THE GIRLS FROM O.R.G.Y. …

hit the farm town with a bang. Their lightning lips and thunder thighs created a storm of controversy that whipped the farmers into a frenzy.

The girls shared a secret that could turn hick-ville into sin-city in two shakes of a lamb’s—or girl’s —tail!

MEET THE GIRLS FROM ORGY!

They're red hot and ready for all comers!

They're experts in all kinds of loving! They're the girls the ladies from Boston called “The Dirty Duo!”

They’re bursting to meet you and greet you with exotic, erotic adventures that’ll knock you over!

They’re something extra-special, extra-nice . . .

And they're here directly. . .

FROM THE EROTIC FILES OF TED MARK — THE MAN FROM O.R.G.Y.

THE GIRLS FROM O.R.G.Y.


Ted Mark


1975

CHAPTER ONE


The touch was the touch of death. Sudden death! The aroma was a mixture of heady perfumes, fragrant, female, frankly sexy. Sound -- point, counterpoint—a young girl’s heavy breathing, the steady pitter-patter of shower flow pelting flesh and bathtub porcelain. The taste was the dryness of fear and horror, salt-flavored with unshed tears, sour with the bile of nightmare nausea. And sight. The unseen scene. A small motel room, bath adjoining. The room dark with night, the bathroom bulb-lit. Half in, half out of the tub, bent backwards with hair cascading into the small puddle forming on the floor, sprawled the body of a young girl. From just under the swell of one scarlet-tipped breast protruded the handle of an ice pick. Her eyes were wide open, staring. She was dead.

In the other room, in a corner, as far from the macabre scene as she’d been able to get, another girl crouched. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut against the picture of death framed in the bathroom doorway. Her hands were clenched across her naked bosom. Her head was bent, the features of the face hidden, a white towel wrapped turban-style around her head and reflecting the overflow of light splashing from the bathroom.

The huddled figure of the girl, the twisted corpse, the running shower, the bright red blood splotching over the bathroom tiles, the black-gray room—all caught in this moment frozen in time.

The moment has no future. But it has a past. A recent past, and a history. This recent past is part of the room, part of the evidence it offers the senses. It’s only a matter of two, perhaps three hours.


Both rooms were empty then. The bathroom was dark, the bedroom gray -- blackening with the twilight. A beam of brighter gray sliced through the motel quarters as the front door swung open and a girl entered.

“Wilma?” she called. No answer. She closed the door behind her, crossed the room and switched on the lamp on the nightstand. She sat down on the edge of the bed, opened her handbag, withdrew a letter, and began reading it.

Dear Glory," it began. She reread it though, although she’d already read it three times. “. . . know what it is to want to kill someone for whom I once felt only desire and love. There’s nothing else to say. Good-bye. Don.” That’s how the letter ended.

She sighed to herself, refolded the letter and put it back in her purse. She stood up then and took the spread and blanket from the bed, leaving only the top and bottom sheets. She kicked off the high-heeled shoes she was wearing and sat down again to take off her stockings. One long, well-shaped leg stretched out before her, she pulled up her skirt and undid the garter. She slid the stocking down the leg, her fingertips tingling as they grazed the warmth of her flesh. She repeated the ritual with her other leg, seeming to take a sensual enjoyment in it. Reaching behind her, she pulled the zipper down the back of her dress. It was an expensive dress, simple, a subdued blue-green print. The label, as with all her clothes, was New York-exclusive. She took the frock off and folded it neatly over the back of a chair.

Wearing only a bra and half-slip now, she padded barefoot over to a closet and opened the door. There was a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. She unclasped the bra and slid the half-slip down over her hips until it crumpled to the floor. Hanging the underclothes in the closet, she picked up a comb and brush from the dressing table and turned back to the mirror.

Now she wore only the garter belt-—a fetish frame to the lightly curl-covered fount of her femaleness. Brushing her hair, she studied herself in the mirror. The reflection pleased her.

Deservedly. At nineteen, Glory (short for Gloria) Dawes had developed into the fullest ripeness of young womanhood. Her breasts were large, firm, and perfect circles, pink-textured with etched rosettes and sharp, molded tips. She had a tiny waist with hips perhaps just a shade too heavy, but all the more voluptuous for the quiver of their slight fleshiness. Her eyes were deep, dark blue. Her hair was tawny blonde—its natural color -- long and gold-flecked. She was a pink-and-gold girl, average in height, delicate -- patrician almost—in the features of her face. These features always wore the look of confidence of one who has rarely wanted for anything, of one who is sure of her place in the world and knows it is a comfortably high place.

Now Glory turned sideways and twisted her head to study the rear view of herself in the mirror. Her back was straight with a trim sweep to small, tightly plump buttocks. She pirouetted and posed for herself coquettishly, frankly admiring her body from different angles.

“Yes, you are beautiful, darling.”

The words, the strange, almost mocking tone behind them, took Glory by surprise. She spun around to confront the girl leaning casually against the door to the room. “Wilma. You startled me. How long have you been standing there watching me?”

“Only a moment. You were so engrossed you didn’t hear me come in. I’ve been enjoying the show.” Again that light note of sarcasm—and something more, something almost—no, it couldn’t be called ominous.

“You must have come in like a cat. I never heard a thing. I suppose I should be embarrassed—you catching me admiring myself this way.”

“Why should you be embarrassed? I admire you, darling. Why shouldn’t you admire yourself?”

“Anyway, I’m glad you finally got here.” Even as she said the words, Glory wondered to herself if she really meant them. Was she glad to be here with Wilma? “. . .to want to kill someone for whom I once felt only desire and love. . .” The words of Don’s letter crossed Glory’s mind. Was that how she really felt about Wilma? Was she beginning to feel hate for her as she now knew that she should? Or was it desire -- still the same wanton hunger -- that she was feeling? Her confusion grew at the mixture of emotions she felt as she looked at Wilma.

Wilma returned her gaze calmly from cat-eyes. Half-closed now, Wilma’s eyes always struck people. They were dark green, unfathomable, slanted in a manner associated with ebony-haired Eurasian women. But Wilma wasn’t Eurasian, and her hair wasn’t black. It was copper red and she wore it loose and reaching almost to her waist. She was a tall girl -- two or three inches taller than Glory— and quite slender, without being bony.

Now, looking at Glory’s nudity, Wilma’s emotions were anything but mixed. She knew exactly how she felt about Glory. She hated her guts. But Wilma also knew that this wouldn’t stop her from making love to Glory.

Wilma had always hated Glory. For so many reasons. From the very first, for so many, many reasons. Because Glory was rich and she, Wilma, was poor. Because Glory had grown up in big-city luxury, and she had been raised in farmyard stable dirt. Because Glory had known innocence -- and, in spite of everything, possessed it still—while she had been suckled on the twin teats of Sin and Shame and counted corruption the hallmark of her future. But these were only the vague reasons of envy, and tonight Wilma hated Glory for a different reason, a very special reason, a reason which gave her hatred focus and impetus, making of it a cold, hard flame.

Still, nothing of what Wilma felt showed as she crossed the room to Glory. As always, Glory couldn’t help admiring the way the red-haired girl moved. Wilma didn’t walk, she glided, a fluid motion, a natural grace which, along with her eyes, increased the impression of her being somehow feline. It was remarkable in so tall a girl; both her size and the mannish clothes she affected might easily have made her movements awkward.

She began to undress. With no trace of modesty, she unbuttoned the crisply starched man’s shirt she was wearing and stripped off the neatly creased, tailored slacks. She stood before Glory in her bra and panties.

Glory felt her heart beating faster as she watched. Aware that Glory was reacting, Wilma turned away to take off her bra. When she turned back, her long red hair was arranged so that her breasts were peeping provocatively through the strands covering them. Glory caught her breath audibly and Wilma smiled, satisfied. Undulating her hips deliberately, she worked her panties down over them, turning teasingly and finally giving a bump and closing her long legs so that the lacy undergarment fell to the floor. She stepped out of them and stood in front of Glory, swaying.

“Oh, you do excite me!” It was half a moan from Glory and there was reluctance mixed with the desire in her voice. “That’s my intention.” Wilma stood where she was, but her body began moving—first one buttock rippling as though with a will of its own, then a breast describing a small, spasmodic circle, finally her hips bouncing slowly and the muscles of her inner thighs tensing and relaxing rhythmically.

G1ory’s tongue darted to moisten her lips. Her eyes stayed riveted to Wilma. “Good Lord! The things you can do with your body!” she said almost reverently. “That’s what being in burlesque teaches a girl.” Wilma paused. Then, slowly, one of her breasts began to rotate again. It moved faster and faster, describing larger and larger circles, sweeping aside the red tresses which had been half-concealing it.

“You could have been a star.”

“No I couldn’t.”

“But why not?”

“I don’t have the build. No hips and my breasts are too small.”

It was true. Wilma’s breasts were high, uptilted and beautifully shaped, but they were small. Her hips didn’t flare as Glory’s did; they were smooth and only slightly curved out from her narrow waist. Her legs were long and smoothly tapered, giving her the appearance more of an athlete than of the kind of overdeveloped exotic found in burlesque. Yet there was that about Wilma which made people look at her. The women looked admiringly, envying her a figure which wouldn’t have been out of place in the pages of Vogue. And the men looked covetously, attracted by an aura of sex which blinded them to the conventionally voluptuous qualities Wilma lacked. Not sexy by the usual standards, sex nevertheless was Wilma’s stock-in-trade.

She gauged Glory’s mood shrewdly now and let her movements slow to a halt. “Come to bed, baby,” she said softly.

Glory started for the bed. Then, “Oh, look what I forgot,” she said, glancing down at the garter belt around her hips.

“Very sexy,” Wilma said.

“Thanks. But it’ll get in the way. I’ll take it off.” She reached behind her for the hook.‘

“Wait! Let me do it for you.” Wilma crossed over to Glory and sank gracefully to her knees in front of the blonde girl. She reached behind Glory and purposely fumbled at the garter belt, her long, slender fingers kneading the plump flesh of the girl’s derriere. When she’d loosened the clasp, she allowed her lips to travel in a series of light kisses over Glory’s thighs. The younger gir1’s flesh quivered in response and she arched her hips.

Wilma stood up and put her arms around Glory. “Come to bed now, baby,” she whispered. Her lips brushed Glory’s ear and then she kissed her full on the mouth, felt the lips grow warm and part beneath the insistent probing of her tongue. She closed her sharp little teeth suddenly, smiling inwardly at the little cry of mingled pleasure and pain with which Glory pulled away from her.

Glory’s breasts jiggled provocatively as she half-ran to the bed and threw herself on it. Lying there face up, she began moving her body, as though to urge Wilma to hurry and join her. Deliberately, Wilma took her time.

Finally she stood over the bed looking down at Glory. The blonde squirmed under the open lust of Wilma’s gaze. Wilma licked her lips insinuatingly. “Oh, do hurry! Please!” Glory said, really writhing in her eagerness now.

Wilma stretched out beside her on the bed and kissed her again. Her hand closed over Glory’s breast, massaging the tip with the palm of her hand. She felt it tremble and grow larger and harder. She caught it between two fingers and manipulated it, tickling it with one long fingernail.

To Glory the sensation was exquisite. She felt the warmth spread from her breasts and grow until her whole body felt like it was on fire. She slid her hand eagerly down Wilma’s flat stomach until she felt Wilm'a’s thighs part to her touch. Then, unable to control herself, Glory shifted position and closed her lips over Wilma’s breast.

Wilma’s hand pressed hard against the back of Glory’s head, tangling in the long blonde curls, pushing her against her bosom. The touch of Glory’s tongue on her flesh made her feel a passion of her own. Her nails raked the younger girl’s back. She pulled Glory’s mouth from her breast and made the blonde lie flat on the bed. Then Wilma covered her body with a slow series of deep, passionate kisses. She swung her body around to kiss the girl’s thighs, and Glory copied her example, pressing Wilma to her by digging her nails into the redhead’s buttocks.

The redhead’s slender fingers moved expertly over the triangle of soft blonde curls at Glory’s crotch. She separated the quivering pink lips of Glory’s vagina. She found Glory’s stiff little clitoris. Glory’s juices were flowing freely now and the clitty was quite slippery. Wilma rolled it around her fingertips. She deliberately flicked it with one long nail. Glory yelped and buried her face more deeply in Wilma’s groin. The redhead smiled cruelly. She licked the sweet, flowing honey from Glory’s pink vagina lips. Cunt! Wilma thought. Christ I love the taste of cunt.

The tongue probing inside her sent a series of thrills through Glory’s body. The sensuous smell of the cream frothing over the red tendrils between Wilma’s legs filled Glory’s nostrils. Glory couldn’t stop herself from suck-kissing thirstily at the hot, raw, creaming slit there.

That’s it, you bitch-in-heat! Suck my twat! Lick it! Eat it! Wilma moved until her gaping gash pinned and covered Glory’s nose and mouth. Then, carefully, she caught Glory’s burning clitty between her teeth and nibbled it! Get that tongue all the way up there!

Oh, that hurts! Glory’s eyes filled with tears. But her body filled with the lust of pleasure-pain! She thrust her stiffened tongue all the way up Wilma and moved it in and out. . . . She’s going to come! Glory thought. And so am I!

Fuck me with your tongue, you slut! That’s it! And I’ll suck the juice out of you! You’re coming now, aren’t you? Yes-yes-yes! And me too! Wilma, almost smothering Glory, yelled aloud. “Fuck . . . Suck . . . I’m coming! . . . Suck! Suck! Fuck! . . .”

Thus, when the moment of ecstasy came, it came for both of them, a wild, pulsing, drawn-out moment which seemed as though it would never end. . . .


This perverse merging of bodies, caught in the new moonlight, unseen—or was it? -- oblivious to the world around it, as oblivious as the world around it was to the happenings in this motel room. But this world would not be able to remain innocent of this room and of the moment of death approaching there. The room would be forced on the world, forced with an awful violence, and the world would intrude on the room, shaken, shocked, disbelieving what it had to believe.

It wasn’t much of a world. It wasn’t cosmopolitan, or even metropolitan. It wasn’t a small-city world, or a suburban world. It was strictly a rural world, small-town perhaps, but really more a world of dying farmlands.

It had a name, this world. It was called Glenville, town and county alike. It sprawled somewhere between the South and Midwest, a place of dust-dried acres and scraggly crops.

It was a place to be born in and to get away from as quickly as possible. No population explosion here. Its population exploded out over the rest of the country, which is why the populace of Glenville itself had grown sparser and sparser in numbers over the years.

As to the kind of people they were, with the best of them constantly leaving, those left behind were mostly the dregs of humanity. Glenville might once have been rightly called a poverty pocket. If so, the farmers of the area were the lint of the pocket. As such, they were fair game for the merchants of Glenville who reached into the pocket to squeeze out any spare pennies which might somehow have lodged there.

For the past three years, these pennies had been more available. The reason for this was the factory opened on the outskirts of Glenville by the Continental Ball Bearing Company. Many of the dirt farmers in the county had sold their land and moved closer to town in order to go to work in the factory. For this reason the factory was very important to the townspeople and, one way or another, to everybody in the county. But the beginnings of industrialization in Glenville had little effect on the basic nature of the people. Farmers, merchants, and factory workers alike, were as narrow a flock of rural Reubens as might be found.

The last liberal political ideology to touch them had been the Populist movement of the 1890s1 . Since then they’d lapsed into rock-ribbed conservatism. Their religion was fundamentalist, as was the code of morals they espoused. It was not necessarily a code they lived by.

The men took off their hats when William Jennings Bryan2 was mentioned. The women voted in accordance with their husband’s instructions. The kids, brought up on myths involving storks, watched the animals mating in the farmyards, and winked at each other.

Sex came early. So did marriage, but rarely to the same youngsters who had experimented with sex together. Thus every man thought his wife was pure and snickered over some adolescent experience with the next fellow’s wife. The women were smarter. To them, no matter what they’d done out in the woods, or in the back of a parked car, or maybe even in the front parlor, it had never happened. And they brought their daughters up to be decent women like themselves.

They did this even when they were practicing adultery, which was by no means infrequent in Glenville. Appearances were the important thing; appearances were their morality; immorality was equated with getting caught. And yet there were certain rules applied to this erotic netherworld, rules which were agreed upon by the prudish and promiscuous alike. These rules served to stratify their sex-world. Marital sex was acceptable for procreation. Marital sex aside from such purposes was a matter of lewd winks among the men and blushes of denial among the women. Extramarital sex—provided by the town’s one rundown bordello—was clucked over, but privately understood. Extramarital affairs were viewed tolerantly enough—so long as there was no scandal -- particularly by those engaging in them. Masturbation was frowned upon; the boys were told it would make them crazy; the girls were told nothing since it was inconceivable that they might indulge in such a practice; both sexes masturbated freely; the boys kept their sanity and the girls usually had little realization of just what it was they were doing.

