself roused to possess her.

To her great surprise, however, he had wished to begin by taking the virginity of her ass-hole, and at this she had momentarily hesitated, for the idea was repugnant to her and the thought of the pain from this exaggerated distension of so dainty and narrow a fissure had seemed terrifying. But she was also well aware that Carlos employed cruel attendants, both male and female, to coerce and punish rebellious prostitutes, and so she surrendered herself as she had done with Pedro Corbajo. On all fours, her head bowed to the floor, she had allowed the Colonel to open the cheeks of her buttocks and to graze the shrinking crevice of her bunghole with the tip of his wiry, rather long cock. He had lubricated it with vaseline, to spare her pain, and then to her astonishment, had begun to tickle the rims of her vulva as he gently prodded the tip of his prick against the reluctant orifice. To Jane’s own surprise, the sensual feelings which were thus aroused began to overcome her dread of this buggering, and by the time he had begun to frig her clitoris, she writhed and squirmed and moaned and even abetted him in the conquest of her ass-hole by arching herself back and impaling herself upon his spear.

At the end of the night, he had gone into ecstasies about her ability and beauty in the presence of Carlos, who had at once sent a wire to Pedro Corbajo congratulating his boss on the latter’s admirable taste in sending so splendid a new puta to the house.

And then, after about a month, during which time Jane had had to take part in orgies with several other girls and a number of wealthy men, and was once engaged for the weekend by a notorious and beautiful and extravagantly wealthy Lesbian, Miguel De Perenza visited the house, noticed her, engaged her at once for the night at double fee, and then offered Carlos so staggering a sum to buy her for himself that the manager could not turn it down.

And so for the past three weeks, Jane had been the exclusive mistress of this profligate and wealthy Mexican, and she had more than enchanted him with her complaisance and her willingness to team with Collette, the delicious little French manicurist, and even to provide his voyeuristic lusts with added stimulus by letting his Japanese valet Ito suck and bugger her in the mirrored bedroom while he watched, sprawled in an armchair one hand languidly fondling his stiff prick, the other holding a glass of champagne to his sensual lips.

He sighed languorously as he caressed her cheek and murmured, “Querida, you’ve become indispensable to me, you know. I may even have to marry you.”

“Why, Miguel? You’ve bought me and you own me,” Jane replied in her clear sweet voice as she went on fondling his cock and balls with her silky golden hair.

“Because I sense something deeper in you than the mere appeal to my flesh,” he answered. “I’ve had many women since I was a boy, and all this you know, but you continue to amaze me. I know that you are not by inclination a professional prostitute, and yet you have brought me unforgettable hours. You improvise and you give yourself with the abandon that I might expect of a great courtesan who was born for lust, and yet there is a chasteness and sweetness to which eludes me. As my wife, perhaps I might win this while I could not buy it.”

Jane Clifford knelt up now, regarding him with her beautiful blue eyes. “That is a great compliment, Miguel,” she answered. “And I will tell you what will give me greater pleasure, and in return I would gladly be your slave for all time.”

“And what is that, my beautiful golden-haired one?”

“Do you know how it is that you found me in this house where you took such a liking to me, Miguel?”

“Of course I do. The minute I entered it seemed that you stood out from all those beauties in the room, and that yours was angelic and sublime, nor was I wrong, as you well know now,” he chuckled, reaching down to fondle one of her swelling bare white titties with its dark coral pouting tip.

She put her hands to his to retain that caress, as she knelt there naked except for red leather high heeled pumps. He had given her a pair of sapphire pendants which clipped onto the lobes of her dainty ears, and in this attire, the mirrors revered and adored her magnificent nakedness.

“Then I will tell you, Miguel.” And then Jane Clifford swiftly and concisely told him how she and her sister had set out on their Mexican vacation, how she had been abducted at the filling station and taken to the ranchero of Pedro Corbajo. “The more I look back now,” she murmured pensively, “the more I’m certain that Marge had me carried off. For, you see, I’ve heard not a word from her and even Pedro Corbajo never told me what was done with her. I had seen her taken into the closet in his bedroom while he left me on the bed to have his way with me. But he did not go to her, and a few nights later I saw that the closet door was open and my sister was not there.”

“Then you think, querida, that it was your sister who betrayed you and delivered you into the hands of Pedro Corbajo so as to get rid of you?”

“I’m sure of it. You see, Miguel, her fianc’, a very nice young attorney, had begun to show a little interest to me. Oh, it was platonic, naturally.” She smiled with a kind of bitter sophistry. “I can assure you that until that afternoon when I was taken into the bedchamber of the man who owns this and all those other houses in Mexico, I had never been naked before a man. And I was made a woman that very afternoon.”

“And what a woman!” he chuckled, shaking his head with admiration. “But go on, my lovely rubia.”

“Marge came in and found us together, and I am certain that she was jealous. She always hated me as a child, because she thought that I was given too much attention by my parents. It was true, they did favor me. But they had their reasons. Marge was cruel to pets and to other children. Many times their parents would visit mine and tell them how Marge had tied them up and pinched and spanked and hurt them and then warned them not to breathe a word unless they wanted worse.” She shrugged and lowered her eyes. “I had hoped that taking this vacation with her would give us both a chance to air our differences freely and to become friends again. But I know now that it was she who sold me into bondage.”

“It is as fascinating a story as a great novel, querida, but it should have a good ending. Hmm. You know, it would be justice and also irony if your sister were to take your place here.”

“I don’t know what you paid Carlos to buy me as your mistress, Miguel, but my sister and I were left a hundred thousand dollars, half of which is mine. I would gladly reimburse you for every penny that you’ve spent on me if it is in my power to do so. And in return, you would have my sister as your slave. And also my honest promise that I would continue to be your mistress for as long as you wished. The only stipulation I would ask is that you let me consider myself a free woman, able to give her love and her caresses as she chooses. But they would be yours, because of my gratitude if you did this.”

“I will be honest with you, querida.” Miguel De Perenza cupped her soft cheeks, leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. She put her hand to his swelling prick and fondled the meatus with her thumb and forefinger, delicately and gently and lingeringly till he groaned with impatient lust that flourished in him like an angry seed. “I bought you from Carlos, who in turn obtained the permission of his master, that rogue Corbajo, for the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars. And it was agreed that after a year if I tired of you, I would send you back. This you have a right to know.”

“Then I will give you twenty-five thousand dollars from my own trust fund, Miguel, as soon as I’m safely back in Burlingame. And I vow and will so put it in writing if you demand, to be your mistress for as long as you wish me to be … and I will say only in that testament that I’m still a free woman who makes her own choice out of her own heart and mind.”

“Let me think about it, querida. First, you know it is necessary to bait the trap. We cannot go back to California and kidnap your sister. We must get her to come down here.”

“I think I know a way. She is greedy for money. If she thought that I was dying, she would then tell Edward-the attorney and her fianc’-to file for probate so that she could have the entire inheritance and the house. If a message could be sent to her that I’m dying of fever and want to see her and am willing to sign a will that leaves everything to her, she might come of her own accord.”

Miguel De Perenza rose from his armchair and, stooping, put his hands against Jane Clifford’s soft moist delicately furred armpits and lifted her to her feet. His prick rubbed against the thick curls of her love bush, as his hands slid down to caress and squeeze her magnificent bottom. “I think, querida,” he murmured, “that you have a little of the devil in you yourself. We will do this, you and I, and you will have your revenge. But for now, my prick needs you badly. And even as the devil coaxed Eve to partake of the forbidden apple in Paradise, so I beg of you to take pity on the fruit which you have sown with your beauty and with the grace of your fingers and your mouth and hair and tongue.”