But there were three taboos, beyond the pale for even the lustiest males and most nymphomaniacal females of Glenville. These were intercourse with animals, oral intercourse, and any form of homosexuality -- male, or female. The first taboo had been broken a few times by various farm folk over the years, but nobody knew about it. Even those who had perpetrated the sin were convinced they would roast in Hell for the bestiality. What the animals involved may have thought, only they know.

The second taboo had been broken even less frequently than the first. One fellow got his wife drunk and they defied it in the privacy of their bedroom. Sober, his wife punished her husband and herself by refusing to ever let him touch her in bed again. A passing prostitute had once obliged a local merchant in this fashion; he showed his appreciation by reporting her to the sheriff who had her run out of town. The third case involved a farmer who gave in to his wife’s urgings to satisfy her this way; once having done so, it was the only kind of lovemaking his spouse allowed him; tortured by shame and self-disgust, the farmer blew his brains out with a shotgun. With the exception of these three cases, the town of Glenville kept its mouth shut.

As to the third taboo, it had never happened. This isn’t too say there weren’t homosexuals in Glenville. One only had to observe the men horsing around at an American Legion meeting, or the women fitting one another at a dressmaking session, to realize the latent possibilities of the populace. But, overtly, nothing happened. One reason was that those so inclined realized early in the game that a homosexual life in Glenville could lead only to frustration and moved on to greener pastures with less inhibited colts—or mares, as the case may be.

Thus the affair between Wilma and Glory was the exception. More than that, it was the beaver nibbling away at the brace supporting the very foundation upon which the morality of Glenville rested. Now, lying side by side on their bed of perversion, the passion-drained pair tottered unknowingly on the very brink of the quicksand of personal disaster into which the town would soon be sucked.

It was close in the room. The air hung heavy with summer—and with silent hatred and unvoiced regrets. Twin cigarettes glowed in the dark. Starshine sneaked in the window and played peekaboo with the two nude bodies stretched out on the bed. Neither girl spoke; both were busy with their own thoughts.

Glory: Why did I do it? Why did I make love to her, let her make love to me? Why was I so disgustingly weak? Will any man ever be able to satisfy me this way? Another woman? Would another woman make me feel as Wilma does? Will it always be women, never men now? Is this what she’s done to me? Or maybe more. Maybe she’s spoiled me for everybody—male and female -- except herself. But why? I don’t love her. I hate her! I could kill her! Yes, now that I’ve had my sex, I could kill her! And I should kill her before I sink to doing it again. Yes, I should really kill Wilma. Nobody would have to know. She’s no good. She deserves to die! The world would be better off without her. I should kill her! I should kill Wilma!

Wilma: You slavering, panting, weak-willed little bitch! You haven ’t got your breath back yet, have you? I can hear you, whimpering way down in the back of your throat, That’s the difference between us. You let sex enslave you, I make sex work for me. It’s done its work well tonight. We’re here, alone, and nobody knows what we're doing here. Even you don’t know why I'm really here . . . I came here to kill you, that’s why! Yes, Glory, my rich, soft little lambling, I came here to kill you. But will I have the nerve? Will I be able to go through with it? Will I really be able to murder Glory in cold blood? And if I do, will I be able to keep my head, to do all the things that have to be done if I’m to get away with it? Or will I freeze up? Go to pieces? Be caught in a web of murder? No! Why should I? I’ve done a lot of things before and always I kept my head. . . . Seduction. Theft. Blackmail. And other things. None of them threw me. Why should this? But I’ve never murdered anyone before! No matter! Glory has to die! I’m going to kill Glory!

Moments later they made love again. Blonde curls tickling Wilma’s breasts, red hair flowing over Glory’s thighs, mouths searching in the darkness, hips arching to the touch of tongue and lips, minds gone blank to everything, to everything except the sound and feel and touch and smell of love -- woman-love gone wild. Bodies tense, they thrashed about on the bed until they were both thoroughly aroused.

Wihna rose momentarily from the bed. When she returned she had a large rubber dildo and a small jar of scented pink cream. The cream smelled like a mixture of jasmine and musk. There was fear in Glory’s midnight blue eyes as she watched the naked redhead with the small, bobbling breasts return.

“Don’t hurt me,” Glory pleaded, hands fluttering to her large breasts to cover the erect berry tips.

Wilma merely smiled. Her vagina burned hot with anticipation. Her nipples stood there out from her breasts like small, erect penises.

The redhead strapped on the dildo. The base of it fit neatly inside her, snug against her clitoris. She dug some of the cream out of the jar with her fingertips.

“Turn over,” she ordered Glory.

“No!” Glory moaned. “Please.”

Wilma merely looked at her. Glory turned over. Her small, compact behind stuck up like twin hillocks, delicious pink-and-white flesh mounds.

Wilma slapped it—not too hard -- with the palm of the hand that wasn’t holding the pink, scented cream. Glory writhed, the flesh of her backside rippling. A red spot appeared. Wilma struck again. And again. . . .

It hurt. Glory loved it. She hated it. Stop! Don ’t stop!

Turned on, Wilma’s vagina clenched tightly around the dildo. She spread the cheeks of Glory’s behind. What an ass! Made for reaming! And I’m gonna ream it ’til it bleeds! She spread the cream over the cleft. She worked it in more and more deeply with her fingers. Glory writhed and groaned some more.

“Crouch!” Wilma ordered.

Glory crouched on the bed, her head and arms low, her creamed behind sticking up in the air, gleaming, wide open.

Wilma mounted her from behind. She guided the dildo. First the twat! All of it! All the way up! Until she begs for mercy!

“It won’t go in all the way!” Glory was ill tears now.

I'm going to kill her! Brutally, Wilma rammed the dildo all the way in as hard as she could. First the snatch ’til it’s raw and red and bleeding! Then I’ll rip apart that asshole! And then I’ll kill her!

Pumping in and out, on top of her like a stallion, Wilma felt the dildo massaging her own clitty and she felt Glory’s pain and it excited her unbearably and she felt Glory start to come in spite of the pain, and then she was coming herself. . . .

Still Wilma didn’t stop. She pulled the dildo out of Glory’s vagina. (An outpouring of come-cream flecked with blood followed it.) And now she slipped it between the cheeks of Glory’s behind and started working it slowly up the narrow anal cavity.

Oh, God that hurts! Glory strained to widen the opening. But, Oh!, it feels so strange and so exciting too! I have to hold back, or. . . But when I do, it pulls it in deeper and it’s already so deep and it hurts and it feels so thrilling and Oh-Ooh-Oh! I’m coming again and so is Wilma. OW-EE! That hurt! When this is over, I’ll kill her!

That’s it, you bitch! Take it in the ass! Fuck like a dog! Fuck-Fuck-Fuck! Wilma rode Glory high and hard. Fuck-Fuck-Fuck! . . .

I will kill her! I will kill Wilma!

Glory, you cunt, you’re gonna die!

Finally they collapsed with their heads on the pillows again, mutually exhausted.

More time passed. Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes. Then one of the girls got up. She went into the bathroom. There was the sound of a shower running. It stopped. Another few moments and she emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped turban fashion around her head. She sat down in the armchair, across from the bed. The other girl arose and went into the bathroom. Again there was the sound of running water. The girl with the towel around her head sat and reflected for a moment. Then, slowly, she got to her feet and started for the bathroom door . . . .


Yes! That was the recent past of this room. The “now”? One girl dead, the other brain-blanked in a state of shock. The future? Soon; indeed, it is almost upon them—the dead girl, and the one who lives.

But first, past more removed, history perhaps. And for this, it is necessary first to leave the room and later to leave Glenville altogether. Thus the focus spreads out in widening ripples. It will narrow again. It will spotlight the room. It shall return!


CHAPTER TWO


“Sex is a weapon. Use it!”

By the time Wilma Malden received this advice, she didn’t need it. She was only twenty-two years old, but she’d known sex was a weapon for at least half her life. She’d used it often—and always to advantage. Except once. Hearing the words now as they came from the suck-cherry-red lips of the woman who ran the brothel in which she was working, Wilma remembered the exception, And she remembered all the times that weren’t exceptions. . .


Eleven years old and in the bushes out behind her father’s barn. “I’ll give you a dime,” the boy said.

“Twenty cents,” Wilma insisted.

They compromised on fifteen. The boy pulled his zipper open and Wilma reached inside his pants. She pushed his underwear aside and took hold of his erect penis. It was so big! So hard! She moved her hand rhythmically. Then, suddenly, at a carefully calculated moment, she stopped and reached lower. She took his balls firmly in her hot hand.

“Twenty cents,” she said, exerting just enough pressure to make the boy see the light.

He gave her the extra nickel. She finished what she’d begun. He shot a lot of hot, sticky, thick cream all over her hand. She licked it. Sweet. Not bad. That was the first time. . . .

Another time. Wilma Malden, age fourteen, small-breasted, but nevertheless known as the sexiest girl at Glenville High School. She was only a freshman, but the seniors and even the teachers themselves were aware of her erotic appeal. Like Mr. Birdwell who taught her Algebra-1 class and had seated her in the front row so that he could occasionally glance at her long, shapely legs, the thighs of which he appraised to himself as “flushed and feverish.”

Wilma took note of his hungry stares. She would purposely seat herself so that her dress rode high up over her limbs. She would cross and uncross her legs, push her skirt high with feigned innocence as though to scratch an itch, and smile to herself as Mr. Birdwell stammered over the problem he was setting the class.

Wilma was doing very badly in Algebra-1. Somehow, she couldn’t seem to memorize the necessary formulas. So, there came a day, a week or so before the term finals, when Wilma wore no panties under the short, cotton skirt playing hide-and-seek with her legs in the front-row seat of Mr. Birdwell’s class.

That day Wilma found itches to scratch in the damnedest places. Birdwell’s eyes were dancing pinballs behind his rimless glasses. My God! That naked pussy! All red and trembly and clamp! God! His lecture wandered all over the place, and once or twice the class even tittered as he completely lost the thread of what he was saying. Finally, mopping his brow, he dismissed his students. The room emptied out -- except for Wilma. She stood very close to him, her small, pointy breasts almost grazing his cheek as he sat at his desk.

“Mr. Birdwell,” she said, “I’m having an awful lot of trouble understanding this course. I wonder if you could help me.”

Embarrassed by her closeness, the teacher pushed his chair back. “Of course, Wilma. What seems to be giving you difficulty?”

“You.” She whispered the word softly and let it hang in the air a moment before continuing. “It’s the way you look at me,” she explained at last. “When you stare at me that way, I just can’t keep my mind on algebra.”

“W-w-what?” Mr. Birdwell was completely taken aback by her effrontery.

“I can tell how you feel about me from the way you keep looking,” Wilma went on brazenly. “I know what you want.” She put her arms around him and pressed her breasts very close against his face, wriggling slightly so that he might feel their heat. “I want it, too,” she murmured, bending so that her lips tickled his ear.

“No! You’re mista-” he started to protest, but Wilma quieted him with a kiss on the lips. She moved her legs wide apart, took his hand in hers and guided it under her skirt, pushing it upwards until it was touching the spot she’d intended it to touch. Her clitty was erect and sticking out boldly.

“I want you,” she said.

But Birdwell reacted as though his fingers had grazed a live wire. He pushed her away roughly and stood up, upsetting his chair in his frenzied retreat. “Stop that immediately, Wilma!” he said sharply, trying to keep the desk between them. “Have you forgotten that I’m a teacher here and you’re a student?” Then, almost to himself, “I’d be fired on the spot if anybody saw us.”

“Nobody has to see us,” she crooned. “Nobody has to know. I’ll meet you later. Anyplace you say.”

Birdwell stared at her disbelievingly. Fourteen years old, he thought to himself. Only fourteen years old! How can she know so much? He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on making his voice firm. “No!” he said. “Absolutely not! You’re a wicked girl. The only excuse I can find for you is that you’re too young to realize the evil of what you’re suggesting. I want you to go now, Wilma. Right now! I’m going to do you a favor. I’m going to forget this ever happened. And I want you to do the same.”

Wilma looked at him coolly, disdainfully even. Then she turned on her heel and started from the room.

Being a pedant, Mr. Birdwell couldn’t resist a parting shot. “I’d advise you, Wilma,” he called after her, “to put such unclean thoughts out of your mind and concentrate on memorizing your algebra equations.”

Wilma didn’t answer. But she did bend over and slip her skirt up in back; her naked behind wiggled hot, erotic disdain at the teacher. She knew she didn’t have it in her to master algebra. The subject baffled her. But men didn’t. Neither did women, for that matter. Her plan to seduce Birdwell in order to pass Algebra-l had failed, but Wilma had a substitute plan. Now, immediately, she put it into effect.

She went to the office of the assistant principal of the high school. The assistant principal was a woman. Wilma chose her, rather than the principal, who was a man, because she felt the female point of view would prove more sympathetic and helpful in regard to the delicate matter she wished to raise.

“It’s Mr. Birdwell,” she told the assistant principal candidly -- imposing a woman-to-woman intimacy upon the school official. “He’s always looking up my dress.”

The lady understood. She also understood that the reputation of the school must not be smirched. Wilma’s accusation, even though it wasn’t backed up, was enough to make her take certain precautions.

She had a talk with Mr. Birdwell. He was instructed to keep his eyes above waist level where his students were concerned. He was also instructed to change Wilma Malden’s seat to one in the rear of the classroom where, presumably, she would no longer distract him from his teaching.

Thus, when the final examination in Algebra-1 was given, Wilma was able to refer to the crib cards she’d inserted in her stocking tops without fear of being caught. Even if Mr. Birdwell saw her, he wouldn’t dare admit that his eyes had once again fallen on forbidden flesh. She passed the test with flying colors. . . .


And again, when she was seventeen. Fully developed now, tall and slender, a hot-eyed girl with flaming red hair and a strange, insistent allure. She had a summer job as a salesgirl in Joe Ambler’s General Store

“That yellow organdy we got in yesterday is beautiful.” Wilma’s fingers trailed lightly over the back of Joe’s neck.

“You like it, huh?” He patted her behind.

“Oh, yes!” She didn’t flinch.

He reached under her skirt and gently pinched the warm flesh of her buttocks. “It’s yours,” he said when she didn’t move.

That was the end of June. In mid-July, Wilma asked him for a raise.

“Well, I don’t know.” His voice was teasing. His hand closed over the peasant blouse she was wearing.

“Please, Joe. Another five dollars a week would make all the difference.”

He reached inside the low-cut peasant blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. His hands were hot and sweaty caressing the hardening tips of her breasts. “All right,” he agreed, breathing fast.

Then August. A shortage in the day’s receipts. “Wilma!”

“I took it,” she admitted calmly. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“Fifty bucks? That I mind!”

Guiding his hands over her body, “Do you, Joe?” “Come in the back.” Hot kisses, bodies pasted together and moving in rhythm, flesh-swelling excitement. Then, “Take off your clothes, sweetie.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“Just that. No. I won’t take off my clothes.” Wilma’s voice was calm.

“Now look, kid, I overlook fifty bucks missing, I want more for my money than a quick feel and a couple of kisses. Now come on, you’re gonna come across.”

“No.”

“If you don’t wise up fast, Wilma, I’m gonna call the sheriff and tell him you been stealing from me.”

“No you won’t.”

“I won’t, huh?” Joe Ambler was getting angry. “And why not?”

“Because if you do, I’ll tell him about these.” Wilma pulled open the drawer of Joe Ambler’s desk and took out at handful of four-by-four photographs backed with cardboard. She tossed them face up on top of the desk. “You know what he’d do if he found out you were peddling dirty pictures?”

“Now, wait a minute -”

“And to high school boys, too,” Wilma continued. “You could go to jail for that. I’ve seen you bringing them in back here to sell them. And you an elder of the church, Joe. Aren’t you ashamed?”

“You win.” He straightened his clothing and left her there.

For the rest of that month, Wilma called the shots around the store. She managed to outfit herself completely. Joe Ambler was greatly relieved when September rolled around and she had to go back to school. But he wasn’t completely rid of her. Part of the price of her silence was a commission deal with Joe supplying dirty pictures for Wilma to sell to her fellow students. It was a fact of human nature which she filed away in the back of her mind when she discovered that the girls were even more eager to buy her wares than the boys . . . .


And other incidents, all of which had combined to teach Wilma that sex was indeed a weapon to be used. Each of them also taught her of the wide variety of ways in which this weapon might be used. All this knowledge acquired, yet at the age of nineteen still a virgin!

That was the year of the exception, the year she used sex not as a weapon but for its own sake, the year she ceased being a virgin. Her nineteenth year it was, on a bitter-cold winter night, sleet biting at the window-panes, the wind fighting to break loose from the echo chamber of the farmhouse chimney. And the torch of Wilma’s body twisting hungrily beneath the rough blankets of her bed.

She was all alone in the house. But she was used to that. She’d spent much of her home life in solitude. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Wilma was the first baby the poor woman had ever conceived and, in expelling the infant from her body, her heart collapsed as though in protest against what was being spawned upon the world. From then on, Wilma’s father was the only family she had.

Ben Malden was only twenty-one years old when his daughter was born. It was young to be a widower, but Ben accepted his wife’s death fatalistically, as he accepted all the bad luck which seemed to be the ordained lot of himself and his family. His own parents had been killed in an auto accident when he was seventeen. They’d left him this farm -- and all the hardships and heartaches which went with it.

The farm lay in the west of the township of Glenville. Ben’s father had managed to make a living out of it by rotating various vegetable crops. When Ben took over, he followed his father’s example. But a combination of factors doomed his efforts to failure. Drought rendered the land fallow two years in a row. Changing times brought large farming cartels which set the prices on produce and Ben found himself unable to compete. Seed and fertilizer prices went up. The large outfits were working their lands with modern machinery while Ben’s plow and tractor were quickly wearing out, becoming obsolete; his labor and production costs were almost double those of the big farms. Even when the federal government stepped in with their handout of parity, Ben continued to find himself being squeezed out of business.

He wasn’t alone. The story was much the same throughout Glenville County and the surrounding farming areas. Seemingly, not a day went by without the bank foreclosing on some small farm. The organized farming industry took over whole tracts of land which had once given a livelihood to perhaps a dozen families. One machine replaced half-a-dozen farmhands. The men and their families left the land and the County of Glenville, made their way to the big industrial cities where they were swallowed up in the factories. The face of the land itself changed; where once men had walked proud and erect through their fields, now giant insects of rubber and steel crawled; where once there had sounded voices and laughter, now was heard only the whining rumble and whir of machinery.

But Ben Malden was a stubborn man. Four generations of his family had tilled this soil. This farm was his home and he was determined not to lose it.

Nor was Ben a stupid man. He could see that if things went on the way they were going, he would be forced off his farm regardless of his determination. He took stock and realized that the only part of his operation which was showing a consistent profit had nothing to do with the crops he reaped. It was the hogs he raised for slaughter which, year in, year out, helped make up the deficit of his agricultural activities.

So, Ben voluntarily went to the office of the Glenville Farming Company and arranged to sell them three-quarters of the acreage which made up his farm. With the money he received, he paid off a few of his more pressing debts. But the balance of it went for lumber for pens and a flock of choice breeding hogs.

Ben was buying time. While his neighbors were being forced from the land, he was building for future security. If he could only hold out, he might yet manage to build the kind of going business which couldn’t be taken from him.

By Wilma’s nineteenth year the issue was still in doubt. Hog-breeding had proven profitable for Ben, but he’d had to pour the profits back in to fulfill the expansion requirements necessary just to stay in business and compete with the large breeding farms. Still, he told himself, five more years was all he needed to be completely secure.

With these things on his mind, Ben had developed a gruff, silent exterior. This had never fooled Wilma. She’d always sensed both the kindly nature and iron resolution of the man beneath the surface. She adored her father. She adored him single-mindedly. She would do anything in the world for him. Anything. Indeed, he was the only person outside of herself for whom she had any feeling at all. Other men, the boys she had known -- they were gelatin to be molded for her own purposes. Not one could compare with her father. Not one could stir the emotions in her breast which he aroused without knowing he was doing so.

Perhaps she didn’t understand these feelings. Or perhaps, perverse creature that she was, she understood them all too well. In any case, they lay behind the smoldering desire which possessed her body as she writhed in her bed that night during the winter of her nineteenth year.

There was the crack of the front door flung open by the wind. Then the duller thud of someone closing it against the power of the storm. Wilma crept from her bed to the top of the stairs and saw her father taking off his coat in the hallway.

Ben didn’t see her. He was past noticing much of anything. He was quite drunk.

Ordinarily, Ben wasn’t much of a drinker. However, once or twice a year he allowed himself some relief from the austere life he’d forced upon himself by tying one on. At such times he never made any trouble. He simply sat in one of Glenville’s four bars and drank until his vision of the world began to blur into something more pleasant than reality. Then he went home to sleep it off.

Wilma recognized his condition. She went back to her room as he lumbered up the stairs. She got back into bed and lay quietly for what seemed a very long time. Then she got up once again and went to the door of her father’s bedroom.

Ben was sleeping deeply. Also, a layer of liquor was fogging his brain. Thus the dream, while so very real as to involve all his senses, was oddly disjointed, filled with blanks, jumping from one sensual experience to another, a jumbled series of erotic experiences.

First there was the insinuating heat of the girl-body grinding against his loins. Some kind of thin material over the naked body—a nightgown riding up arched, seeking legs, straps pushed down from the shoulders and a small, naked breast quivering in the cold night air. Hands caressing the length of his body, pausing to stroke the muscles of his haunches. Then red hair cascading over his chest—red hair like that of his wife, his passionate young bride, so quickly dead, gone and longed for these many years. The nostalgia of her body aroma filling his nostrils. A sweet, natural perfume exuded by a young girl awakened to desire. And the building of his own desire. The feel of the girl-breast nipple swelling in the palm of his hand. The soft lips parting beneath his own, the gentle closing of teeth over his searching tongue. Young, supple thighs separating at the touch of his hand. A soft moan now. Nails digging into the back of his neck, pressing his mouth to her breast as though she wished to be devoured.

Finally, the covers kicked back, the chill sweeping over them unnoticed. Slim hips rotating their invitation, young hands urging him to hurry, voice chanting --

“Now! Now! Oh, do it to me now! You do it! You! You! You! Nobody else, ever! Only you! You!”

And all the time those deep, green eyes staring up at him with lust and worship.

His prick! It was hard and long and throbbing! Her hand was on it now, fondling his nuts, tickling the tip, finding it damp and rubbing the leakage into the crown. “Put it in me!” A whisper. Then the hot thighs parting and the hand guiding his stiff cock to the lips of her young, soft pussy. In. . .In. . .In. . And. ..

Together then, and a sharp cry of pain. The anguished cry of his virgin bride? The cry of their wedding night so many years ago? An echo soon gone, lost in the frenzied rhythm of two bodies moving as one.

A roaring then, and a blackness and an explosion from deep inside his body. Then hers, followed by another cry, one of triumph, of thanks and adoration. And more words, hazily heard, not quite understood, dream words, hazily heard, not quite understood, dream words lost in the subsiding of rapture.

“I love you! Oh, I’ll never love anybody else the way I love you. Thank you, daddy. I love you, daddy!”

Jarring, yes, but lost in the still-drunken stupor which envelops him. Blackness and dreamless sleep. But broken once more during the night in a second phantasmagoria of lovemaking. Again the “I love you, daddy!” is lost in the oblivion of sleep.

Gray morning. The sleet has stopped. The wind has died down. Only the slate-cloud sky testifies to the grudge left behind by the angry night.

Dull headache opens Ben’s eyes. He remembers. He had a dream. A dream of sex. But so real! Things come into focus and for a moment he knows dread.

He sits up. Thank God! The bed beside him is empty. Then it was only a dream.

He gets up. He shakes his head, smiling to himself ruefully at the hangover he has. But he can’t pamper himself. The hogs are waiting to be fed. No rest for the liquor-logged. He goes into the bathroom and sticks his head under the cold water tap. Refreshed, he returns to his bedroom. He begins to make up his bed. He stops, as the evidence of truth crashes through his morning torpor.

There, on the bedsheet! Unmistakable! Bloodstains!

He stares for a long moment, then turns and walks slowly to Wilma’s room. She’s sleeping very soundly. Gently, he pulls the covers aside. There are bloodstains on her nightgown. The proof of their lovemaking still clings to her loins.

Ben returns to his room. He sits heavily in a chair and stares out the window for a very long time. Finally he hears Wilma beginning to stir. A while later he hears her moving around the kitchen. He rises and goes downstairs.

“Pack your things,” he tells her. “You’re gonna visit your Aunt Mattie in New Orleans.”

“What? Why?” The ecstatic look with which she has greeted him vanishes from her face.

“Cause it’s best. That’s why.”

“Daddy, are you punishing me?”

“No. I’m not punishin’ you. I’m the one should be punished, not you. I’m the one has to carry this sin. You’re not to blame, Wilma. You’re only a child. But I’m a man an’ I’ve committed the worst sin of all. You gotta go away. It’s the only way.”

“But I don’t want to,” Wilma protested. “I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay with you always.”

“You’re goin’! An’ that’s final!”

And so it was. Wilma left for New Orleans on the afternoon train. With her she took another bit of knowledge:

Sex is not only a weapon to be used. Sex is also a trap which can destroy that held most dear. Beware of it!


CHAPTER THREE


“Sex is a trap. Beware of it!”

Twice in her life, Glory Dawe’s mother took enough notice of Glory to bother giving her advice. Both times the advice was exactly the same. The two occasions were within a few weeks of each other.

The first time was about three months after Glory’s twelfth birthday. It was the night she glanced down while undressing and saw the blood trickling down her leg. Panic-stricken at the source, she ran into her mother’s bedroom.

Her mother was just getting ready to go out. When Glory came hurtling into her arms and sobbed out what was troubling her, the first thing Florence Dawes did was to push the child away and turn to the mirror to be sure Glory hadn’t soiled her dress. Then, glancing at her watch, she seated Glory firmly on the edge of the bed and took a chair herself, safely across the room from her. Tersely, clinically, she explained to her daughter what was happening to her. She ticked off the points one by one on her fingertips. Lacquered nails sparkling, she told Glory how natural it was, how now she was a woman, how now she was even capable of having babies. She finished up with an explanation of how cricumspect she expected Glory to be now, concluding that “sex is a trap; beware of it!”-- a statement she repeated three times to be sure that it registered.

Florence Dawe’s timing was perfect. With the third repetition a maid entered the room to announce, “Mr. Von Stummer is waiting for Madame in the drawing room.” Herr Von Stummer was one of the many aristocratic men who squired Florence Dawes around the night spots of Cannes. She’d made her home on the Cote d’Azur of the Riviera for five years now -- ever since her divorce from Preston B. Dawes, Glory’s father. During that time, the generous alimony settlement Preston had granted her allowed her to enjoy the Riviera society life to the hilt. And, since she was an extremely beautiful woman, she suffered no lack of men to cater to her desires.

Now she patted Glory on the head, tossed the sable stole about her shoulders and left for her date. Glory, used to adapting to her Mother’s busy timetable, accepted her departure philosophically. There were questions she would have liked to have asked, but she knew her mother would never forego one of her appointments to answer them. So Glory went back to bed and tried to figure out the answers for herself. Momentarily, it occurred to her to put the questions to one of the maids in the household, but she immediately scotched the idea, aware that well brought up young ladies didn’t discuss matters of hygiene with the domestic help. Nor matters of sex. And, since there were no girls of her own age in the society in which her mother moved, and since she was forbidden to play with the children of the servants, or those who lived in Cannes, Glory was pretty much left to find her own way in matters of sex as well. She was doing that just before the second occasion of her mother’s advising her.

Glory had taken a shower. Back in her bedroom, she had slapped off her robe and lain down naked on the bed, trying to catch the late afternoon breeze coming through the window. Despite the breeze and the shower she’d just had, however, Glory’s body felt very warm. Indeed, there was a strange, burning sensation welling up from beneath her belly.

Glory touched the spot. The touch didn’t cool it, but somehow it made her feel good. She stroked, gently, her nail just grazing the petal of skin at the forbidden doorway. The sensation was exquisite. Slowly, she felt herself beginning to open, almost like a flower. Her hand investigated, probing deeper and deeper. She caught her breath sharply with the instinctive realization that her fingers had found what they were seeking. She moved slowly, bouncing slightly on the bed as her excitement mounted. Then she moved faster and faster in a frenzy of delighted discovery.

Her hands squeezed her already blossoming breasts. That feels good! Très good! She noted with wonder that the berry tips were reddening, growing harder and longer. She angled her head until she’d forced one of them between her lips. She sucked at it greedily as her freed hand returned to that burning area which Glory had once seen described in a forbidden book as “honeybox”. What was done to it, the book had gone on to say, was called “fucking”.

Now I am “fucking” my “honeybox” with both hands. That little stick of flesh there; what is that called? It feels so good when I stroke it and jerk it! And when I push my fingers—two of them at once -- all the way up my “honeybox”. I wonder what a man’s ‘thing’ looks like, (Glory had heard a maid call it that.) Ooh! it’s so exciting when I think of that! Of his ‘thing’ up my “honeybox”and “fucking” like my three fingers. (Is three too much?) Faster now and faster and faster! Sucking my bosom tip! Thinking of. . .and now. . . and now. . ..

“Just what do you think you’re doing!”

Her mother stood in the doorway to the bedroom, her face a mask of outrage and disgust. She crossed the room and slapped the girl’s hands away from her body, shuddering at the moistness she encountered. She walked back to the door, shut it firmly, and turned to Glory.

What followed was a lecture on the subject of what could happen to nasty little girls who played with themselves. To hear Florence Dawes tell it, raving insanity was the least of the possible results. Again she finished with the bit about sex being a trap of which a girl must beware.

But that wasn’t really the end of the matter. Deep inside herself, Florence Dawes hadn’t been so much shocked by what her daughter had been doing as by the sight of Glory’s naked body. She hadn’t realized how much her daughter had developed. She’d grown into a woman -- and a damn ravishing one at that. With that bosom filling out and that angel-face and golden hair, she’d be a real man-killer. The thought gave Florence pause.

Competition in these parts was tough enough, what with all the young movie starlets flocking to the Riviera, without having to beware of one’s own daughter. Besides, Glory looked older than her years and Florence didn’t want any of her suitors getting the wrong idea about how old she was. Also, some of them might try their wiles on Glory, and Florence certainly didn’t intend to be put in the position of chaperoning Glory’s virtue. All these factors combined to make Florence wire Preston B. Dawes that Glory would be returning to New York earlier than had been previously arranged.

Although she’d been shuttling back and forth between her parents for years, Glory was saddened at the idea of leaving her mother. She liked her father, perhaps even loved him, but there was a coldness to his personality that seemed always to keep her at a distance from him. With her mother, it was different. True, she paid very little attention to Glory, but she was a woman who seemed always to move in an aura of glowing warmth. Glory idolized her, tried to copy her, was far more attracted to her ultra-femininity than to her father’s masculine qualities. Florence Dawes would always remain the ideal to Glory, would always represent that which was most worth loving. In the end, this would play its part in Glory’s fate.

Many elements combined to mold this fate during the seven years which followed. Chief among them was Glory’s deepening disappointment in not seeing her mother again. Once each year Glory would allow herself to hope that her mother would arrange for them to be together. Once each year there would come a letter or a telegram from her mother explaining why it was impossible and promising they’d see each other next year surely.

The excuses were varied. Travel plans wouldn’t allow. . . . Convalescence from a minor illness made it impossible. . . . Social obligations forbid. . . . A shortage of accommodations presented insurmountable difficulties. . . . These and other excuses left their mark on the years during which Glory was growing up.

The truth was that as Glory grew older, Florence became more and more disinclined to risk the complications of having an attractive and maturing female around. But Glory didn’t know this. She accepted the excuses. She even invented reasons of her own to explain away her mother’s neglect.

Glory contented herself with following her mother’s life through the Sunday rotogravure sections and gossip columns. She hung on her mother’s romances with a Greek shipping tycoon, an American movie star, a titled English diplomat, and others. She traveled vicariously with her mother from the Riviera to Switzerland and Paris and Scotland even once to Palm Beach. She faithfully kept a scrapbook into which was put every item and news photo of her mother which appeared.

The years passed quickly. The greater part of them Glory spent in an exclusive, girls’ boarding school. Christmas, Easter, and summer vacations she lived with her father, but the rest of the time she was kept in this rather cloistered, all-girl environment.

The times with her father were pleasant, but not particularly close. He seemed always preoccupied with business and while his feelings for his daughter went deeper than a mere concern for her physical welfare, he wasn’t constituted to express such feelings easily. By the time Glory graduated from school at the age of eighteen and went to live with her father in NewYork, the boundaries of their relationship had been set. She soon discovered that any attempt to extend them only embarrassed Preston B. Dawes.