“I am your slave of love, Miguel,” Jane Clifford breathed, her left arm around his waist, she put her right thumb and forefinger to the lips of her cunt and yawned them, then arched herself till the tip of his prick engaged between those dainty petals. Then, both hands on his buttocks, she impaled herself with a gasp of passion. Their mouths met, and his tongue entered hers to forage.

And in the mirrored bedroom of Miguel De Perenza, the tableau of these two standing naked lovers evoked the ancient friezes of the Greeks and the classical delights which great Ovid immortalized in his poems.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Edward, it’s like a miracle! You’ve got to go with me and see poor Jane!” Marge Clifford excitedly said over the phone. She was holding in her right hand an opened letter which the postman had delivered just this morning. It had come from a tiny village to the southeast of Mendoza, and it had been written in pencil. She had recognized Jane’s handwriting. It was scrawled and there were some words she couldn’t decipher, but after she had read it, she realized why. Jane was very ill, had escaped from the whorehouse and been taken in by a kindly old couple who owned a tiny farm about fifty miles away from Mendoza. The old man had gone into town to mail the letter and was keeping the secret. She had promised to pay him five thousand dollars, because the magic name of Corbajo had great power even in this remote hamlet. She was very ill with a kind of enteric fever, she had written, and she implored Marge to come to her before it was too late. She was going to make a will and leave the house and her own part of the inheritance to Marge.

“You’ve heard from her, then, Marge?” the young attorney asked. “This very morning, Edward. She’s in a tiny village not too far away from where we were both assaulted by those dreadful men. She’s very ill, Edward, and she wants to see me before it’s too late. I want you to come along because she says she’s going to make her will and leave the house and the rest of the money to me. And I wouldn’t feel safe going there by myself. Will you come along with me, darling? And then maybe we can be married and have our honeymoon in Acapulco,” Marge said greedily.

She was trying hard to conceal the note of exultaire in her voice. Here it was the first week of October, and already Jane was going to die. Jane, that sweet, prissy little bitch who had fooled everybody, had already had a taste of being a whore in Mexican house, taking on every greaser who wanted to lie between her lees and fuck her. And now she was sick and wouldn’t recover. It was too good to be true!

“Are you sure it’s from Jane?” Edward Morrissey’s softly cautious voice inquired.

“Of course I’m sure! She says several things in her letter which convince me that it couldn’t be from anyone else, Edward dear. We’ve got to go to her. But I don’t want to go alone-you don’t want me to be captured, do you?”

“What a thing to say, Marge,” he reproved her. “Of course I don’t. I tell you what. I’ll drive you there in my car. I’ve got to try a case in court this afternoon, but I should be finished by about four, and I’ll come right over to your place. Be naked and ready. With some luck, we can make it by tomorrow noon.”

---

“I feel so relieved that you’re with me, Edward. It’s such a terrible thing, my poor sister dying. Only twenty-two, dying before she’s even had a chance to live,” the auburn-haired beauty sighed as she turned to the handsome bespectacled brown-haired young attorney at the wheel of the Thunderbird.

“You never really liked Jane, did you, Marge?” was his surprising interjection.

“Edward! How can you say a thing like that? She’s my own sister, my own flesh and blood. We grew up together as children.”

“I know that. But you see, I had a brother, and I hated his guts. He got everything and I was left in the shadows all the time. It took me a while until I passed my bar exam before I realized that in this world you have to beat your own drum and win your own newspaper clippings. Now why don’t you be honest with me, Marge? After all, if you and I are going to get married, there ought to be no secrets between us. Isn’t it true that you didn’t really love Jane as much as you’ve been saying?”

Marge Clifford squirmed nervously and looked down at the handsomely carpeted floor of the car. “Well, of course, it’s true that we had arguments. But after all, she’s the only living relative I’ve got. We never had any aunts or uncles, and there was just Jane and myself and our parents. And now she’s going to die and I’ll be all alone-except that I’ve got you, Edward.”

“Don’t let’s talk about her dying. We’re not sure yet.”

“But her letter says-” Marge began. Then she bit her lips. She realized that it sounded too eager, too greedy. She glanced nervously at Edward, but he had his eyes on the road. They had left San Diego and they were heading towards the border of Baja California, towards that fatal road which had led to the filling station near the little town of Mendoza and die Ranchero Corbajo.

That night, Marge Clifford and Edward Morrissey stayed at a motel on the border between California and Baja California. The auburn-haired beauty was a little miffed when her fianc’ asked the motel manager for separate cabins, but once they had had dinner and unpacked, Marge Clifford smiled to herself as she opened her suitcase, took out a black nylon nightie and a pair of fluffy mules, sprayed herself with perfume and then waited until it was nearly midnight. Carefully opening the door, she tiptoed to the next cabin and knocked soft-, ly at the door.

It was open, and Edward stood in his pajamas, blinking his eyes defenselessly, for he had taken off his glasses.

“Darling, let me in,” Marge whispered softly.

“Margel Good God, if anybody should see you!” he gasped, glancing nervously outside.

“Don’t be such a big baby, Edward dear. After all, we’re engaged. And you are going to marry me, aren’t you, sweetheart?” she murmured as she linked her tawny sheened arms around his neck and arched her pear-shaped titties against his chest. Awkwardly he put his hands on her hips and tried to disengage himself, flushing hotly. “I know, but just the same, I have to think of your reputation, my dear,” he blurted. “If the manager should see us, he’d realize that we didn’t sign in as a married couple, you know.”

“Oh, to hell with that, darling,” Marge giggled softly. She felt very wicked and sexy, and she wanted to be fucked. Even if it meant giving up her virginity, she wanted to make sure of this mild-mannered, good natured and well to-do young attorney. Because if she got him between her legs just once, he was the honorable sort of fellow who would want to marry her for sure, and then he would be forever beyond Jane’s reach. Even if Jane should live-which wasn’t too-likely-she’d never have a chance to get Edward.

“Don’t you want me, darling?” she whispered into his ear, flicking out her tongue and licking the lobe.

“Marge! You-you really amaze me. Of course I want you. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t.”

“Well then?” she giggled triumphantly, and this time she rubbed her crotch against his.

“It-it wouldn’t be right until we got married, Marge. I’ve always wanted it to be that way. A suite at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco, dim lights and champagne and maybe FM music playing in the background, and all night long to discover each other the way young honeymooners do. That’s the way I look upon a wedding night, Marge. Not in a motel, not like this, stealthily and surreptitiously.

“Of course. You’re right, dearest. And it’s just that I feel so terribly lonely now that poor Jane is going to die. I just want you to know that I love you and that I’m going to be yours, whenever you want me. But you’ve been such a wonderful guy, and you’ve hardly even done much more than kiss me, ever since we got engaged, Edward,” she said reproachfully.

“You should know me well enough by now to know that I have a few puritanical ideas which I got when I was a child, Marge. Don’t worry, I’ll be a suitable enough husband when the time comes,” he chuckled. “I think you’d better go back now and get some sleep. We’re going to get up early in the morning and find your sister, you know.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, darling. You’re so sweet, Edward. I can’t wait till we’re marred, do you mind if I say that? Because I mean it. But do you like me in my nightie? You’ve never really seen me like this before, have you? I want you to know what you’re going to get, Edward. Because it’s all going to be yours, darling.” Marge Clifford stepped back, arms at her sides, and let him stare at her in the black gossamer nightie, which spectacularly clung to the pear-thrusting turrets of her titties, sleeked out the slim waist and followed the delectably oval curves of her behind, adhered to those long supple thighs of hers and shaped out the suggestive hollow of her virgin mound.