She stopped trying around the time she met Don Corrigan. Don was a junior executive of Universal Enterprises, the mammoth, interlocking corporation in which Glory’s father held one of the top managerial positions and the title of Special Consultant. Don was one of her father’s aides, and Preston B. Dawes thought very highly of him.

So, too, did most people who knew Don Corrigan. Personable, good-looking and intelligent, he was living proof that the Horatio Alger myth still has validity in American life. At twenty-five, Don had overcome his poor New York slum background to become recognized as one of the most promising young men employed by Universal Enterprises.

The cost of his success -- which Don had never begrudged had been mostly in terms of time. He was seventeen when he went to work for Universal as a messenger boy in the publicity department. By the time he was nineteen he had managed to save enough money to enroll in a night-college. When he graduated with a degree in business management, he’d already received three promotions at Universal and his salary was nearly triple what it had originally been.

Don had sacrificed youth to ambition. He had foregone all social life to establish his career. And during these years neither sex nor girls had any place in his scheme of things. These attitudes were just beginning to relax; he was just starting to allow himself to indulge a bit, to allow a non-business side to his life and to enjoy it, when he met Glory.

It was at a small dinner party which Preston B. Dawes gave for his business associates and their wives. Don was the only unmarried guest present, which balanced off nicely with Glory acting as hostess for her father. He was still a little unused to the tuxedo he was wearing, slightly awed by the lavish Park Avenue duplex which was the Dawes home. But his forthrightness and boyish charm more than made up for any gauche qualities he had.

“My father is very impressed with you,” Glory said, putting him at his ease.

“I take that as a real compliment. I’m tremendously impressed with your father. He has a mind like a steel trap. The amount of detail he carries around with him and manages to keep straight never ceases to amaze me.”

They were seated together on a couch in the drawing room, sipping at their after-dinner liqueurs. Don had been trapped between two wifely Westchester types during dinner and very much appreciated being freed of their country-club chitchat-which, for the most part, had been meaningless to him. Besides, Glory Dawes with her chic yet voluptuous blonde beauty was the most attractive girl he’d met in a long time. Now he found himself discussing his work with her and was soon going into details he usually only discussed with the other men at Universal.

“But I must be boring you terribly.” He broke off abruptly at the thought, feeling chagrined. “I’ve been babbling away here and of course all this can’t be very interesting for you.”

“That’s not true!” Glory protested. “I’m really fascinated,” she said honestly. “Dad never has told me much about what goes on at Universal and I’ve always been curious. Please go on.”

So Don went on. And when he took his leave at the end of the evening, it was with a genuine sense of regret. What he’d anticipated as a business obligation had turned out to be a really enjoyable evening. And the boss’s daughter—for he couldn’t help thinking of Glory that way -- had left him quite smitten. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Which was what kept him hovering in Preston B. Dawes’s office the following day. Don had been summoned to explain some details of a contract upon which he’d been working. The discussion was over, yet he remained.

“Yes, Don? Was there something else?”

“Sir, I wonder if I might speak to you for a moment on personal matter?”

“I suppose so." There was a note of reluctance in Dawes’s voice. He didn’t like getting involved in the private lives of the people with whom he worked.

“It’s about your daughter, Glory,” Don began.

Dawes looked at him sharply. He was completely against his subordinates intruding on his own family life. “What about Glory?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you’d object if I asked her out, sir. On a date, I mean.”

Dawes relaxed. “Why should I object? Glory dates whom she pleases. She doesn’t need my permission. After all, she’s eighteen years old.“

“I realize that, sir. It’s just that I thought you might mind—because of the differences in our backgrounds, I mean. And if you did, I wanted to save us both the embarrassment of your having to point it out to me.”

Dawes looked at Don disbelievingly. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly. “You know, I almost find that insulting, Corrigan.”

“I assure you there was no insult intended, sir. All I meant was—”

“I understand perfectly what you mean! You mean that there might be a chance of my being a snob, and if I am, you don’t want to offend me! That’s what you mean, Don, and I find the idea damned insulting. But I’ll relieve your mind anyway. I am not a social snob, and neither is my daughter. But you sure are!”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Dawes shook his head and then smiled slightly. “It figures. The poor really are more socially conscious than the well-off. They’re much more aware of social distinctions. But it’s the man and what he accomplishes that really counts, Don, not the money, or the social standing, or the advantages his family may have been able to give him. You have proven -- and are continuing to prove -- yourself. There’s certainly no reason for you to feel inferior.”

“Sir,” Don said respectfully but firmly, “I don’t feel inferior. I never have. Perhaps my lack of experience led me to ask your permission to date Glory and perhaps the asking was unnecessary. But I intended it as a mark of respect for you and for Glory, not as a confession of my feelings of social inferiority. I’m sorry you misunderstood.”

Dawes grinned, and this time the expression was more pronounced.“Well said,” he told Don. “Permission granted. Now, if you can get your mind off my daughter, what say we get back to work?”

Don called Glory that night and she gladly accepted his invitation to dinner and a show. Indeed, she was as taken with Don as he was with her. His stylishly long blond hair, athletic build, and ruggedly masculine good looks appealed to her from the first. And she was caught up in the intensity of his personality—an intensity which until he met Glory had been directed solely towards his career.

They dated frequently during the year which followed. Their relationship blossomed and deepened. Both felt a love developing between them, but neither spoke of it. Also unexpressed was the strong physical attraction they felt toward each other.

On Don’s part this was really due to shyness and lack of experience. Always, he’d been too busy bettering himself to become involved with girls. He had no yardstick by which to measure what was and wasn’t permissible in expressing his feelings for Glory.

Glory, basically innocent, was still both more sophisticated and more eager for some physical display of emotion than Don was. Working all day as he did, his mind was frequently on other things. But Glory, who had lots of spare time, frequently indulged herself in daydreams of Don making love to her which might have shocked him had he known of them.

These held-down feelings came to a head the night of Glory’s nineteenth birthday. Don took her nightclubbing and they drank more champagne than either of them was used to drinking. It was about two in the morning when they decided to go for a hansom cab ride through Central Park.

Had Glory not been slightly tipsy, she probably would never have made the remark. “Don, why haven’t you ever tried to make love to me?” she asked.

He was a little taken back by the boldness of the question. “How can I answer that without sounding like a jerk?" he retorted. “If I tell you it’s because l respect you, it makes it sound like I’m not attracted to you physically, and that’s surely not true.”

“Then you are attracted to me physically?”

“Of course, I am. You’re a hell of a sexy girl, Glory -- in case I haven’t mentioned it before.”

“You haven’t. But when you kiss me, you sort of pull away right after, as though you were afraid of me or something.”

“Well maybe I am sort of afraid. Afraid I’ll get carried away and go too far; afraid you’ll resent it and maybe it will drive you away from me.”

“It won’t.” Glory’s eyes were half-closed and her hand was on the back of Don’s neck, gently urging him toward her to kiss her.

He did. It was a long kiss, warm, deep, stirring. The hansom moved slowly through the park in the wake of the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and inside the cab Glory and Don were caught up in the sudden release of desire. The driver half-dozed as the horse trotted automatically over the well-known route; he was uncaring and oblivious to the awakening of passion in the cab.

Instinctively, Glory’s lips parted to Don’s searching tongue. She grew slightly dizzy with the erotic insistence of his kiss. She turned her body so that they were pressed together and clearly felt the telltale swelling of his penis against the silk cocktail gown she was wearing.

Her flesh burned at the pressure and she moaned softly, urgently. Don’s hand dropped from her shoulder and closed over the silky black material covering her breasts. Glory caught her breath sharply and closed her hand over his. Her heart was beating wildly and her breasts were rising and falling very quickly.

She slid lower so that his hand might have access to the low neckline of the dress. He grasped eagerly at the fullness of flesh which seemed trying to burst from the strapless bra she wore.

“Wait,” Glory said, pushing him away for a moment. She reached behind her quickly and undid the clasp of her bra. She pushed down the top of the dress and pressed her naked breasts against Don’s face. The nipples were erect, red and probing.

He inhaled her perfume deeply. His lips darted over her bosom, finally coming to rest in the clearly defined cleavage which halved it. Then he caught at the tip of one breast with his lips and felt it grow even more hot and rigid.

The hansom gave a sudden lurch and Glory cried out at the sudden, sharp piercing of Don’s teeth. He pulled away immediately. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. Oh, no.” She pulled him back to her. She slid her hand inside his shirt and felt the warm, muscular chest, the curly hair which covered it so evenly, the quick pulsing of Don’s heart in a rhythm which seemed to match her own. She bit his ear gently and laughed affectionately when he tensed against her.

“Playful, aren’t you?” he said.

“Uh-huh.” She bit him again.

“Well, two can play.” He reached around the swell of her breasts and tickled her ribs.

“Oh, don’t,” she squealed.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll tickle you back.”

“I’m not ticklish,” he told her.

“We’ll see about that!” She slid her hand around his chest and ran her fingers lightly over his rib cage.

He didn’t respond. “I told you I wasn’t ticklish,” he said.

“Nonsense! Everybody’s ticklish. I just have to find the right spot.” She forced her fingers under his belt and tried to tickle his belly.

Still he didn’t respond. “See?” he said.

Determined, Glory pushed her hand lower. Suddenly Don gave a little jump. “Aha!” she said. “So that’s the spot!” She squeezed his erect and burning penis.

“It has nothing to do with being ticklish,” he told her. “That’s just damn sexy, that’s all. Anybody would react to being touched there.”

“Not me!”

Don reached under Glory’s dress and ran his fingers up the length of her thigh all the way to the quivering flesh above the top of her stocking. “Oh, no?” he said as the muscle of her thigh clenched at his touch.

“No,” she murmured. But her hand was on top of his then and suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore. Her legs were arching to his touch and her mouth was hungry against his, His hand went higher, brushing aside the flimsy panties she wore. Glory’s naked breasts and naked thighs gleamed their invitation in the moonlight coming through the window of the cab. He plunged his hand into the open, damp, warm well between her legs.

They were both beyond thinking then. Glory’s fingers were as eager as Don’s in tearing away his clothing. She gasped at the size of his hard-on—she’d learned more of the language of sex by now—bared to the moonlight. He pulled her astride him, his fingers digging into the plumpness of her buttocks. There was a moment’s sharp pain, and then Glory found herself rising and falling gently as though in tempo with the bouncing of the hansom. Don’s lips brushed her breasts and she felt the fullness of his movements beneath her. He pulled her closer to bury his face between her breasts, and she began to move more frantically at the sudden, perfect pressure against the deep fount of her passion. They moved together. Cock and cunt. Locked. Faster and faster. . .Their bodies attuned, their flesh alive to the pleasure. . . And then there was the rocketing sensation of mutually reached ecstasy, and the love they felt for each other broke over them in waves. Don shot a steady stream of hot cream all the way up, deep into her womb. Glory gasped and came with him, forcing a mixture of his jizzum and her honey out and over both their thighs. And still their orgasms continued. Finally they broke apart to lie together side by side, happily exhausted yet conscious that they must hurry and rearrange their clothing, for the hansom ride was coming to an end.

That night—or, rather, early in the morning -- Glory drifted off to sleep reliving the joy she and Don had found. Don lay awake, happy, but a little troubled in his conscience, and making plans. He put those plans into effect the very next day.

“Mr. Dawes,” he said at the first opportunity, “I want to marry your daughter.”

“Does she want to marry you?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Well, let’s find out for sure.”

That night Don asked Glory to marry him and Glory accepted. The pair then rejoined Preston B. Dawes in the living room and told him their decision. “I’m delighted,” he told them, meaning it. “When were you thinking of having the nuptials?”

“Right away!” they answered in chorus.

Dawes smiled. “Eager, aren’t you? But not very practical I’m afraid. After all, there are preparations to be made. Invitations to be sent out, that sort of thing. And there’s something else which has come up that I’m afraid will make it necessary for you to wait at least until autumn.”

Their disappointment showed. Don rallied from it enough to ask, “What’s that, sir?”

“The Continental setup. You’re familiar with it, Don?”

‘Yes, sir, I worked out the original prospectus for expansion.”

“Well, I’m not familiar with it and I don’t see what it has to do with our getting married.” Glory pouted.

“There’s been a hitch,” Preston B. Dawes explained patiently. “Don, you explain the set up to Glory and then I’ll tell you both what the problem is.”

It s like this, honey,” Don explained. “The Continental Ball Bearing Company is an important subsidiary of Universal Enterprises. It’s a large plant operation in the southern part of the Midwest. We started it about three years ago because it was obvious that if we could manufacture our own ball bearings, we could cut down on purchasing costs. You see, every single item manufactured by Universal utilizes ball bearings—as a matter of fact, all machinery, TV sets, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, stereo sets, you name it, contain them. So you see why we’d rather make our own than buy them elsewhere.

“Anyway, at first the Continental plant was an experiment. We continued to purchase ball bearings from other manufacturers while we tested the feasibility of making our own. Recently, we’ve been buying less and less on the outside, though. It’s become apparent that the idea behind Continental is sound. The trouble is that the plant isn’t large enough to supply all our ball bearing needs. So, with the saving so obvious, it was recently decided to draw up plans for expansion. I was assigned to do this about three months ago."

“And you did a good job, Don,” Dawes assured him. However, with a subsidiary like Continental, subject as it is to all the problems of absentee ownership and even absentee management above a certain level there’s many a slip twixt planning and doing. Your plans, through no fault of your own, couldn’t take the human elements and community relations aspects of the situation into consideration. I’ll show you why in a minute. First, tell Glory roughly what it was that you proposed.”

Don took a pencil and paper and drew a rough map. “This is the county of Glenville, honey.” He pointed. “And this is the town of Glenville. Here, on the eastern outskirts of the town in the Continental Ball Bearing Company plant. Now, the problem was just how, physically I mean, to expand. The town itself lies directly to the west, so that was out. Local ordinances cover the land to the north, zoning it off for residential areas only, so if we wanted to expand in that direction, we’d have to get involved in local politics. A stream cuts through the property to the east, presenting all kinds of construction problems, so I ruled that out. That left only a tract of farmland here, to the south, owned, if I recall correctly by a Mr. Ben Malden. It was my recommendation that we have this land surveyed and if it really was suitable to our purposes, we offer Mr. Malden ten percent over the going rate to sell his farm to us. That’s about it, isn’t it, sir?”

“Right,” Dawes agreed. “But what happened is that while his land is just what we need, Mr. Malden refuses to sell. Now we’ve upped our price twice, to almost one-and-a-half times our original offer, but he’s adamant. He may be holding out for more, or it may be that he just plain isn’t selling. If it’s the latter, we may have to reconsider trying to convince the town of Glenville to rezone so that we can expand to the north. This could be very costly, for then we’d be dealing with perhaps a dozen individual owners, rather than one, and each of them might try to outsit the others in order to get the highest price. Mr. Malden’s our best bet, but the situation requires someone at the management level to go to Glenville and appraise it from all angles realistically. I’m leaving for there next week, Glory, and I’d hoped you’d come with me.”

“But what about Don?” Glory was agitated. “Of course, I’d like to go with you, Daddy, but I don’t want to be away from Don.”

Dawes grinned at his daughter fondly. “Since Don worked on the original expansion plans, I was planning to take him along anyway. Does that make you feel any better?”

“It sure does.”

“Me too,” Don added.

“The company has rented a house for us,” Dawes told Glory. Don, I’m afraid will have to stay at the local hotel. He doesn’t rate top accommodations yet. But I suppose we can throw a dinner into him now and then without straining the expense account.”

“It might strain his digestion, considering what a dud I am at cooking,” Glory said a little ruefully.

“You won’t have to cook,” Dawes said. “We get an allowance for household help -- cook, caretaker, and maid. You didn’t know what a big shot your old man was, hey? Anyway, the plant foreman has already hired a couple for us and I’ve wired them to hire a maid for me. The couple’s name is Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Henshaw and our man assures me they’re thoroughly reliable.”

“Henshaw!” Glory giggled. “I’ll bet with a name like that they look just like Ma and Pa Kettle!”

“Don’t make hasty judgments,” Preston B. Dawes advised dryly, People rarely fit the stereotypes suggested either by their names or by the places in which they live. Believe me, I’ve seen enough of this country to know that the people in the rural areas are a far cry from the hicks that city people think of them as. Many a city slicker has paid a heavy penalty for making that mistake.”