“You’re very beautiful, Marge. Very beautiful indeed. And when the time comes, you won’t have any reason to complain about my ardor, I promise you. It’s just that I want everything to be honorably proper, that’s all. I guess it’s my lawyer’s mind, Marge. And now good night.” He kissed her tenderly on the cheek, and

Marge Clifford sighed, gave him a last lingering look, and then slipped out of the motel cabin and went back to her bed … .

The sun was really scorching, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky as they drove past the border on towards Mendoza and then beyond to the southeast. It was a little before noon when they reached the filling station which Marge Clifford so well remembered, and there Edward Morrissey stopped the Thunderbird and had the gawky, tall, Mexican youth who was running it in the absence of the patron check the carburetor, put plenty of water and gas in the tanks, inspect the tires and clean the windshield. Then he asked the youth the best road to take to the little village which Jane had described in her letter.

“Pardon, Senor,” the youth scratched his head, “es necessario-eet weel be better if you come and look at the map I have inside the station, Senor. Then you can find it for yourself. I have never been there, you understand.”

“I’ll be back in a minute, Marge. Want me to see if I can get you a Coke?” the young attorney called.

“No thanks, Edward. Besides, a little dump like this wouldn’t have any such comforts,” Marge Clifford indolently replied as she leaned back on the front seat and closed her eyes. Inwardly, her heart was pounding with triumph. In a few hours, she’d be at Jane’s bedside, and Edward would be taking down Jane’s last will and testament. Then she’d get the whole hundred thousand dollars. She’d used twenty thousand of her own money left by her aunt in that special fund, but it had been money well spent. She was going to get fifty thousand dollars extra, which would have been Jane’s share if Jane had lived. It wasn’t a bad trade at all. And she’d also have the satisfaction of having Edward as her husband and knowing that Jane would never bother them again, not even Jane’s ghost. Yes, it had been a magnificent plan. When she and Edward got back from their honeymoon, she would have to remember to call Delia Sanderman and thank her for all that she had done to put her in touch with Bob Dewars and Pedro Corbajo.

Edward Morrissey was looking at the map. But he was looking at it inside of a little phone booth just inside the station, beyond the view of the parked Thunderbird. He deposited a coin, jiggled the hook, got the operator and gave her a number. Then for about a minute he talked earnestly, and then hung up. He then passed the young attendant a ten-peso note, and got back into the Thunderbird and veered off the main highway to the dirt road at the right.

“Are you sure this is the right road, dear?” Marge opened her eyes and glanced out over the unfamiliar scenery.

“It’s the way to the village. You have to go about five miles this way, and then take a cut due south for another five miles, and then there’s a better road which goes right by that village. We’ll be there in a couple of hours, Marge. Why don’t you just lie back and snooze a little?”

“I believe I will. It’s so terribly hot. I do wish you’d thought of putting air conditioning in your car, Edward. Maybe I’ll get you a new car with air conditioning in it as a wedding present,” she gave him a sexy look and a long happy smile, then sighed contentedly, closed her eyes and leaned back again.

Edward Morrissey glanced at her, his face expressionless. He kept his eyes on the road and he drove at a moderate speed. The road was bumpy in stretches, and very dusty. It was an arid stretch of ground, with almost nothing except manzanita and cacti on both sides for as far as the eye could see. After about five miles, he turned the car to the left to take a still narrower road where a wooden sign, faded by the sun, read: “To Mendoza.”

Marge was still drowsing, and he glanced quickly at the rhythmic rise and fall of those magnificent pear titties of hers. She had put on a plain white cotton dress, very chaste and also very expensive. She wore no jewelry, and she wore charcoal-brown nylons, a garter belt, white nylon panties and bra and no slip. It was much too warm to think of wearing too many underclothes. Besides, she thought to herself, the more he saw of her body, the more he would desire her. She knew men pretty well. Edward Morrissey was nearly thirty, and probably a virgin. He was also very-likely repressed, because he had already admitted that he had some puritanical ideas back from his childhood. Well, when a fellow like that finally did get married, he went all to pieces when he finally got his first piece of pussy. And she would see to it that he crawled on his knees for it and put her on a pedestal. Then at last somebody would be showing her the respect and the attention which she had so long deserved and never really had when she had been a child.

She hoped that Jane had suffered a good deal. She wished she could have seen Pedro Corbajo use that quirt on Jane’s white ass and titties, even give her a few cuts in between those slinky legs of hers and make her really scream when that leather whip bit into her hairy little slit. Jane was extremely hairy for a fastidious and innocent girl. It was really funny, when you thought about it. She herself always trimmed her pussy curls, and they were nice and neat and compact and crisp and you could see the lips. If Edward had only looked more closely last night when she had on that nightie, he probably would have had a tremendous hard-on. Well, let him wait until the wedding night. Then she would really vamp him and make him drool with his tongue hanging out, yes, and his prick too!

The Thunderbird now moved on to a well paved road, in a kind of circuitous route. Marge stirred and yawned, glanced out, and then frowned. “Edward?”

“What, dear?”

“You’re sure you aren’t lost?”

“Quite sure, Marge dear. We’re on our way to see your sister.”

“You sound so convincing. How can you be sure she’s still alive?”

“Because, Marge, back in the station I put in a phone call. She’s alive, all right. She’ll last until we get there, never fear.”

Now it was Marge Clifford’s turn to frown. She glanced at him sharply. Were her senses deceiving her, or had there been just a note of sarcasm in his voice? He was usually so pleasant and self-effacing. Now his face was tense, and he seemed to be ignoring her, and his answers were very curt and not at all the nice polite kind so typical of him when they had become engaged. No, she was probably just imagining things. But she certainly would be glad when all this nonsense was over. It would be all she could do to keep a straight face when she saw Jane on her deathbed, and listen to Jane toll about the terrible things that had happened to her. She would have to show proper sympathy, of course, so that Edward wouldn’t be suspicious. Nobody must ever suspect that she had engineered all of this. And then of course she would be grief stricken, and Edward would have to console her. Maybe on the way back, they could stop at that motel, and then this time the black nylon nightie would work its magic on Edward Morrissey.

“That’s wonderful!” she managed at last. “I do hope there’s a chance to save her, naturally. It’s just dreadful when I think of the terrible things she must have gone through all this time since they kidnapped her, Edward. I feel so helpless, so lost. And there was nothing I could do about it.”

“No, there was nothing.”

Once again she glanced at him. But she could read nothing in his face except a blankness and an attentiveness to the road ahead. She hunted in the dashboard compartment for a pack of cigarettes which she had put there last night, found them, lit one and leaned back again. She felt a pulsation in her cunt, that same delicious anticipatory feeling she had had when she had been kneeling there in that closet and watched Jane on the bed when Pedro Corbajo had entered the bedroom.