Preston B. Dawes couldn’t have known how prophetic his words were. He couldn’t have known the tragic cost which would be paid by himself and Don and Glory. He couldn t ‘have known how that price would be squeezed from their very souls by a girl Glenville hadn’t set eyes on for almost four years. He couldn’t have known about Wilma Malden!


CHAPTER FOUR


Wilma Malden clutched the whip hilt in her fist and brought it back over her shoulder. She snapped her arm forward with all her strength and the lash whistled through the air. It cracked expertly across the bare buttocks of the man lying facedown on the couch. A scarlet line of blood appeared on his doughy haunches.

He was a short man, middle-aged and paunchy. His muscles are in his wallet, Wilma thought to herself and cracked the whip once again. The man uttered a cry of pain mingled with ecstasy. Wilma smiled to herself—a humorless smile. The man was enjoying his beating and she was enjoying administering it-—even though it was part of her job.

There were other aspects—many of them -- of her job which Wilma didn’t enjoy at all. It wasn’t that she had scruples about being a high-priced whore; it was simply that there was rarely any pleasure in the job for her. Wilma had learned a lot about sexual pleasure in the three years since she’d left home; mostly she’d learned not to question the perversities of her own tastes, to enjoy that which pleased her and, when necessary, to put up with that which didn’t.

Three years, and tomorrow she’d be on her way home again. Wilma thought of her father and the last time she’d seen him. She slashed the whip across the man’s buttocks again. And she thought bitterly of her life during the three years since leaving Glenville.


First there had been New Orleans and Aunt Mattie. The city -- dirt and fever-heat, bursting at its seams; the woman -- dried bread crust, sparrow-squeaking “don’ts,” man-shy and juiceless and flutter-flammed at the problems of a young niece with long legs designed for yawning manward. For about three months Wilma had amused herself by teasing Aunt Mattie, by jeering at her and confessing to all sorts of sins she’d never committed, by flaunting her sexiness in that wrinkled prune-face. Aunt Mattie took it as long as she could, and then she did the only thing she could do. She up and died. She dropped dead in self-defense. And Wilma, behind her veil at the funeral, smiled at having disposed of the old lady’s morality once and for all.

Next came the job as a cigarette girl in a Bourbon Street nightclub. Wilma landed it simply and quickly by seducing the manager of the club in his office. It left a bad taste in her mouth, but she was hired that very night. He was the first man to make love to her since that night with her father and the act had left Wilma disgusted. It was a disgust she would overcome, but never lose completely.

Three weeks later, toward closing time, Wilma was leaning over the counter of the hatcheck room when she felt a hand slide boldly up the back of her leg and under the material of the tights she wore. As she was whirling around, she heard the hatcheck girl greet the owner of the hand respectfully. “Hello, Mr. D’Angelo. Good to see you,” she said.

Wilma bit off the outrage she was about to voice. Vito D’Angelo was a big man along Bourbon Street. Even the club owners were obsequious to him. Rumor linked him to the syndicate and placed him high among the overlords controlling New Orleans’ netherworld.Wilma let his hand have its way and then turned and smiled at him.

“You’re new here, hey, sweetie?” D’Angelo said, his eyes fondling her body approvingly.

“Yes, Mr. D’Angelo.”

“What’s your name?”

“Wilma Malden.”

“Well, I’m gonna call you ‘Red.’ It’s easier to remember. Okay?”

“Sure, Mr. D’Angelo.”

“And my name’s Vito -- to my friends.”

“Swell -- friend Vito.”

He laughed. “Well, since we’re friends, how about we ball when you get through here tonight, Red?”

“Cool.”

“As a matter of fact, let’s get started right now. You go change Red, and I’ll fix it with the manager.”

“If you’re sure he won’t object—”

“He won’t object!” The way D’Angelo said it removed all doubts.

A half hour later Wilma found herself in Vito D’Angelo’s lavish duplex apartment. D’Angelo flipped on the stereo and took her in his arms. His lips were hard and insistent against hers. His hand was rough as it reached behind her to bunch the material of her skirt so he could reach beneath it. The kiss was a long one and his hand, working its way between her legs from behind, was insistent.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Wilma said a little breathlessly when the kiss was over.

“Any reason I should, Red?” His teeth flashed white in a humorless smile. But his small, deep-seated brown eyes were filled with lust, a lust as crude as the scar on his cheek which pointed toward them like a jagged arrow. “I know what I want, I go after it,” he told her. “And I didn’t bring you up here to show you the view.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“Well, then—” He took her in his arms again and pushed her none too gently onto the couch. Leaning over her, he unbuttoned the top of her dress and bared her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra. “Yeah,” he said, “You knew what to expect, didn’t you.” He stood looking down at her.

“Why, yes, I guess I did,” Wilma murmured. She reached down and pulled her skirt up as though to adjust her stockings. She made sure that she pulled it high enough so that he could see she wasn’t wearing any panties. Then she let it fall to cover her legs again.

D’Angelo caught his breath. “Hey, you’re a real, honest-to-goodness redhead,” he said appreciatively. He reached down and pushed her skirt up again-all the way. His hand fumbled at his pants a moment and then he scrambled on top of her.

“Baby!” Wilma exclaimed, a little taken aback at his impetuousness. “Aren’t you even going to get out of your clothes first?”

“Why waste time, Red?”

He took her then, quickly, brutally, surprising her with the driving power of his small, but hard and muscular body. Wilma felt nothing, but she rolled her hips as though overcome with pleasure. Her body matched the thrusting movements of his. Her teeth nibbled at the back of her hand and she gave little squeals of joy.

Big! It’s so goddam big! Not like Daddy ’s. Like a cop’s billy! That’s what it’s like! And all stuffed inside me! Up me! So why don’t I feel anything? That’s a cock up my quim. A prick! A hard shlong! I can feel the whole length of it rubbing up and down my clitty. And my clitty is stiff. And hot juice is running out of my cunt. My body is hot and excited. It feels, but I don’t. Why don ’t I feel? Why?

D’Angelo’s hands pried at the insides of her thighs now. He forced them as far apart as they’d go, pushing his steel-hard ramrod-penis even further up Wilma’s glove-tight vagina. It battered the mouth of her womb, flailing the raw flesh there cruelly. The tight, filled sac holding his swollen balls bounced harder and harder against the foaming lips of her vagina. And finally he came, one long, violent surge which almost caught her up, almost carried her along to an orgasm of her own—almost, but not quite. And then it was over.

Her simulated pleasure hadn’t fooled D’Angelo for a minute. He stood up and adjusted his clothing. He lit a cigarette and looked down at her coolly. “You wasn’t with it, huh, baby?” he said.

“Sure I was,” she protested. “It was great! The best I ever had. You’re some man, Vito! A terrific lover!”

“That’s right, sweetie. But you lie in your teeth. I’m good in the sack and I know it. I don’t need you to give my ego a shot in the arm. But for you it was nothing. I can tell. All that phony wiggling and moaning don’t fool me. You wasn’t feeling a damned thing. Right?”

Wilma shrugged. “I guess not. I can’t help it. I just don’t turn on. I guess. Only once. . . But that’s another story, and it was a long time ago. The truth is, I don’t really blame you. I don’t think any man could make me really feel it. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there it is. I don’t even enjoy making love—except I am glad if I could give you pleasure, Vito.”

“It was okay,” he told her.

“Just okay?”

“Just okay. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve had better.”

Wilma smoothed out her dress and got to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said shortly. “Well, I’ll see you around.” She started for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Look, we don’t click. I can’t help it. But what’s the sense in my hanging around here?”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” D’Angelo said softly.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You said yourself you can do better. So what do you want me to stay for?”

“Sit down and I’ll draw you a diagram.”

Wilma sat down. ,

“I’m a very selfish guy,” D’Angelo told her. “I enjoy a really good roll in the hay, sure. But I also get my kicks other ways. You don’t make it the straight way-—that’s your lookout. I don’t really care. Not getting enough of a kick myself —that’s the only thing that really bugs me. But, like I say, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning this.” D’Angelo sat down beside her. He took her by the elbows and twisted her body until she was kneeling in front of him. He unbuttoned his pants. His hands tangled in her red hair as he pushed her head toward where he wanted it.

Jesus! He ’s got another hard-on! Even bigger than before. And he wants me to put that in my mouth? I’ll choke on it! Oh! I’m supposed to lick his balls first. That’s not so bad. Jesus! Whoa, boy! Don’t get so excited! Almost poked my eye our that time. I just kiss this spot under his balls and his whole stiff prick jumps. Whaddaya know! What happens if I lick it with my tongue? My God! It’s actually getting bigger! What’s this? My come on his balls, all tangled with the hair there. Sweet! I don ’t taste bad at all. Not even mixed with his nut-sweat. Hey, there ’s some of his jizzum still on his cock. Wonder what that tastes like. I’ll just lick it up and see. Hmm. Not as sweet as mine. Sure gets him excited though when I run my tongue up and down his stiff shaft. Christ! It feels like it’s gonna burst with all that goo inside it. Hey! Why ’s he grabbing me by the hair like that. Oh, shit! He ’s forcing me to take that big, foaming cock in my mouth. Oh, I’d better suck and suck fast, or I’ll choke! I really will! Oh, he’s fucking me in my mouth and I’m sucking just as hard as I can. . . .

It was a new experience for Wilma. Again she felt nothing, but this time there was a difference. His knees clenching her head so that there was a roaring in her ears, the urgency of his fingers twisting painfully in her hair, the way his body arched as though eager to be devoured, the genuine moans testifying to the almost unbearable surge of his lust—all these combined to make her feel the power she held over him, the power centered in her warm lips, O-shaped mouth and sharp, exquisitely torturing teeth. And her sense of power became complete when the explosion of his passion, sending hot scum down her throat, left him limp and helpless to her still teasing tongue.

“Wow!” D’Angelo said when she finally stood up. “Wow!”

“Are you happy now?” Wilma asked curiously.

“I’ll say! Baby, that was the greatest! Absolutely the best I’ve ever had. Where did you ever learn to suck cock like that?”

“I never did it before,” Wilma said honestly.

“For real? Well, I’ll be damned! The way you went at it, I’d of swore you was an old pro.”

“This was the first time. Was it really as satisfying as doing it the regular way?” she asked.

“Oh, better, baby! Much better! I’ll tell you true, I’d rather have a good blow job like this anytime. Almost any man would. You can believe that, baby. Most guys’ wives won’t make this scene. And even chicks who’ll swing with guys when it comes to straight sex draw the line at this kind of ballin’. But this beats the other anytime. Any guy who’s honest’ll tell you that. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Wilma believed him. And she filed what he’d said away in her mind for future use. It was a good thing for a girl to have this kind of information. You could never tell when it might come in handy.

After that first night she saw a lot of Vito D’Angelo. He would pick her up at the club after work two or three times a week. lnvariably they would end up at his apartment where Wilma would perfect herself in her newfound sex artistry to D’Angelo’s increasing delight. She did this so well that, to some small degree, her favors gave her a hold over D’Angelo.

One evening she put this hold to the test. “Vito,” she said, fondling him teasingly, “I’m getting no place fast peddling cigarettes in that dive. Couldn’t you help me get a job where I could make a little more loot? You have all kinds of connections. Don’t you know somebody who could use a bright girl with her eye on the future?”

“I’ll look around,” he promised.

He was as good as his word, and the next time he saw Wilma he told her he had a prospect for her. “How’d you like to make two bills a week for maybe three-four hours’ work a day?” he asked her.

“Sounds great. What’s the pitch?”

“A guy over at the Peep Show owes me a favor and he’s looking for a new girl to fill out the bill.”

“That’s a burley house, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean I’d be a stripper?”

“Exotic dancer. That's what they call ’em. I thought you might be interested—that is if you don’t mind stripping down in front of a bunch of drooling guys.”

“I don’t mind. But do you really think I could do it? I mean, I have no experience, or anything. Don’t I have to know how to dance or something?”

“These guys aren’t looking for Pavlovas. The few steps you need to know they’ll teach you real quick. For the rest, all you have to do is look sexy.”

“I’m not so sure about that either, Vito. I don’t exactly have a Jayne Mansfield bosom, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it. Work it right, you’ll be a good change of pace from the rest of them cows. Anyhow, that’s how I sold you to Rocky Jantzen.”


Rocky Jantzen was the manager of the Peep Show and Wilma met him the next day. As soon as they were alone in his office he told her without any preliminaries to take off her clothes. When she had stripped down to nothing but her panties, Jantzen circled her with an appraising eye.

“Small on top, but them bazooms got a nice shape if you learn how to handle them,” he told her. “You ain’t got no hips, but there ain’t a helluva lot we can do about that. Offhand I’d say no, but with Vito a pal of mine an’ all, I’ll give you a try. What it really depends on is the way you move. You learn to move right, the jerks out front’ll overlook a lot. Go ahead, move. Wiggle it like you wanna get me in the sack.”

On the spur of the moment, Wilma picked up her skirt and held it out in front of her like a curtain. She danced a few impromptu steps and slowly, sinuously, raised one leg and slowly drew the skirt away from it until its whole long, supple surface was exposed.

“Yeah!” Jantzen exclaimed involuntarily. “You got great gams all right.”

Wilma held the skirt so that it was in front of her bare breasts, just grazing their tips. Then she snapped one shoulder with a series of small jerks until the long, red tip of one breast peeped out from behind the skirt. She repeated the motion with the other shoulder with the same result.

“Good. Good. You got the idea,” Jantzen licked his lips. Wilma dropped the skirt then and arched backwards so that her firm little breasts pointed straight up in the air, their tips quivering. She rolled her hips, turning around so that Jantzen might see the effect the motion had on her small, plump buttocks. She rolled down her panties until they were a mere white triangle barely covering her pubic area. She turned again, three-quarters of her naked, pink-flushed buttocks revealed to Jantzen’s view. Then she turned back and flexed and unflexed her thigh muscles so that the triangle seemed to bounce with a life of its own.

“You’ll do, baby. You’ll do,” Jantzen told her. “Get dressed and I’ll take you down to Jenny. A week with her should polish up them rough edges.”


Jenny turned out to be a peroxide blonde, small and plump, with the kind of excess flesh that earned her the billing of “Cuddles Nicely” on the Peep Show marquee. She was a friendly girl with a squealy voice and the habit of always grabbing at people—both male and female. Wilma’s first impression was that sex was Jenny’s pleasure as well as her business.

She found out this was right toward the end of the week she spent being tutored by Jenny. The dance steps Wilma was taught were easy enough and she caught on to them quickly. “You’ll be able to go on with the chorus at the Monday Matinee,” Jenny told her, patting Wilma’s behind familiarly. She let her hand linger there an insinuating moment. “Let’s take a break,” she said then. She led Wilma over to a couch, the only place to sit down in the bare rehearsal studio. “You know, honey, you’re really gorgeous,” she said after they’d lighted their cigarettes.

“Not really. You’ve really got what the customers want.” Wilma looked pointedly at Jenny’s lush, oversize breasts.

“You mean this?” Jenny pushed up the sweat shirt she’d been wearing to reveal her breasts. She cupped her hands under them to squeeze them with a sigh of self-appreciation. “Yeah, they’re great all right. Without ’em, I wouldn’t eat. But I’m a broad and I know it. You—you got real class.”

“But no figure—at least compared to you.”

“I think you’re wonderful,” Jenny said with real conviction. She squeezed Wilma’s thigh to show she really meant it.

What the hell? Wilma thought. She’d had no experience with this sort of thing. What can she possibly be after?

Jenny didn’t leave her in doubt long. “Sweet,” she murmured when Wilma didn’t protest her caress. She bent over and brushed Wilma’s thighs with her lips.

A small, tingling thrill swept over Wilma’s body. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

“l don’t know.” Jenny laughed self-consciously. “I just feel sexy as hell. Sometimes it comes over me like that. I just get all filled up with wanting sex.”

“But I’m a girl like you,” Wilma said, bewildered.

“Well, us girls can get our kicks, can’t we?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on now, honey. Don’t be naive. You know what I mean. Admit it. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Wilma said, although she really didn’t.

“Then what do you say, sugar?”

“All right,” Wilma said. She still didn’t quite know what Jenny meant, but she was curious.

She found out almost immediately, Jenny knelt in front of her and pushed her knees wide apart. She reached up to Wilma’s waist and pulled the shorts she was wearing down. Then she began kissing Wilma’s inner thighs, her little pink tongue darting in and out. Finally it found her hard, oily clitty, and Wilma actually began to tremble at the sensation. Her reflexes took over and she leaned forward so that her hands might clasp Jenny’s large, pendulous breasts. She squeezed the large nipples in time with the exquisite probing of Jenny’s , deep-licking tongue. Then, quite suddenly, for the first time since that night with her father, Wilma felt her body pounding with desire. Her legs locked around Jenny’s neck and she gave herself up completely to the waves of fulfillment which swept over her one after another. After a few moments of this, Jenny tried to pull away. But Wilma wouldn’t let her. She kept her locked there, digging her nails into Jenny’s neck straining for one orgasm after another until she was literally drained and exhausted.