She hadn’t guessed that Jane could be so calm and matter-of-fact about giving up her cherry. Still it didn’t matter anymore, not really. Maybe Jane had been playing it smart, hoping that by bring brave and resigned to her fate, the owner of all those whorehouses would take pity on her and maybe save her. Fat chance! Not while all that money was involved She’d already paid Delia Sanderman the other ten thousand dollars. Now she had only five left in her own special little fund, but then she was soon going to inherit the full hundred thousand. And the house, and Edward too. Besides, Edward had money in his own right, so they could live in great luxury. They could travel. She’d always wanted to see Rio and Buenos Aires and the Scandinavian countries and maybe Australia and Japan. They would have a good rich long happy life together. It would be like breaking in a little boy, teaching him how to fuck, how to please her, how to do the nice little things which always got her excited. Maybe one day, when he had advanced enough in his sexual education, she could show him how thrilling it was to watch a pretty girl getting tied up and spanked before they fucked. Maybe Delia Sanderman could arrange something. After all, Peggy and Susan were still living there and still naughty girls in need of the hairbrush every so often. She smiled again. Life was going to be very beautiful indeed.

But when she opened her eyes again and looked out at the road, she sat up straight in the seat, her mouth agape. That ranch house ahead … it was familiar. My God, it was the place where she and Jane had been taken to back in July. “Edward, you’ve lost your way,” she nervously exclaimed. “That’s the place where they took Jane and me!”

“I know that.”

“What are you saying? How could you know it?” She stared at him, transfixed. His face was bland, again an expressionless mask. He didn’t even turn to look at her as he replied, “You forget that you described it well enough for me when you got back to Burlingame, my dear. And after all, we did have the authorities checking all over Mendoza.”

“Yes, but-but weren’t you supposed to go to the little village where Jane is?”

“I was,” he calmly replied. “But she isn’t there.” .

“Edward, I don’t appreciate having you so mystifying, you know. Now you saw the letter, she described where she was, and we were supposed to go there, weren’t we?”

“To begin with, yes. Ah, here we are now. And there’s Pedro Gorbajo, if I’m any judge. Is that he, Marge? Do you recognize him?”

For the Thunderbird had pulled up in front of the Ranchero Corbajo, and the tall, wiry, gray-haired Mexican coming down the steps was indeed the owner of the dozen bordellos, the man who had taken Jane Clifford’s cherry and had let Marge remain in the closet in his bedroom to watch that pilferage.

“My God, yes! Edward, we’re in danger! This man is a notorious brothel keeper. I’m sure he’s the one who got hold of Jane and-”

“How do you know he’s a brothel keeper, Marge?”

“Because we were told that, you fool!” Marge Clifford exasperatedly cried. “Why are you doubting all my statements all of a sudden, Edward Morrissey?”

“Have I said that, Marge?”

“No, but it’s about the same thing when you take me up on every single Little statement I make. I told you, they tied and gagged me and I had to watch while my poor sister lay on the bed and was brutally assaulted by this man. And one of the men who pushed me into the station wagon and brought me here said that this Corbajo owned a lot of red-light houses all through Mexico and that we would probably be sent to one of them to earn money for that horrible brute,” Marge Clifford excitedly told him.

But Edward Morrissey didn’t seem to be listening. He was getting out of the car, and he was walking over to Pedro Corbajo and shaking hands. Marge Clifford’s eyes nearly popped out of her head and her jaw dropped.

“I am delighted to see you, Senor Morrissey,” Pedro Corbajo drawled. “It was thoughtful of you to phone me from the filling station. Yes, Senorita Clifford has been here for a few hours now, and is quite anxious to see you and to meet her beloved sister. Won’t you bring her in, please?”

“At once, Senor Corbajo,” Edward Morrissey replied. He took off his glasses, carefully cleaned them with his pocket handkerchief, then replaced them and walked back to the Thunderbird. He opened the door and stared fixedly at Marge Clifford, who remained rooted to her seat, her eyes incredulously wide, her mouth still gaping, not able to believe the testimony of her eyes or ears. “Come on, Marge, we mustn’t keep your sister waiting. After all, you wanted to see her on her deathbed before she died, didn’t you? Come along now.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Wonderingly, Marge Clifford got out of the car. Her skirt, which only reached her dimpled knees, slid up and revealed the lithe, delectably sinuous columns of her lower thighs in their charcoal-brown stocking-sheaths, and her cheeks flamed as she noted that the gray-haired Mexican was openly eyeing them. Indignantly, she smoothed down her skirt, and then angrily demanded, “Where is my poor sister? You monster, I wonder that you have the audacity to show yourself to me here, after what you did to Jane and me!”

“Senor Morrissey,” Pedro Corbajo countered with a dry chuckle as he turned to the bespectacled young attorney, “your fianc’ is evidently laboring under a misapprehension. Let us not stand here, however, in the hot sun where all the peons can overhear us. Come into my salon, let us have a cold bottle of beer or tequila, as you choose, where we can be more at our ease and in privacy.”

“Be careful of him, Edward, he’s a white-salver!” Marge Clifford exasperatedly exclaimed She stared at her fianc’, her brows furrowed with anxiety. Why didn’t he knock the fool down? Why didn’t he threaten Corbajo with the law? Why was he acting like this?

“It’s very gracious of you, Senor Corbajo,” she heard him reply. “I could stand a good cold beer at that. And so could Marge, I think. We both accept your hospitality with thanks.”

Marge Clifford tugged at Edward Morrissey’s arm, her gray-green eyes gleaming with alarm. “No, Edward, it’s a trap! They’ll hold us both for ransom! I don’t think Jane’s here, it’s some sort of trick! For God’s sake, can’t you see the man’s dangerous?”

“To those who cross him, I have no doubt he is,” Edward Morrissey calmly retorted as he mounted the steps of the hacienda, and he took hold of Marge’s elbow to help her up the stairs. “Well see Jane soon, I’m not worried about it at all. And as an attorney and American citizen, I don’t think Senor Corbajo will resort to kidnapping here in broad daylight. Come along, Marge dear.”

The door to the ranch house was opened by Toltes, the saturnine, swarthy, tall and savage-looking Mexican-Indian overseer. At the sight of the auburn-haired young woman, his thin lips curved in a crafty smile and he stepped back to let her and Edward Morrissey enter, with his master following behind.

“Make yourselves at ease, my home is yours,” the gray-haired brothel owner said with a grandiose gesture towards the wide, magnificently upholstered divan. “Toltes, two bottles of beer and a tequila for me, if you please. No, on see-on thought, two tequilas. I think the Senorita Clifford may be in need of something stronger than beer.”

“Very good, patron.” The overseer inclined his head and left the luxurious salon. Pedro Corbajo seated himself in an upholstered armchair, rested his sinewy hands on the ends of the arms, leaned back and smiled at his guests. “It is good to see you again, Senorita Clifford. You are looking exceptionally lovely in that white dress.”

“How dare you talk to me like that! Where is my poor sister?” Marge Clifford stormed. She turned to her fianc’ who sat at her right on the divan. “Edward, I told you this man was dangerous. Make him produce Jane at once. She can’t be here, anyway. She’s in that little village thirty miles away.”

“You’re wrong, my dear sister,” came a soft sweet clear soprano voice. Marge Clifford started, her eyes goggling. For in the arched doorway leading to the hall off the luxurious living room, Jane Clifford stood, her golden pageboy curls shimmering, her lips scarlet and with an exaggerated cupid’s bow, wearing a black cocktail frock cut audaciously low to reveal the upper curves and the valley of her magnificent titties, and its skirt descended only to an inch above her dimpled, rounded knees, which were sheathed in smoke-hued nylons. She wore red leather high-heeled pumps, and she had never been more devastatingly beautiful.

“J-Jane-it-it’s you-” Marge Clifford’s voice choked with the shock of her still stupefied disbelief.

“How observant you are, my dear sister,” Jane sweetly replied. “Yes, it’s I indeed. Don’t you notice anything different about me, Marge? My lipstick, for one thing. And my dress is a bit shorter than I usually wear, or hadn’t you noticed yet?”

“But-but I thought-you wrote me-what does all this mean?” Marge Clifford stammered, her voice cracking with the strain of what was now a growing terror, an irrational awareness that the world was suddenly awry.

“I wrote you that I was on my deathbed. In a way, that was true. I was, because you see, Marge, the old Jane Clifford doesn’t exist anymore. She died the day she was brought here to the Ranchero Corbajo. She died the day I was delivered into the hands of this estimable man who owns the house in which you are a guest, Marge, so that he could take my virginity and turn me into a whore. So in a sense I didn’t lie when I wrote you that letter. What you see now, dear, is the new Jane Clifford.”

“But, darling, I don’t understand all this-”

“Oh, come now, Marge, you’ll never be a really good actress. You didn’t even fool dear Edward,” Jane coolly interposed.

Marge Clifford stared at her fianc’, and then back at the apparition in the doorway. She was choking, and she fought for breath. It seemed to her that she was dazed and in a kind of fixed plane beyond the actual dimensions of this room and that it was all unreal. “But I saw you kidnapped, I saw you on the bed and-”

“And you watched from the closet to see what Senor Corbajo would do to me,” Jane finished. “I didn’t know that then. That is, I didn’t know there was a peephole in that closet. Nor did I know, Marge, that you arranged with the Sandermans to get in touch with a certain Mr. Bob Dewars, who is a kind of procurer for Senor Corbajo’s houses. You put quite a high value on my body, dear. I’m grateful for that. At least it was a great gesture, most munificent. You spent twenty thousand dollars to make certain that you’d never see me again.”

“Jane, you’ve been ill, you don’t know what you’re saying. I-I managed to escape, and-and-” Marge Clifford’s voice lamely trailed off. The gray-haired brothel owner had moved over to stand beside Jane Clifford and was staring at her with a cynical smile.

“I think, Jane, that in some ways she is even more enticing than you. Or, again, she will be after she has been trained properly,” he now calmly remarked. “Let me see. The transaction appears fair to me. In my house in Mexico City, you earned for me something like four thousand dollars, I believe, before your admirer Miguel offered me a really handsome profit for your contract.”

“Which I have already arranged to repay him in full, Senor Corbaio,” Jane Clifford smilingly retorted. “But the difference is, you see, that while Marge may begin humbly and, because she is a very selfish and rebellious type of person, may not earn you too much the first month as I did, in the long run I’m quite certain that you’ll realize a very handsome profit. And I am not expecting a penny in return.”

“A most generous offer. And under the circumstances, very laudable. You would be within your ethical rights, I think, Senorita Clifford, if you were to ask me for the money that she spent to have you brought here against your will. Because I would pay it without hesitation. However, I understand your generosity and your motive as well. Both sentiments do you credit. And now, do you wish me to proceed with the training of this recruit?”

Marge Clifford had listened to all this with growing apprehension, and at the end of it, she turned to her fianc’, grasping his arm with both hands, and wildly cried out, “My God, Edward, did you hear that? They’re going to keep me here, they’re going to make a whore of me-no, no, you can’t let it happen! I’m going to be your wife, Edward! You can’t sit by there and let them do this to me, you can’t!”

“Can’t I, my sweet?” Edward Morrissey turned to smile at her. His eyes had grown very cold and hard, and she did not recognize him even behind the glasses which usually made him look so scholarly and ineffectual. “After what you’ve done to your sister, you think that I would marry you, Marge? You really botched this very clumsily, you must admit.”

“You’re insane, all of you! You can’t get away with it, you can’t!” Marge cried. She made an effort to rise from the divan, but strangely she could not. It seemed to her that her legs were paralyzed.

“It seems that the tequila is stronger than I thought,” Pedro Corbajo observed with a mocking little laugh. For Marge had gulped down half of her drink when Toltes had placed the tray on the coffee table before her, while Edward Morrissey had contented himself with the bottle of Mexican beer. “I am indebted to my overseer for the little compound that was put into your drink, Senorita Clifford. But don’t be alarmed, it will wear off in an hour or two.

Meanwhile, it serves to paralyze your motor faculties. However, it does not affect your mind, so you will be able to listen and understand everything we say.”

“Edward, Edward, for God’s sake, get me out of this! We’re engaged, Edward, you can’t abandon me like this, not like this!” Marge cried, her voice hoarse and shuddering with terror.

“As I said, my dear Marge, you really botched this like an amateur. Did you honestly think I would believe your story that you and Jane were abducted and that you managed to escape and didn’t know what happened to her? It was true that Senor Corbajo owns a dozen bordellos throughout Mexico, but if he had wanted to keep you both as whores, you certainly wouldn’t have escaped, not with all the guards and the precautions he’s taken at this hacienda.” Edward Morrissey took off his glasses, methodically wiped them, then replaced them. “That was the first mistake, and it drew my attention to a number of things. And then when I had a little chat with William Sanderman a few days after you came back from Mexico, Marge, a great deal more became clear to me.”

“You-you know-you-” Marge Clifford could not finish. Her face wa swaxen and pale, and her mouth gaped, and her eyes bulged. She was twisting her fingers in her lap, but she sat there unable to move her legs.

“But of course I know him. I have often watched him and his estimable wife, Delia, discipline their charmingly pretty nieces, Susan and Peggy. It appears that we have something in common, at least, my dear.”

Marge stared at Edward Morrissey as if she were seeing a ghost now. “You?” she croaked. “You like such things?”

“Oh, indeed, my dear. I thought that you were extremely desirable, and I still do, for that matter. But I dislike being dominated by a woman. It is true that on the surface I’m rather mild by nature and retiring. Most of my work in law is in the preparation of briefs, and I have long hours of study and I shut myself up. I’m not really worldly, but I do have my moments. But you misjudged me when you thought you could lead me around with a ring through my nose, Marge. If you had been astute enough to gain the confidence of the Sandermans-and it seems that you ought to have, considering how many times you visited them and how much you paid them-you would have realized that I also am one of their best customers. I have always had a passion for seeing a pretty girl humiliated, her clothes removed and her naked bottom given a sound thrashing. Peggy and Susan are very charming girls, there’s no doubt of it, but after all they’re only adolescents. You, on the other hand, are a mature and certainly very desirable young woman, very sophisticated and calculating, and it would be interesting to observe your reactions and to compare them with Peggy and Susan.”

“Oh my God-you-you’re joking, surely you’re joking, Edward!”

“We shall wait until the drug wears off, Marge dear. Jane, would it displease you to spend that hour with me?”

“Of course not, darling,” Jane Clifford smiled as she came forward towards the divan. Marge made a frenzied effort to rise, but she could not. Her magnificent pear-shaped titties rose and fell violently against the tight cling of the white dress. She dug her fingernails into her palms, but it seemed that she could not even untwist her fingers from their frantic enclaspment. There was a buzzing in her ears and a pounding in her temples, and her throat was dry and her mouth was parched, and she saw the mocking face of Pedro Corbajo there in the doorway, and his eyes were steely and narrowed as they fixed upon her. And the Mexican-Indian overseer Toltes, had returned, and he was holding something in his right hand … a quirt … the same kind of whip he had brought into Pedro Corbajo’s bedroom while she had been hiding in the closet watching Jane get fucked for the first time.