And that’s how Wilma was introduced to the joys of lesbianism. These were a revelation to her. And it was the kind of release which she could attain without sacrificing her dominance.

This sexual dominance was fast jelling into the modus operandi of Wilma’s life. Careerwise, it was only about six weeks before it took her out of the chorus of the Peep Show to do a specialty “single.” She was billed as “Flaming Ruth, the Runway’s Raciest Redhead!”

Her hair was worn long for the act. It was a slow, sensual routine in which her breasts played hide-and-seek with her shimmering tresses—and lost. Those tresses were also long enough so that when she bent over backwards they screened her derriere. The process of straightening up, in which her quivering buttocks slowly came into view, proved to be a show-stopper.

“Flaming Ruth” was a big hit with the audience. And the audience, in an odd sort of way, gave Wilma much satisfaction. All those eyes looking up at her with unveiled desire, those lips being licked almost as if they were a part of her body, the surreptitious movements of men’s hands in their laps fondling their erections, jerking at them hard as she undulated to the climax of the act—the sheer weight of numbers reacting to her sex appeal in such ways caused Wilma herself to react in return.

One night she was so carried away by all this that she actually had an orgasm onstage, in full view of the audience. Her body was seized with a frency which wasn’t part of the act and she was overwhelmed as wave after wave of sexual release swept over her. The audience recognized what was happening and went wild. As a result, Jantzen gave Wilma a raise—along with instructions to keep this new “gambit” in the act.

It became the impetus behind the skyrocketing popularity of “Flaming Ruth”; but it also was the cause of Wilma’s downfall. Her act became the talk of the town and, as might have been expected, complaints about its blatancy soon reached the ears of the New Orleans vice squad. Two members of the squad were dispatched to the Peep Show to view it with their own eyes.

They saw the show through and after it was over they returned to headquarters and secured warrants for the arrest of Wilma, and Rocky Jantzen, for “conspiracy to present lewd and prurient entertainment.” At the next performance, as soon as Wilma began her routine, the show was stopped and she and Jantzen were arrested.

Vito D’Angelo had them bailed out and brought to his apartment. He spelled out the situation for them. “Wilma goes on again, they revoke your license,” he told Rocky.

“How about if she cools down the act?” Rocky asked.

“No soap. The stink’s too big. There’s been pressure from all kinds of bluenose groups. If she goes onstage again, they’ll be hollering for the scalps of every burley operator in town. They’re just lookin’ for an excuse to start an all-out cleanup campaign.”

“You mean I can’t perform anywhere?” Wilma asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“But, Vito, with all your connections, can’t you smooth things over?”

“That’s just what I done. Believe me, it took plenty pressure just to stop them from turning this into a campaign to shut down bottomless joints in New Orleans altogether. Before I fight an all-out battle—-one which I just could lose—I’ll take the only compromise they’ll go for.”

“That’s just great,” Wilma said. “Just what am I supposed to do now?”

“It would be best if you skipped town,” Vito told her.

“Best for who? You? The syndicate? Not best for me. For one thing, you’re forgetting I’m out on bail. I’m due to be in court to answer charges on the twenty-third.”

“I’ll have that squelched. And you’re right, it would be best for the ‘organization.’ But we take care of our own—that is if they “cooperate.”

“What’s the matter, Vito? You tired of me?”

Vito shrugged. “You’re the greatest, baby. But like I say, business before pleasure. Now be a smart girl and go along and I’ll see you’re taken care of.”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Nope.”

“Okay then. What do I do? Where do I go?”

“Miami. You go see a Mrs. Randall at this address.”

D’Angelo scribbled the address on a slip of paper. “Tell her Vito sent you. She’ll take good care of you.”


Three days later Wilma was a working whore.

The “organization” and D’Angelo, however, hadn’t done as badly by her as it might seem. Wilma did, in a way, start at the top. The establishment run by Mrs. Randall was the finest of its kind in Miami Beach. Its clientele was the cream of society. They came to the Spanish-style hacienda in the exclusive Hollywood section with the security of knowing that their most outlandish appetites would be catered to expertly and discreetly.

Mrs. Randall herself was a mid-thirtyish lady with short, jet-black hair, dark, knowing eyes, and a typically Latin vivaciousness. This lively quality was held down by a subdued, businesslike air she cultivated in running her establishment. Thus the first impression she successfully conveyed was not unlike the headmistress who is popular with her charges despite her strictness.

Like many a headmistress, Mrs. Randall had her weakness. Like many a headmistress’s weakness, hers was sexual in nature and was oriented toward certain favorites among her charges.

Wilma noted this immediately. She saw that Mrs. Randall was not averse to granting favors to this girl or that. Favors, it was obvious, in return for these girls’ having pleased her. Having learned much from Jenny back in New Orleans, Wilma now set out to please Mrs. Randall herself.

With her innate sexuality, she had no trouble succeeding. It wasn’t long before Wilma ranked first among Mrs. Randall’s favorites. Indeed, she shared Mrs. Randall’s bed more often than she slept in her own room. Also, Mrs. Randall saw to it that Wilma added to her store of knowledge about sex. Soon Wilma was acquainted with the possibilities of every bodily orifice, male and female, with the uses of a variety of props from feathers to whips, with aberrations ranging from daisy-chains to all forms of sodomy, voyeurism, and bestiality.

“Sex is a weapon. Use it!” Mrs. Randall advised again and again. Nor was she naive enough not to know that Wilma was using it with her. Nevertheless, she accepted this and lectured Wilma for hours on end on the various ways in which it was useable in their profession.

Before long, at Wilma’s request, Mrs. Randall had made her a “specialty girl.” This meant she was available to only very special customers and by appointment only. It also meant that she earned much more money since these customers paid well to have their particular perversities satisfied. Truthfully, though, the extra money wasn’t as important to Wilma as the fact that she often found enjoyment in the various kinds of depraved love which were still absent in the so-called “straight lovemaking” sought by the run-of-the-mill customers.

She was able to send money home to her father, the only person in the world she would ever really love. She wrote him that she was working as a dancer in a nightclub, and Ben, in his unworldliness, believed her. He wrote back and told her about Glenville, about the new factory which had gone up, about the farm, about his problems.

Finally came the letter in which he told Wilma about the offer he’d had for the farm and how he didn’t want to sell. This was followed by other letters telling of how the offer was being increased. And then still more letters describing how the local bank, spurred on by the merchants and factory management, had been trying to pressure him to sell. The last of these was heavy with worry over the possibility of losing the farm through foreclosure.

This was the one which decided Wilma to go home and see what she could do about helping her father with his troubles. She gave her notice to Mrs. Randall -- who was more than a little sorry to see her go—-and now she was finishing out the week. Tonight was her last night, this roly-poly little man her last customer, and Wilma was doing her professional best to finish her career in style.

Once again she brought the whiplash down across his chubby buttocks. By now they were crisscrossed with welts, and the eager masochist was writhing in ecstasy. Wilma’s arm was growing tired, but she continued until the man’s hard, fat, little penis spurted an impressive stream of cream from its red tip. She cracked him with the whip once more, quite hard, out of sheer contrariness. It seemed to put just the right exclamation point to Wilma’s career as a high-class whore.


Two days later she got off the train at Glenville. The first thing that struck her, hovering over the small town like some nightmarish ghoul poised to envelop it, the giant chimney stacks like rigid phalli poised for rape, was the Continental Ball Bearing plant. Between two of its buildings, nestling vulnerably as though it were female and the buildings were a man’s legs, Wilma could just make out the vague outlines of her father’s farm.

She took a taxi there. When she arrived her father was out back tending the pigs. Wilma carried her bags up to her room herself. She got out of her clothes and went into the bathroom to take a shower to wash off the dust of her journey. When she emerged, she could hear someone moving around in the kitchen down below.

It must be her father. Her heart pounded violently and suddenly she found herself hard-put to draw breath. Her father! Trembling, she slipped on a white terry cloth robe, ran a brush over her long red hair, tied it with a ribbon, and raced down the stairs.

“Wilma!” Confused emotions chased themselves one after another across Ben Malden’s face. He went up to his daughter and kissed her hesitatingly on the forehead.

She threw her arms around him and clung to him happily, too filled with love to say anything. Her body was warm and pulsing against him through the nubby robe, Gently, Ben pushed her away.

“I’ll put up some dinner while you get dressed, sweetheart,” he said. “Then we can talk.”

It was the softest of rebukes, but Wilma was stung by it. However, she obediently did what she was told. When she came down later she wore a sweater and slacks. She and her father sat across from each other and talked all through dinner.

Ben told her the situation in detail. What it added up to was that Continental was trying everything in its power to squeeze him off his land. So far, they’d failed, but now the word was out that some hotshot executive from New York was coming out to force the issue. Ben was really worried.

“Must be a real big shot,” he told Wilma. “The company rented a big house for him and they hired the Henshaws to run it. Now the Henshaws are lookin’ for a maid. Can you imagine—three in help, just to look after two people!”

“Two people?”

“Yep. They say his daughter’s comin’ with him. Another teller, too, but he’ll be puttin’ up at the inn.”

“Big business all right,” Wilma mused.

“Sure ’nuf. These people are from what they call the parent corporation, Universal Enterprises, the outfit what owns Continental. Now how’m I gonna buck an outfit like that?”

“I don’t know, daddy. But don’t worry. We’ll work something out. I’m home now, and I’ll think of something. I won’t let them take your farm away from you.”

Ben Malden looked at his daughter curiously. She’d sure grown up. She’d—hardened. Yes, that was the word. Wilma had grown tougher. Even the way she spoke had a certain sureness in it that seemed to promise she’d let nothing stop her from protecting her father’s interests.

Ben nodded slowly. “I reckon you will come up with somethin’, Wilma. But what?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But don’t worry. I’ll work something out.”

They went to bed soon after that. Ben had to be up early in the, morning to care for his stock. But Wilma lay awake thinking. About an hour after they’d retired she suddenly remembered what her father has said about the Henshaws looking for a maid for those New York people. It gave her an idea. She got up and put on her robe and went to her father’s bedroom to tell him about it. She knocked softly at his door and turned the knob.

It didn’t budge. The door was locked. Wilma sighed and went back to bed.


CHAPTER FIVE


The door to Ben Malden’s room stayed locked. Ben wasn’t taking any chances. His first sight of his daughter in that terry-cloth robe had filled him with unwanted emotion. And it was the kind of emotion he hadn’t the strength to face.

Nor was Wilma ready yet to face what it truly was she wanted from her father. Looking at him across the breakfast table the next morning, she changed her mind about telling him of her idea concerning the Henshaws. He might not understand, might even disapprove, and besides, it was really still quite vague in her own mind.

It became less vague, later that day, when she bumped into Rafe Proctor in the village. “Hey there,” he called from across the street. as she emerged from the drugstore with some purchases. “If it ain’t li’l ol’ Wilma Maiden.” He loped over to her and stood grinning in front of her. “How long you been back, honey?”

“Hello, Rafe. I just got in yesterday. I was beginning to think nobody remembered me. I walked all through this town and you’re the first one to say hello.”

“Shucks, must be ’cause you growed up some an’ you look sorta citified.”

“I guess so.” Wilma looked up at him and thought to herself what a lout he was, what a bumpkin; a living parody of the way some city people visualized country types. “Anyway, it’s nice somebody remembers me,” she added, smiling falsely.

“Ain’t likely I’d forget you, Wilma. Them times out behind your Pa’s barn and all.” He winked lewdly.

“Why, shame on you, Rafe Proctor!” Wilma gave him her most flirtatious, Southern belle look and wagged a finger in his face. “It’s downright naughty of you to remind me of that. After all, we were only children .”

“Best fifteen cents’ worth I ever got,” he flirted back.

“Twenty cents!”

They both laughed.

“Course we’re older now,” Rafe observed, “An’ I reckon the price gone up.”

“But when you’re older, the games get to be so much more fun.” Wilma strained her dimples at him. “Oh! I just realized what you said, Rafe Proctor!” Her hand positively fluttered up to her mouth. “Why, that makes me sound like—I don’t know what!” All I need is a parasol to twirl, and call me Scarlett, Wilma was thinking.

“No ’fense, Wilma. I guess I jes’ got carried away, bein’ so glad to see you an’ all.”

“Well, that’s nice, Rafe. Real nice.” Wilma batted her eyelids at him. “What have you been doing with yourself while I’ve been gone?”

“Nothin’ much, Wilma. I do a job o’ work here an’ there. Not steady, ’counta I values my independence so high. I don’t wanna be beholden to no one man for my bread an’ butter alla the time. So I jes’ work when I feel like it an’ the vittles is runnin’ short. Resta the time I jes’ laze around an’ maybe play a mite. Right now I’m helpin’ the Henshaws get the ol’ Andover house fixed up fer some visitin’ firemen from N’Yawk.”

“The Henshaws, is that right?” Hearing the name from Rafe Proctor laid bare an old polyp of memory somewhere way back in the gray matter of Wilma’s brain. As she prolonged the conversation with him, her mind probed the area like a tongue trying to pinpoint a sore tooth. Then, suddenly, she had it. She interrupted some rambling sentence of Rafe’s, which had obviously been leading up to asking her for a date, and put the hazy recollection to the rest.

“Rafe, do you remember when we were very small and we peeked through the Henshaw’s window one night?”

“We sure was curious li’l hell-raisers, wasn’t we?” He chuckled.

“That’s right, we were. But do you remember what we saw?”

Rafe corrugated his brow to show he was concentrating on remembering. Finally his jaw went slack and his mouth formed an O as it came back to him. “Hey, Wilma, now I do recall. Hell, I reckon I see the Henshaw’s every day since then—least fifteen years back—an’ you know I never give it a thought. It sure was right peculiar, what we see’d peekin’ on them, but I never once thunk on it since. Now ain’t that a caution?”

“Do you suppose they still do what we saw them doing that night, Rafe?”

“Beats me.” Rafe scratched his head. “I don’t think I even now rightly understand jes’ what it was they was doin’.”

“It might be fun to find out—now that we’re older.” Wilma looked at him challengingly.

“You mean go a-peepin’ in their windows agin? Land, Wilma, we too old fer that kinda funnin’ now.”

“You scared?”

“Hell, no! It jes’ seems a mighty silly way to be doin’.”

“I think it would be awfully interesting. But if you’re afraid to, forget it.” Wilma turned on her heel as though to leave him. “Well, good-bye, Rafe,” she said.

“Hold on a minute, Wilma. You ain’t said whether you’d go out with me.”

“I don’t think so, Rafe.” She looked him straight in the eye. “It seems to me as though we don’t share the same tastes anymre.” She kept looking at him, letting it sink in.

“Aww, now that ain’t‘ true, Wilma. Tell you what, you’re so set on it, how about tonight we go peepin’ on the Henshaws an’ then maybe after we could have a few beers an’ get in some dancin’? Whadda you say?”

“Why, that sounds like real fun.” Wilma patted his cheek. “Pick me up around eight tonight.”


Finishing up the dinner dishes, Wilma could hear Rafe’s ancient Ford coming up the road from at least a mile away. She took off the apron covering the low cut see-through blouse and skirt she was wearing and ran upstairs to put on some fresh lipstick and run a comb through her hair. Then she came down, kissed her father good-night, and intercepted Rafe coming up the front walk.

“Hey, honey, you look pretty as a picture,” he greeted her.

“Why, thank you, sir.” She piroutted quickly in front of him, well aware of his appreciative stare at her long legs as her short skirt flared out.

Rafe licked his lips and nervously brushed back the cowlick of straight black hair hanging over his forehead. When it fell right back again, he ignored it. “Might as well get goin’,” he said, remembering to hold the car door open for Wilma.

When he turned the car onto the highway, Wilma was surprised. “Where are you going, Rafe?” she asked. “I thought you said we’d go to the Henshaws.”

“They ain’t got that shack o’ theirs no more,” he explained. “They all settled in up at the Andover house an’ waitin’ for them people to work for.”

“Oh.” Wilma thought a minute. “Rafe,” she said then, “I don’t think you’d better go driving up there. The noise this car makes, they’d be sure to hear us coming. Why don’t you park just off the highway and we’ll sneak up through the woods."

“Sure ’nuf,” Rafe agreed.