“You’re very beautiful this afternoon, Jane,” Edward Morrissey said huskily as he reached up his arms for her.

“Thank you, dearest. It really isn’t right of you, though, Edward, to want to make love to me while you’re still engaged to my sister,” Jane teased him. She leaned down, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him hotly on the mouth. Before Marge’s horrified eyes, Jane’s lips seemed to suck at his, and now his hands reached up to cup those luscious round fruits of her titties, and to squeeze them through the single veil which covered her body … for she was naked under that clinging sheath.

“I hereby renounce our engagement, Jane dear, and I think that tile Senor Corbajo and his good overseer Toltes will be credible witnesses at any court of law,” Edward Morrissey said hoarsely. His fingertips had begun to tweak Jane’s nipples through the thin stuff of the audacious frock, and her nostrils dilated and shrank as she cupped his cheeks and resumed the long and passionate kiss.

“Ohh-this can’t be happening-oh my God no–Edward, Edward, what have you done to me-no, Jane, you bitch, you filthy dirty little bitch, you’re trying to steal him from me, aren’t you?” Marge panted.

“Of course I am, dear. In fact, I’ve already done it. Edward and I are going to be married as soon as we return to Burlingame. You don’t believe me? Well now, I’m sure that we will have to be rather naughty, Edward dearest, in front of my own sister. It appears she’s a kind of doubting Thomas, you know. I had hoped we could be alone together, but there’ll be other times, of course. Senor Corbajo, may I borrow your overseer for a few minutes?”

“But of course, Senorita Clifford. Anything in my house is yours.”

“Thank you. Toltes, will you bring my sister into Senor Corbajo’s bedroom?” Jane Clifford smilingly asked. Then, turning to the brothel owner, she added, “I’m afraid I shall have to borrow that too, for a little while. At least until the drug wears off. But then I do want you to be a witness, because I shall rely on your very excellent ideas, Senor Corbajo.”

“I am at your service, Senorita Clifford.” The gray-haired man bowed low to the golden-haired younger sister of Marge Clifford.

Toltes approached the divan, bent down and seized Marge by the elbows and lifted her up. She uttered a shriek as his savage face, dark with passion, loomed before her. But she was helpless. She could move neither her arms nor her legs, and a kind of lassitude had seized her body. Yet she could see more clearly than she had ever seen before, and she could hear, and all the rest of her senses seemed extraordinarily intensified. With a chuckle, the Mexican-Indian stooped, lifted her up in his arms, and bore her out of the living room and down the hallway to the bedroom of his patron.

“That’s an excellent example, darling,” Edward Morrissey chuckled as he stooped and picked up Jane who promptly flung her arms around his neck and put her passionately red mouth to his in a long and thrilling kiss.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I think,” Jane Clifford said gaily, “we’ll let Marge watch from the closet. According to what you’ve told me, Edward dearest, she does like to watch, doesn’t she?”

“That’s what Delia Sanderman told me,” the young attorney laughingly replied as he laid Jane down on the bed, and then calmly began to remove his white linen suit coat and his sport shirt.

The Mexican-Indian overseer carried the groaning, terrified auburn-haired young woman towards the closet, opened the door, and then made her kneel down. He wore only a loincloth and sandals, and his wiry, tall body bristled with a savage animalistic virility. The massive spear of his prick was already turgid with rut, and it prodded out the loincloth. And as the horrified and helpless auburn-haired captive watched, Jane Clifford lifted up her knees in the air, seized the hem of the cocktail frock and dragged it shamelessly to her upper thighs, then arched up her luscious round pale white buttocks from the bed and pulled the garment up, up, up, over her succulent round swelling titties, and finally from her head and shoulders and flung it to the floor. She was naked in pumps, and the dark-blonde thick muff of pussy fur appeared, veiling the lips of her eager snatch. Marge uttered a strangled cry, but

Toltes, who had gripped Marge’s wrists behind her back with his strong left hand, clapped his other hand over her mouth to silence her. Marge groaned against that fleshy gag, her eyes bulging and glassy with horror and terror. The fetid, rank smell of the almost naked body of the overseer permeated her nostrils, and into that aura was the strong male acridity of his semen, for he was rampantly in rut and a thin ooze of spermatic fluid had already escaped from the lips of the urethra and had moistened his loincloth.

Edward Morrissey methodically undressed until he was naked. He left on his glasses, and then he ascended the bed and lay beside the pale white-skinned, golden-haired houri who turned on her side to him and put an arm around his neck and then, to Marge Clifford’s consternation and disbelief, slipped her other hand down between his thighs and began to stroke his already sturdily erect prick.

“You’re so manly, Edward,” Jane purred. “I’m going to try and make you a very good wife, you can be sure of that. I’ve had plenty of practice, you know, knowing what men like, and I think I can take care of this big hard stick of yours. Do you want to put it into me now, dearest, or would you like me to suck it and play with it for a little while? We have to wait until the drug wears off, because we don’t want Marge to miss anything, do we?”

“No, you sweet blonde slut you, we don’t. Suck my prick. That way Marge can see. She does like watching ever so much.”

Edward Morrissey rolled over onto his back, . pillowing his head in his arms. He spread hi: thighs, and Marge Clifford saw her fianc”: prick standing in its violently readied angle thick and broad, with an oblong, angrily reddened meatus, fully as large as Senor Pedro Corbajo’s initiatory weapon which had pillagec the cherry of her younger sister’s cunt before her very eyes and viewed from this same closet.

And then she saw Jane Clifford get onto a! fours and move backwards on the huge bed until she had reached Edward Morrissey’s thighs, between which she now knelt, head bowed towards his rampant organ. Jane’s slim soft fingers began to tickle the insides of the young lawyer’s thighs, while her lips made a red O as they fitted over the tip of his prick and began delicately to suck.

“Aaah, that’s marvelous, Jane darling! Don’t hurry, we’ve lots of time till the drug wears off,” Edward Morrissey groaned.

The Mexican-Indian overseer’s hand still clamped over Marge Clifford’s panting mouth. Her eyes were haggard and bloodshot now, and blurred with tears, as they strained to watch this nightmarish and obscene prelude to fornicatory bliss … a bliss she had intended to hoard for herself once Jane had been disposed of forever. She had not dreamed that Edward Morrissey was so virile, so manly … there. She could not take her eyes off the swelling breadth and length of his organ, nor off her sister’s daintily sucking lips, which had taken just the tip between those red petals. And now, judging from Edward Morrissey’s writhing reaction, Jane must have delicately darted her soft pink tongue against the lips of his urethral channel, for he was gasping. “Oh God, your tongue, your sweet bitchy tongue you’ll drain me dry, you gorgeous little whore, I love you, Jane, my beautiful bitch, my wife and my bitch, oh Jane, you’re wonderful!”

“I want you to want me, dearest. I’m not a teaser, either. I didn’t have much chance to tease as a whore, you know. Did Marge ever do this to you, or this?” Marge heard her sister ask in that sweet clear little-girl voice. And then she saw Jane move her head, saw Jane’s tongue flick out to rasp against Edward Morrissey’s hairy balls.

“Oh God, never! Oh, that’s the best I’ve ever had in all my life-you certainly learned a lot of tricks, you gorgeous little whore. Keep it up, slowly, don’t hurry, I want to go mad with it, oh God!” Edward Morrissey was panting.

“Pull your knees back against your chest, Ed dearest,” Jane whispered, but loud enough for Marge to hear. And as the young attorney obeyed, Jane’s delicate tongue rimmed the puckering lips of his ass-hole, and Edward Morrissey dug his fingernails into his knee hollows and uttered a hoarse yell of maddened ecstasy.

“Are you ready now to fuck me, dear Ed?” Jane huskily murmured.

“Oh God yes, yes, I’ve got to fuck you!” Edward Morrissey moaned.

“In what position would you like to do it to me, dearest?”

“Mffff-ahggghhh!! ” Marge Clifford wailed against Toltes’ restraining palm. Then she cried out in pain, for his other hand had gripped her slim wrists like a vise and she felt the agony of his digging fingers.

“Why not on all fours, dearest?” Edward Morrissey gasped. “And face your sister, so she can see from the look on your face how I’m taking care of you. God, you beautiful bitch, just looking at you makes me randy. I’ll warn you, Jane, when we get married, you won’t be allowed to wear any clothes in the house and you’ll be on call twenty-four hours, day and night!”

“That’s the way I want it, Ed dear,” Jane giggled, as she bent her head and gave his prick a stinging kiss on the side of the meatus. “You’ve no idea how hungry I’ve become for cock, thanks to my dear sister. I really ought to be grateful to her in a way, Ed. Of course, I guess I was always passionate, but I was a very good girl. But after I had to lose it to Senor Corbajo, who showed me what fun it can be, I really got terribly excited every time I had a man come into my room and want to fuck me. I warn you, in turn, Ed, I’m going to be terribly demanding wife. You won’t have a drop of gism left when I get through with you, certainly not enough to go watch Peggy and Susan get their bottoms paddled and then go off with some whore if it isn’t myself!”

Marge Clifford writhed on her knees, trying frantically to move, but she still couldn’t. It was a nightmare, it was impossible, and yet there it was before her eyes, and her ears heard those incredible words, the obscene taunts and the lewd proposals of her goody-goody sister. Oh

God, it mustn’t be, it couldn’t be, she would open her eyes soon and wake up.

She saw Jane Clifford kneel on all fours, and Jane’s sweet blue eyes were glazed with lust. That passionate lip stick painted mouth curved in a salacious rictus of anticipatory desire, and Jane’s knees were very wide and her bottom was upreared. And then she saw Edward Morrissey crouch behind her sister, reach under her body to squeeze her round white titties, and then she heard Jane gasp, “Oh God, put it in slowly, I want to feel every inch of it going into my cunt! Oh Ed, dear, it’s so good, it’s so thick and hard and hot, it fills me all up, oh fuck me good, make me give down every drop of pussy-juice I’ve got saved up for you, darling!”

And then she saw Jane’s face tilt upwards, contorted in a rapturous and congealed expression of indescribable carnal bliss, as she heard Edward Morrissey grunt and thrust himself forward till the smack of his belly against Jane’s naked bottom announced that he had hilted himself within her sister’s quim.

Now, kneading Jane’s titties, Edward Morrissey began to fuck her, with long hard digs, while Jane squirmed on her knees, whimpering and gasping, uttering lewd words and exhortations: “Aaah, that’s so good-don’t hurry too fast, dearest-I want to come a dozen times–aaahhh, ooohhh, fuck me, oh pierce me, ram it into me and screw me good, dearest Ed-ooohhhouuuu!! ! Rub my button too, dear, I want to give down all my juice, I’ve saved it for you all this time, oh Ed, fuck your little bitch, give it to her now!”

It was taking place before her eyes. It was hideous, it was maddening. Already Marge Clifford felt hr pussy twitch and moisten with the salacious waves of desire that were rampant within her. But her mouth was dry, her eyes were burning, and her knees ached, for now the circulation was gradually beginning to return. And the fetid animal smell of the Mexican-Indian overseer, and the cruel grip of his fingers against her wrist, and his hard hand stifling her mouth from any outcry, made her know at last that this was no nightmare. This was purgatory and not yet hell.

And she wept as she saw Jane’s face contort, and then saw Jane fall flat on the bed as Edward Morrissey thrust a last time and uttered a bellow of rapture as his body shook and tremored with the frenzied ejaculation of all his gism deep into her sister’s womb. And they lay thus merged, panting and gasping in their bliss, while she watched, helpless and shamed and agonized and terrified.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In that hour before the drug finally wore off, Marge Clifford nearly went mad with thwarted lust over which finally a numbing terror seized her being.

No sooner had Edward Morrissey slowly withdrawn himself from her sister’s shuddering naked body than Jane briskly turned to him on her knees and, putting her lips to his dwindled prick, began to suck him back to vigorous energy again. This time, making him lie on his back with his head pillowed in his arms, she mounted atop him, and began to ride him slowly, working herself up to the cumulatively furious climax which at last drew him into the hot captivity of her churning cunt, and again the two of them achieved a rapturous and simultaneous orgasm.

Then, after a pause for cigarettes and tequila, Edward remained on his back again while Jane mounted over him in reverse. Lowering her head, she began to lick his prick from balls to tip, while he, grasping her buttocks, gamahuched her until both were ready again for their fornicatory fray. This time they knelt, so that Marge Clifford could see them both in profile, see her fianc”s hands squeezing Jane’s luscious pale white buttocks, while Jane goosed her fianc’ as with her other hand she fitted his prick into her greedy cunt. And then, their lips fused, their tongues rapiering, they took joy of each other for the third straight time.

Her legs were prickled with a thousand hot needles now, and suddenly Toltes dragged her to her feet. The pain was atrocious and she shrieked aloud. The drug had worn off and now it was time for retribution.

Lying in each other’s arms, their faces turned towards her, Edward Morrissey and Jane Clifford watched the Mexican-Indian overseer brutally rip off Marge’s white dress and then the bra and panties, leaving her only in sandals and garter belt and hose. From the ceiling beam, there dangled a halter, which Toltes at once lowered by touching a button set in the wall near the bed. Marge, trying to run, stumbled, for her limbs had still not regained their entire circulation, and he easily overtook her at the door. Cuffing her viciously across the breasts, he dragged her back shrieking and pleading for mercy to the halter, and made it fast under her armpits, then pulled her wrists behind her back and tied them with his own loin-cloth. Now he was naked, and his monstrously long and thick prick was dark and red with savage rut. Again he went to the button by the bedside, touched it, and Marge was hoisted till she stood on the tiptoe of her sandals, her pointed pear-breasts jiggling with each shuddering and spasmodic breath, tears drenching her cheeks, her eyes glassy and wide with unspeakable despair and terror.

Toltes moved again to a chair and picked up a black serpentining object … the leaded quirt. “Oh God nol Don’t whip me! Jane, Jane, in the name of heaven, have mercy on your sister!” Marge Clifford screamed. Frenziedly, she dragged at her bound wrists, she tried to twist herself out of the halter which bit into her furry armpits. The dark auburn hair of her cunt seemed moistened now … and it was, with the urine of fear and also with the pre-lubricatory lust-cream of her own salacious voyeurism there in the closet when the nightmare of obscenity taking place on that bed had roused her even against her own volition.

The overseer took his place behind her, and she turned her face over her shoulder, her eyes straining, exorbitantly wide, brimming with tears. “Oh don’t, not with that horrible whip, oh-AHRRROOEEEOWWWW!! ! OH GOD, I CAN’T STAND IT!!”