About ten minutes later he pulled the car off the road and parked it. Wilma was getting out as he came around to her side of the Ford. “Hey,” he said, “Why don’t you leave your pockabook here? Ain’t no sense luggin’ it through them woods.”

“No,” Wilma replied, hanging onto the rather large bag. “There’s something in it I need.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

They started off through the copse of woods, Rafe in front, breaking trail, Wilma right behind him. They’d gone about a quarter-mile when a branch Rafe had been pushing aside got away from him and snapped back to hit Wilma in the face.

“Ouch! Hey, watch what you’re doing!” She rubbed her smarting cheek.

“Sorry.” He turned in his tracks.

Wilma, still walking, was flush up against him before she could stop. “Why are you stopping?” she asked.

“Jes’ makin’ sure you okay.” He grinned down at her, his eyes dropping from her face to the twin mounds half-escaping from the top of her low-cut blouse. They were rising and falling quickly from the exertion of pushing through the woods. “Hey, you a-pumpin’ like a steam engine. We’d best rest.”

“I’m all right. Keep going.”

But Rafe had other ideas. He wrapped himself around her and kissed her hard, one hand digging into the flesh under the blouse.

“Not now,” Wilma told him, breaking away.

“You sure growed up a hot li’l honeypot,” Rafe said. He reached out and squeezed both breasts admiringly. “You small, but you all woman right ’nuf, Wilma.” He kissed her again before she could stop him.

“I said not now!” She pushed him away as hard as she could.

“What’sa matter? Don’t you like me?” Rafe turned surly.

“Sure I like you.” Wilma’s mind worked fast. She needed this oaf. She made her voice coo. “I really like you, Rafe. Later we’ll have lots of fun. But now I want to get to the Henshaws.”

Rafe was reassured, but not quite ready to give up yet. “We got time,” he told her. “It ain’t even all dark yet.” He put his arms around her and one hand slid inside where her blouse and skirt met in back. His fingers pushed aside the elastic of her panties and their tips explored the plump flesh of her buttocks.

Held hard against him, Wilma could feel his excitement growing. The hot lump of his erection pressed against her belly. His breath was hot in her ear and his fingertips were clawing their way lower and lower. She gave a little jump as they explored the cleft between her buttocks and probed deeper.

“Nervous, hey?” Rafe laughed. He pressed his cheek against hers. It was wet with the sweat of his growing ardor.

“Rafe.” ‘She made her voice moan. “We really haven’t got time. We really have to be going.” She pushed him away lingeringly, as though she was as reluctant to stop what they were doing as he was.

“How ’bout if I offered you fifteen cents?” he persisted.

Wilma knew it was a joke, but she couldn’t help thinking what a hopeless boor he was. “Make it twenty, and who knows,” she said. “But later,” she added hastily when he started for her again.

“You win,” he sighed. “Let’s go.”

As she followed him again, Wilma couldn’t help thinking how ludicrous it all was, how different from the life she’d been leading these past three years, how comically different Rafe was from the sophisticated men she’d known. Through muck and mire with intrepid Mortimer Snerd, she thought to herself wryly. Beating the bush with the great white hunter of barnyard poontang!

At last they emerged from the woods a few hundred yards from the Andover house. It was night now, and the house was dark, except for two rooms on the second story. Rafe studied the house a moment.

“Reckon that’s the bedroom they usin’ an’ the bathroom next it,” he told Wilma.

“But how can we see anything up there?” she asked disappointedly.

“Jes’ follow along with me an’ I’ll show you.” He led her up to the house and pointed out a large tree shading the side of the house. “Them upper branches look right in their bedroom window,” he explained. “Come on, I’ll give you a leg up.”

Wilma slipped off her heels and put one foot in Rafe’s clasped hands. He heaved and she grabbed onto a low-hanging branch. She pulled herself up and sat on it. Rafe backed off a little and took a running jump. He caught the branch and pulled himself up alongside her.

“You go first,” he whispered. “Case you get stuck, I’ll help you. Hey!” He noticed that her handbag was hanging from one shoulder. “Why don’t you leave that down below‘? It’ll make it easier to climb.”

“I told you. I need it.” Wilma held onto the trunk, pulled herself upright on the branch and started to climb.

Rafe followed. From beneath her, he found himself looking straight up Wilma’s skirt. Man, she sure has nice legs an’ the cutest li’l fanny! He couldn’t resist it. He reached his hand up between her legs as far as he could and wiggled his fingers. Hot, wet snatch! Zowie! He felt his erection creep up his belly. Tight twat! Yeah!!!

“Stop that!” Wilma called down in a harsh whisper.

“Why?” Rafe giggled, reaching higher.

“Because it tickles!” She tried to jerk away from the poking hand and almost lost her balance. “There, see, you almost made me fall! Now stop it!”

“Oh, all right.” Rafe slid his hand reluctantly down her leg and stopped.

A moment later he pulled himself up beside her on the sturdy branch facing the lighted window. “See, I told you. You can see right in,” he said.

“So you can,” Wilma admitted. “Oh, there’s Mr. Henshaw, right?” she added as a figure turned from one of the room’s closets and stepped into clear view.

“That’s him all right.”

“He hasn’t changed much.”

“Reckon not. Hey, he’s takin’ off his duds.”

“So he is.”

“Puny critter, ain’t he?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Wilma remembered.

“You stick with me, suger, you gonna see a helluva lot better!”

“Shh! Quit bragging. Stop talking and watch.”

“What’s with you, honey? You really get a kick outa seein’ a twerp like Henshaw walkin’ ’round in his skin?”

“Don’t be silly. I just want to see if they’re still up to their old tricks. Now will you please just be quiet and watch!”

They both fell silent. In the bedroom, Harvey Henshaw was removing his B.V.D.’s3 . He folded them neatly and put them alongside his other clothes on top of a bureau. Then he crossed to the other side of the room where there was a dressing table with a mirror above it. He pulled a straightback chair over and climbed on top of it to study himself in the mirror.

“I be damned!” Rafe exclaimed. “Will you looka that sad li’l rooster!”

“Shh!”

Harvey Henshaw climbed on and off the chair several times, angling it different ways so that he could see his body from different perspectives in the mirror. It was a round body, without being fat. The breasts were heavy, womanish, with large, brown rosettes and long feminine nipples. His behind was plump, but naturally firm and high. His penis -- semi-erect—wasn’t very thick, but it was extremely long. Except for his legs, which were covered with a blondish stubble, and the area of his groin, he was completely hairless. With his naturally rosy cheeks and extremely curly blond hair, he had the look of a Kewpie doll4 . He looked much younger than his thirty-eight years.

Finally, he sat on the chair in front of the dressing table and rummaged about in one of the drawers. He came up with an electric razor. He cleaned it carefully with a little brush, and then plugged it in. He stretched one leg out before him, propped it on the dressing table and began to shave it.

“Well, I be double-damned!” Rafe said. “What he wanna do that for?”

“Shh! You’ll see.”

“I don ’member him doin’ that the other time.”

“It’s all part of the same thing. Watch.”

Harvey Henshaw finished shaving the first leg and went on to the other one. When he’d shaved that one clean, he stood up and reached behind him to run the electric razor over his buttocks.

“Ain’t no hair there,” Rafe observed.

“Look at his face.”

Harvey Henshaw’s eyes were rolling and his face was a study in bliss. Turned toward the window, it could be seen that he was reacting quite erotically. His long penis was hardening and rising, the tip turning bright red. Harvey tucked the tell-tale organ out of sight between his legs.

“Now look at that! He looks jes’ like a woman now!”

“You’re beginning to catch on,” Wilma observed sarcastically.

“You mean he one a them homo-sexy-you-alls? A fairy?”

“Not exactly. Fairies dig other men. That isn’t little Harvey’s cup of passion. He’s more what they call a transvestite.”

“A transvest-what? What’s that?”

“Watch. You’ll see.”

Rafe watched and he did see. Harvey Henshaw put the razor away and again settled himself in front of the dressing table. He opened various drawers and arranged various items before him. Then he picked one of them up and stood up again. In his hands was a pair of frilly, semi-transparent black silk bikini panties. He stepped into them and pulled them up over his hips. He looked over his shoulder at himself in the mirror and smoothed them over his buttocks. Satisfied, he picked up a black see-through bra and slipped his arms through the loops. He reached behind him with hands that were beginning to flutter and fastened the snap. Then he bent forward and reached inside the bra to plump up his breasts. Again he posed for himself in front of the mirror. He fastened a garter belt around his waist. He pulled on sheer, black silk stockings over his legs and smoothed them tight with caressing hands. He fastened them to the garter belt and stood on the chair once again to look in the mirror and make sure the seams were straight. He got down and wriggled into a tight, full, black slip.

Again he sat himself in front of the mirror. He picked up an eyebrow pencil and arced the line of his brows into a thin, feminine line. He put it down to take up tweezers and yank a few stray hairs which interfered with the effect. He dipped a small brush into a tube of mascara and leaned close to the mirror to brush at his lashes in a series of short, fluttery movements. Satisfied, he put the tweezers and mascara back in the drawer and took out a woman’s compact. He rouged his cheeks carefully, blotting at the excess and blending the color into his skin carefully. Then he dusted them with powder, carefully covered the shine of his nose, and picked up a lipstick. He pursed his lips, painted on a mouth, blotted it, retouched it, blotted again, and then leaned back to study the effect.

He smiled flirtatiously at himself in the mirror, obviously content with the result of his cosmetic labors. Then he walked over to the closet and brought forth a black dress on a hanger. It was very frilly and quite low-cut. It also proved to be quite tight as he struggled into it and had to take a deep breath to pull the zipper all the way up.

Harvey Henshaw opened the bottom drawer of the bureau and took out a blonde wig. He combed and brushed it lovingly for a few moments. Then he placed it carefully on his head. He arranged it so that the curls just brushed his bare shoulders. He gave his half-bare bosom one final dusting with the powder puff and then mounted the chair for one final look in the mirror.

“Wow!” Rafe whispered. “I see that down on Main Street, I give it a play myself. Who’da thunk ol’ Harv could be such a good-lookin’ piece? I swear, for sure I could get all hot an’ bothered if I didn’t know it was him!”

“I’ll bet you could! Even knowing, I’ll bet you could!”

“What do you mean by that?” Rafe asked suspiciously.

“Nothing. Be still, will you!”

Harvey Henshaw brushed some invisible lint from the dress, smoothed an equally invisible crease, assured himself that his slip wasn’t showing and got down from the chair. He crossed the room to an armchair and seated himself gracefully. He crossed his legs, admiring their shapeliness a moment. Then he called out.

“Johnny!” His voice, coming out into the night air through the open window, was not at all falsetto-like; rather, it was a rich contralto. “I’m ready!”

The door opened and Johanna Henshaw made an entrance.

“Sonuvabitch!” Rafe exploded aloud.

“Shh! They’ll hear you!”

Johanna Henshaw was the picture of a slender but tough-looking man! She wore a man’s mod ‘suit, cut to accentuate her lack of hips, and her chest was broad, flat and virile-looking. A man’s shoes, tie, and shirt made the picture perfect. Her short hair was combed neat and straight, and her face was completely bare of makeup. With the cigarette dangling tough-guy fashion from between her lips, she looked a little like Al Pacino. Crossing the room, she swaggered like a man, her hands deep in the pockets of her pants, even a suspicious bulge of malehood evident where her jacket parted to reveal the tight crotch of her trousers.

“Hello, baby,” she said, her voice deep and gruff.

“Hello, lover,” Harvey replied coyly. He batted his mascaraed lashes at her. “I’ve been all a-twitter waiting for you to come.”

“Well, baby, I’m here now.” She bent over and kissed him-hard. Her hand reached for the bodice of his dress and caressed one of the half-moons of flesh quivering there. She drew Harvey to his feet. “What say you put on a record and we dance a mite?” Johanna suggested, moving her padded shoulders in a fashion that can only be described as apelike.

Harvey put on a record and swayed back to Johanna with exaggeratedly feminine movements. His hips swayed and his breasts jiggled provocatively. “Take me in your arms, Johnny,” he crooned.

Johanna took him in her arms, automatically assuming the male’s stance and leading. Harvey followed, cuddling close, body moving vivaciously, head resting on Johanna’s shoulder. Slowly, they danced.

When the record was over, Harvey put on another. Johanna sat down on the armchair and beckoned to Harvey to come sit on her lap. When he did, Johanna began to kiss and pet him just as though he were a girl and she a male.

She kissed Harvey’s neck, caressed his breasts, blew in his ear. She reached under his dress and stroked the silken length of his legs. She crushed his mouth with hers and when the kiss was over Harvey moaned softly.

Johanna led him to the bed. She took off the man’s jacket she was wearing. Her shoulders were surprisingly broad. She lay down beside him. Harvey pulled her face to his bosom and Johanna nuzzled the cleavage there. After a moment she pushed down the top of his dress, slipped the bra straps from his shoulders and began sucking at the top of one of his breasts. Harvey whimpered and his body began to writhe slowly with pleasure.

Johanna reached under the bottom of his skirt, pushed it all the way up and pulled off his black panties. Harvey twisted and turned on the bed so that his plump buttocks flashed into view. He arched his hips so that his pelvis, framed by the garter bell; thrust ceiling-ward. His legs clenched tightly to conceal his stiff, forced-down penis his belly was round and firm from waist to groin. Johanna quickly slipped off her pants and the man’s shorts she was wearing.

“What’s that?” Rafe wondered.

“A dildo,” Wilma told him.

Harvey turned over on his belly, crouched and thrust his haunches in the air. Johanna quickly put the hard rubber device held by the straps around her hips into action. She plunged it into his yawning behind.

A moment later they changed position so that they were facing the window directly. “Don’t stop, Harvey moaned, Johanna straddled him and renewed her efforts. It was at this point that the blinding light of the flashbulb went off in their faces.

Wilma had taken the flash camera from the handbag she’d insisted on. carrying and snapped the photo of the Henshaws. Once it was done, Rafe, frightened, scampered down the tree. Wilma followed close behind.

Both Harvey and Johanna were at the window now, startled, frightened, trying to comprehend what had happened. They strained their eyes to see who the intruders might be. But it was too dark and Wilma and Rafe moved too fast for them to tell. On the ground now, they raced into the shadows of the house and from there into the woods. Rafe ran down the path as though he was afraid the Henshaws might be chasing them, and he left Wilma to follow as best she could.

“Hey!” she called finally, out of breath. “You trying to lose me?”

“Reckon we lost them?” he asked, panting.

“They aren’t even following us,” she told him

“You sure?’ He slowed down.

“Yes. I’m sure. “

He stopped and listened a moment. “I guess they ain’t,” he admitted. “You know, Wilma, you hadn’t oughta taken that pitcher. You never told me you was plannin’ nothin’ like that. I never woulda chanced it. Whatcha wanna do a thing like that fer, anyway?”

“I have my reasons.”

He peered at her in the darkness and his eyes narrowed. “What you gettin’ me into, Wilma?” he wanted to know.

“You’ll find out—later.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“Because now”-- she put her arms around his neck and pressed her body insinuatingly against his—“we’ve got other fish to fry.”

In the excitement of the deep kiss she gave him, Rafe’s curiosity took a back seat to desire. He pushed her to the ground quickly and fumbled at the buttons on his pants. His erection sprang free, purple and thick and blunt. He pushed up her skirt and fell on top of her. He took her quickly then, shoving it in hard and grinding down on her tender flesh, wasting no time on preliminaries or refinements. He took her like an animal in a hurry to finish his pleasure and get on with the day’s hunting.

Writhing beneath him, automatically simulating the passion she didn’t feel, Wilma’s mind was racing. Let Rafe play the stud bull, she thought. Let him have his quick taste. He’s served his purpose for now, but there ’s no telling when I may want to use him again. Then her mind turned to the Henshaws and she almost chuckled aloud at the very moment that Rafe was grunting his satisfaction at the explosive release of his passion. They must be going berserk trying to figure out what’s happened, she thought Well, they’ll find out soon enough. I’ll be seeing the Henshaws again—real soon. She felt the sudden, hot flood of the finale of Rafe’s lovemaking. Yes, real soon—she ignored it.

And it was real soon. For even as Wilma was making her plans, the town of Glenville was exploding with a fury which would insure quick action on her part. Even as Rafe delivered one last, brutal thrust of his spurting organ into her tender hole, a different kind of violence was descending on Wilma’s father. Even as she accepted Rafe’s handkerchief to wipe away the traces of their lovemaking, blood was spurting from the wounds of the only man in the world that Wilma really loved!