The quirt had wrapped itself around the tops of her hips, and the forked tip had bitten into her tender groin. Wildly she flung herself forward, in salacious gyrations, till the pulley creaked with her frantic movements. But inexorably the rope swung her back toward Toltes, and a second lash made the black leather quirt wrap around her stockinged calves by way of capricious diversion. Edward Morrissey and Jane Clifford could see the dark angry welt that sprang up at once through the fine gauzy charcoal-brown nylons, and they shuddered as they heard Marge’s strident shriek of pain. Jane’s thumb and forefinger had begun to nuzzle Edward Morrissey’s prickhead, and she whispered, “Oh darling, you’re getting hard all over again, what a wonderful husband I’m going to have. I won’t need to sell myself anymore, you’re going to keep me busy, aren’t you, dearest?”

The third lash was placed around the small of Marge’s tawny back, and her body lunged and bounded, her breasts bounding with the frantic lurch and violence of her movement. Her head flung back, and a harrowing yell of agony tore through the room: AIIIIEEEOWW-WWOOOUUUU!! ! ! PITY, OH JANE, IN THE NAME OF CHRIST, DON’T LET HIM PEAT ME LIKE THIS!! ”

Rut the couple on the bed said nothing, devouring Marge Clifford’s writhing naked body with burning eyes. And Toltes raised the quirt again and slashed across those oval-shaped bottom globes, stripping them with a darkening and cruel welt that leaped across the sinuous ambery-shadowy crease between Marge Clifford’s buttocks. Another wild shriek of torment was wrenched from the naked auburn-haired sufferer. Her glazed eyes saw Edward Morrissey and Jane now entwined, each on their left side, Jane hastily cramming Edward Morrissey’s stiffened prick into her eager cunt, as their arms enfolded each other, as their mouths met, yet their faces turned towards her as she dangled from the pulley-rope halter.

Toltes, his eyes glistening, his lips wet, flogged the shrieking auburn-haired captive with the full strength of his arm. Concentrating on her buttocks for about ten more lashes, he finally turned to face her in front, and sent another stroke whistling across her pear-shaped titties. Marge’s shriek was deafening as she flung herself back, “OHHHARRHHHAAAHH-

HEEEOWWWW!! ! OH STOP, I’LL DO ANYTHING, IN THE NAME OF CHRIST, HAVE PITY, I’M DYING, OH THE PAIN, OH MY GOD, THE PAIN!! ! ”

Toltes lowered the quirt and tinned towards the couple on the bed: “You want me whip her more, or have her fucked now?” he demanded in his guttural voice.

“By all means, let her fuck,” Jane Clifford cooed. “It’s high time she learned, after all. And you’ve really made her very hot with all that lashing. I think maybe one or two good cuts right between her legs, Toltes, will really want to make her fuck very hard!”

The overseer grinned and nodded, comprehending. Stepping back and dangling the quirt to the floor, he flicked it up once, twice, with a vicious snap, so that the forked tip bit right into the dark auburn thatch of Marge Clifford’s cunt curls.

The naked young woman seemed to leap in the air, then to fling herself this way and that as if she were dancing a jig on the gallows as the rope snatched her up from the scaffold. Her prolonged inhuman shriek was wordless, but it made Edward Morrissey and Jane Clifford shudder with lascivious ecstasy as Edward Morrissey plunged himself to the balls inside Jane Clifford’s cunt and gave down the last drench of his manly spew.

“You talk now, Puta,” Toltes demanded, raising the quirt again before Marge Clifford’s maddened eyes, “You either fuck, or Toltes whip you till blood runs down to floor, he whip good on tetas this time!” And, doubling the quirt he tapped each of Marge Clifford’s panting pear-shaped titties in meaningful gesture.

“Oh don’t, not anymore, yes, I’ll fuck, I’ll fuck, anything, but for God’s sake, no more whipping, oh please, oh darling Jane, my sister, have pity on me, don’t let them torture me anymore!” Marge Clifford wailed.

But Jane Clifford giggled and nodded. And the Mexican-Indian overseer strode to the door, opened it, and called out, “Jaime, the gringa puta calls for you!”

Marge Clifford was nearly fainting with the pain, and the hot savage waves of torment from the dark welts of the quirt made her body violently shudder and twitch as she dangled from the halter. Her head slowly rose, and then she uttered an inhuman cry: “Oh Holy Christ, not him, oh Jane, save me, not that hideous animal!” It was the hunchback whom Jane Clifford had seen, the brutal and sadistic trainer of unwilling prostitutes whose services Senor Pedro Corbajo invariably employed throughout his chain of whorehouses when he had to deal with recalcitrant girls who would not sell their bodies eagerly to his clients.

The hunchback was naked, his long arms dangling almost to the ground like an ape’s, squat in his upper body, yet with hideously deformed legs and lean buttocks, and hairy loins, from the shaggy muff of which there projected a prodigiously long and thick penis.

He hobbled towards Marge, who tried wildly to kick out at him with her sandaled feet. But Toltes laughingly knelt down and, grasping one of her ankles, dragged it towards him, and the hunchback with incredible agility seized the other with his left hand. Then, with his right thumb and forefinger he yanked out a sprig of Marge’s pussy curls, and whined, “Puta want to fuck Jaime, or not?” Again he plucked out a sprig of dark auburn love fur, and the agonized naked victim screamed, “Oh yes, oh my God, don’t hurt me anymore, yes, yes, do anything you want!”

Toltes rose now, went to a corner of the room and brought back a footstool. On this the hunchback nimbly ascended, so that his prick was at a level with Marge’s cunt. Marge’s head flung back, her eyes rolling to the whites, and a frantic shriek of agony attested to the rending of her cherry.

Jane Clifford’s vengeance had begun.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It is December now, and Edward Morrissey and Jane Clifford are on their honeymoon to Hawaii and Tokyo. They plan to return about the end of January, and then, before moving into Jane’s lovely house in Burlingame, Edward Morrissey plans to charter a plane and fly to the Ranchero Corbajo. They will spend two weeks there, to observe the “graduation” of the brothel master’s latest recruit, formerly known as Marge Clifford and now called “Tina Valdez.”

Senor Pedro Corbajo has kept the honeymooning couple fully informed as to “Tina’s” progress. She was given to Jaime for two weeks as his whore, and then, dressed only in a pair of corduroy trousers and a straw hat, sent into the fields to labor with the peons. There for a month, she worked like a laborer, and felt the lash of Toltes. At night, when her work was done, she was taken to her hut and the peons lined up outside of it to enjoy her favors.

After this, she proved humble enough to win the indulgence of Senor Pedro Corbajo, and she became a household slave, though not yet worthy of being a puta who might entertain his wealthy clients. It appeared, however, that she did not have the zest for sexual adventure that her younger sister innately possessed. For that reason, the estimable brothel owner saw to it that her education was expanded to include copulation with donkeys and the savage wolf hounds which prowled his estate and kept out unwanted intruders.

But the last word is that “Tina Valdez” has eagerly begged for her chance to prove her prowess as a whore, and Edward Morrissey and Jane Clifford have been invited to watch her accept her first client for hire.

Amusingly enough, it will be William Sanderman, in the company of his beautiful and stern wife, Delia. For Delia’s Lesbian lusts have made her eager to enjoy the favors of this sister of Satan who was once her former client and a conspirator in a plot that the Devil himself decided to turn about.

THE END