CHAPTER SIX


An unexpected twist of the wrist and the knife flicked open. Its razor-sharp blade gleamed menacingly in the half-lit barroom. Ben Malden looked at its slowly advancing point unbelievingly. Then he looked at the face of the man holding it. The hatred he saw there made him recoil in a way that the threat of the knife hadn’t.

Was this really Luke Partridge looking at him like this? Was this really Luke coming at him with murder flashing in his hand? Was it really happening?

Ben Malden had known Luke Partridge all his life. When they were boys they’d gone swimming and hunting and fishing together. They’d grown apart when they got older. Ben had the farm to worry about. Luke had eked out a living sharecropping until the factory had come to town. Then he’d gone to work there, and for the first time it was possible for him to take off his shirt without revealing the protruding bones of a man who is always hungry. With the coming of the factory, for the first time Luke and his family had known what it meant to eat a square meal and eat it regularly.

Meeting Luke every once in a while when he came to town, Ben had remarked on the fleshiness of his boyhood friend. Casually, he’d been glad that things were going better for Luke. They’d gone their different ways, but he still greeted Luke as a friend.

And now this “friend” was coming at him with a knife. Everything was very quiet in the barroom as Luke advanced toward Ben. The hoarse breathing of the man with the knife was the only audible sound in the half-filled pub. Then the silence was shattered by the loud smash of a bottle against the edge of a table.

Ben held the jagged neck of the bottle in his hand. “Stand off, Luke,” he said. “I don’ wanna be hurtin’ you.” Luke stopped in his tracks and hesitated a moment. There was a rumble of disappointment from the men bunched at the bar behind him. A voice cracked out. “Get him, Luke! Don’ be chicken!” Other voices echoed it. Luke started for Ben again.

So be it! Ben hefted the bottleneck, prepared to strike as Luke closed the distance between them. He began to move, not away from Luke, but in a sort of half-circle which kept him on Luke’s left side, away from the knife. And then the two of them were circling each other, looking for an opening.

Luke thought he saw one first and lunged. Ben sidestepped the blade and brought the bottle up with a short thrust that ripped through Luke’s shirt sleeve into the flesh of the arm holding the knife. The knife clattered to the floor and blood oozed from the wound. Before Luke could dive for the knife, Ben smashed his fist into the heavier man’s jaw and Luke thudded to the floor, cracking his head against a table leg and lying where he’d fallen.

“The fink bastard’s killed Partridge!” A series of curses from the crowd followed the shout. And then they were on Ben, ripping the bottle from his hands, clawing at each other in their eagerness to rain punches and kicks on his body. Ben went down slowly, fighting, but sick inside at the hatred being poured on him from these men he’d always taken for granted as friends and neighbors.

One of the last things he saw before they broke his ribs and he lost consciousness was the face of Beauregard Barker pushing through the throng to get in his licks. Involved as he was, Ben was struck by the irony of Beau’s eagerness to land a few punches. It was more than twenty years since he’d rubbed Beau’s nose in the manure pile out back of the old livery stable and made him say uncle.

Their dislike of each other had grown during those twenty years. Beau had grown into a mealy-mouthed bank clerk who fawned on his betters and took a sadistic enjoyment out of spewing contempt on those unfortunates his bank assigned him to foreclose on because they couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments on their land. He’d married the local bank owner’s daughter, a thin-lipped sharp-nosed girl who was determined to follow in her mother’s footsteps and crack the whip over what passed for society in Glenville. One day the bank would be hers—hers and Beau’s—and both of them were feared for good reason.

As a boy, Beau had gotten his kicks out of tormenting younger children—the cause of his childhood fight with Ben. As a man, soft and running to fat, he used sarcasm as a weapon to torture people and it worked. Despite his dependency on the bank belonging to Beau’s father-in-law, Ben Malden was just about the only man in town who didn’t kowtow to Beau. Ben matched him sarcasm for sarcasm. For this Beau hated him. But he was a patient man and he knew the day would come when Ben would come under his thumb, ready to be squashed like a common bug. Now it was here. It wasn’t Beau’s thumb, but his foot that he sent crashing into Ben’s ribs. He kicked him again and again, elbowing the others aside to get at Ben. This wasn’t easy, for the blood-lust was on the crowd now and there was no stopping them.

They surely would have killed Ben if the siren sound of the sheriff’s car approaching hadn’t thrown cold water on their fury. By the time the sheriff himself and his deputy had arrived on the scene, the crowd was back at the bar. They simply told the sheriff that Ben and Luke had a fight. He and the deputy carried the two unconscious men out to the car and drove them to the local infirmary. Here Luke’s wound was dressed and he was sent on his way as soon as he recovered consciousness. But Ben had three broken ribs that had to be set and he was kept at the infirmary. That’s where Wilma found him toward morning.

“How did it happen, daddy?” she wanted to know.

“A fight.”

“What started it?”

“I was just havin’ a quiet drink when Luke Partridge and one or two other fellers come over an’ start sayin’ as how I’m out to shut down the factory an’ lose ’em their jobs. They had a few, these fellers, an’ I reckon they was none too sober. Anyway, they say it’s all over town that if I don’ sell my farm to the factory, it’s gonna shut down. The talk is the management claims if they ain’t able to expand, it don’ pay to keep the plant goin’. Well, I hear Luke an’ the others out an’ I try to tell ’em I don’ think that’s true an’ I try to make ’em see my side of it. But they’s real mean an’ they won’t listen. So pretty soon they’s callin’ me names an’ I’m callin’ a few back an’ the nex’ thing I knows, Luke, he’s pulled a knife on me.”

“You ought to have him arrested!”

“Hell, that ain’t gonna do no good, honey. You think any them fellers gonna tell it the way it happened? ’Sides, I’d have to say all of ’em ganged up on me, which they did, an’ make out a charge agin’ ’em all. I start doin’ that, the way folks feel, I’d end up tryin’ to have the whole town jugged.”

“Does everybody hate you for not selling?”

“All of ’em what makes their livin’ from the plant. An’ that’s considerable. Even the storekeepers doin’ lots better since the factory opened. They gonna side with fellers workin’ there iffen they think my not sellin’ ’ll interfere with their bread an’ butter.”

“But you aren’t going to sell, dad,”

“It’s beginnin’ to look like they might force me to. That feller they sendin’ from New York, he’s comin’ to make me sell for sure.”

“Don’t you worry about him.”

“Whatcha mean, honey?”

“You’ll see. Just don’t worry. I’m going to work out a way of handling Mr. Dawes.”

The next afternoon Wilma took the first step in her campaign of “handling Mr. Dawes.” She paid a call on Harvey and Johanna Henshaw at the house that had been rented for Dawes. “I’ve got a picture I think you’ll be interested in seeing,” she told Harvey when he answered the doorbell.

She didn’t have it with her, she admitted when she was inside. She hadn’t had it developed yet, it was in the mail to Miami where a friend of hers would have a dozen prints made for her. What she did with those prints, she told the Henshaws, would depend on whether or not they decided to cooperate with her.

They cooperated. Indeed, they were relieved that Wilma’s demands were so easily met. All she wanted the Henshaws to do was hire her as the maid for the expected new tenants.

Thus Wilma was installed in the household when Preston B. Dawes and his daughter Glory arrived a few days later. Since her father was still recuperating, Wilma had arranged with Rafe to look after the farm while she was working. It was a sleep-in job, but she had her evenings free. She spent them visiting her father and frustrating Rafe’s attempts to make love to her again. She wanted him hot and eager for when she might need a favor from him.

Her plans were hazy. Having accomplished the first step of getting herself into proximity with the Dawes family she only knew that she must probe for weak spots and be prepared to exploit them to the fullest in her efforts to save the Maiden farm. She studied Dawes and Glory and Don Corrigan—who came to dinner with them that first evening—very carefully. She saw right away that the way to get at Dawes was through his daughter.

Glory and Don were obviously very much in love. Wilma well knew that love makes people vulnerable. She had to get some kind of hold over Dawes to make him let her father alone. The love of Glory and Don was the key to getting that hold.


A few evenings later, after Mr. Dawes had gone to bed, Wilma crept down to the parlor to spy on Don and Glory. She had noticed the way their hands reached for each other, the way their bodies brushed so purposefully, and she had guessed that they must be having sex. Now Wilma wanted to check out that guess.

She went into the living room and pushed aside the curtains over the glass door separating it from the parlor. In the bright moonlight shining through the windows, she could see Glory and Don clearly. Carefully, Wilma opened the doors a hairbreadth, and then she could also hear them.

“One of these days we’re going to take off all our clothes before we do it,” Don was saying.

“Mmmm. That sounds lovely, darling.”

“I can’t wait to see you all nude.”

“But you’ve seen everything.”

“Not all at once, I haven’t.”

“Still, you’ve seen it all. You’ve seen this.” Glory stood up and unbuttoned her sweater. She wasn’t wearing a bra. The rigid tip of one of her breasts peeped out between the opened buttons. She freed the entire breast and it swelled out fully before Don’s eyes. “And this.” She freed the other breast. “And this.” She turned her back to him and raised her skirt. Her rosy buttocks jiggled enticingly, bare in the moonlight.

“And how about this?” Don turned her around, raised her skirt from the front and sank to his knees in front of her.

“You like that, do you?” Glory teased, running her fingers through his hair.

“You can say that again.” Don leaned forward and brushed his lips quickly against the spot. When Glory trembled visibly, he got to his feet and led her back to the couch.

Aroused, Glory sucked air and her large breasts swelled. Their berry tips hardened and turned a deeper red. The roseates around the nipple spread pinkly like a flower opening its petals.

Don’s hand spread over one of the naked globes. The flesh was warm and butter-soft. The stiff nipple nuzzled hotly against his palm. Its trembling excited him. He kissed Glory, his lips burning, his tongue insistent. Her mouth opened to it like a willing vagina. His stiff tongue moved in and out of the warm wetness as if in a preview of what was to come.

When the kiss was over, Glory pulled his mouth to her quick-breathing breasts. He ran his tongue down the deep cleavage between them. She shuddered with anticipation. Again it seemed like his stiff tongue in the cleft there was forecasting his stiff penis in her hole.

Now Don’s mouth moved to one of the nipples. Glory felt her vagina contract and her clitty stiffen and some love-juice escape to the inner surface of her clenched thighs. Sweet torture! The nipple was so sensitive! His tongue, his lips, they would drive her mad. A long, drawn-out suck on the distended nipple now! Glory moaned. It hurt! It felt so good!

“Are you excited, darling?” Don asked. “Are you hot?”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” Glory gasped. “Are you?”

“Feel this.” Don guided her hand over his pants.

Glory felt his organ hot and hard and straining. “It feels so big,” she sighed, squeezing it.

“It’s even bigger than it feels.”

“Oh? Let me see.” Glory unzipped his pants and freed his erection from his jockey shorts. It stood up straight and long and quivering. The hole at its tip was wide with lust. A few drops of semen had escaped and made the crown glisten. Under the clutching of her hand, it bucked and reared, eager to plunge into her flesh-hole.

(Nice cock! Wilma, observing, allowed herself the judgment of experience. But it was Glory’s evident passion, amateurish as it was, that really turned Wilma on. Observing the voluptuous young blonde, Wilma’s hands crept under her skirt, inside her panties, and she jerked rhythmically at her own erect clitty as she continued to watch Glory and Don.)

Glory’s thighs were wide apart now, and Don’s hand was well up inside her. His erection stretched out along her thigh and moved up and down, slicking it down with the leakeage of his passion. Glory’s plump behind bounced up and down as the stretching fingers probed her deeply.

“Put it in me!” she moaned at last, unable to contain her yearning passion any longer.

Don scrambled over her. His naked, muscular behind rose up in the air. Gently, he pushed the length of his hard penis all the way inside Glory. She moaned with passionate happiness. Her legs spread wide and then the ankles locked around his hips, holding him firmly inside her. She dug her nails into the firm cheeks of his rear end. Then she fumbled lower, between his legs, and carefully squeezed his balls in time with the rhythm of his hard-driving penis inside her. In this way their bodies moved together in the act of love. . . deeply. . . liquidly. . . passionately. . . .

Wilma continued to watch, her hand strumming her clitty between her legs. The couple was ardent enough, but obviously inexperienced and often awkward. They laughed too much, in Wilma’s opinion, to allow their passion to build to real heights. Still, obviously, it amply satisfied them. So much so that even after they came they continued to play with each other.

At one point, carried away, Glory began covering Don’s body with kisses. She ran her lips from his shoulders down to his belly then her mouth fluttered to his thighs, just brushing his erect penis in passing.

Don’s erection was instinctual and marked. His hand leaped to the back of Glory’s head and tried to urge it back to the source of the thrill which had possessed him. Innocent, Glory didn’t realize what it was he wanted her to do. After a brief moment, Don subsided—it was as though he had suddenly recovered his senses and was ashamed of his impulse—and stopped trying to push her lips back there.

Wilma smiled to herself. What children! She filed Don’s reaction—the giveaway of his unspoken (perhaps unrealized) desire—away in the back of her mind. It was the kind of knowledge which might prove useful.

It did. About a week later, on a Sunday, Wilma finished helping Mrs. Henshaw with the breakfast dishes and was left free for the afternoon. Mr. Dawes and Glory had gone for a mid-day dinner to the home of the superintendent of the factory. During breakfast Glory had voiced some annoyance over the fact that Don hadn’t been asked.

Now, Wilma could tell from the impatience of the Henshaws that they wished she would leave. She was almost tempted to stay, just for the fun of frustrating them. But she hadn’t seen her father for two days, and this seemed like a good opportunity.

She decided against calling Rafe and asking him to drive over for her. It was a beautiful, sunny day with a mild breeze blowing—just right for a long walk. She struck out cross-country, through the fields and woods, for her father’s farm.

She’d been walking perhaps twenty minutes when she came to the pond. She paused, tempted by the cool look of the water to slip off her shorts and halter and take a quick swim. Then she saw Don stretched out on the bank.

He’d evidently had the same idea Wilma had. His shirt, slacks, and underwear were hanging from the branch of a nearby tree, his shoes and socks set neatly beneath them. His nude body still glistened with droplets of water. He was sound asleep in the sun.

Wilma looked at him for a long moment, thinking. He certainly was well built. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep with a light matting of blondish hair, his hips tapered. Even in sleep the muscles of his arms and legs rippled slightly in the sunlight. With his blond hair and boyish face, he looked particularly innocent and vulnerable in his sleep.

Wilma tossed her red curls and started for him. She’d decided to act. She approached him softly so as not to wake him. He stirred and flung one leg out sideways. His long penis lay casually at right angles to it like a snake stretching itself in the sun. Wilma smiled to herself. His new position was all the better for what she had in mind. A few feet away from him, she dropped to all fours. She crept the rest of the way slowly. When she reached him, she stretched out so that her body seemed almost an extension of his own, her shoulders roughly parallel to his knees, the upper half of her torso flat on the ground between the V of his legs. She leaned on her elbows, propped her chin on her hands and inched forward a bit more. When she was satisfied with her position, Wilma lowered her head slightly and flicked her tongue against the inner surface of one of Don’s thighs. He moaned softly in his sleep and moved slightly. She waited until she was sure he’d settled and then repeated the maneuver. Again he reacted in his sleep. Again, higher this time. And again—still higher. Ever so slowly, taking long pauses to be sure he remained sleeping, Wilma continued to tantalize Don with her tongue and lips. Her light movements were quick and sure. She brought all the artistry of her experience as a bordello “specialty girl” to bear on him, and after a while the proof of her success was quivering eagerly toward the sky.

Now came the delicate part. To give Don the satisfaction his sleeping body so obviously craved without waking him before he was too far along for any possible protest to halt the process—this was Wilma’s aim. She wanted him to awake only close enough to the peak of his passion so that there would be no stopping it. Wilma pursed her lips into an inviting O and leaned over him again.

She took just the velvety tip of his erect penis into her mouth. Lightly. Ever so lightly. Just enough so that it would feel the warm wetness enveloping it. The tip of her tongue dipped gently into the hole at the tip of his organ. Sweet! Hot! Wilma sucked ever so softly. Don moaned in his sleep. She stopped sucking and waited. When she was sure he was still sound asleep, she removed her mouth from the crown of his organ and licked the length of the shaft. She bestowed a series of butterfly kisses over the surface of his hot and swollen balls. Again he stirred. Again she waited patiently. She licked and kissed him some more. Then she took the erection into her mouth again. This time Wilma was bolder. She stretched her jaws wide and let the pulsating shaft slide down her throat. She sucked, softly at first, then harder, faster. She worked the penis in and out of her mouth. Fuck me in the head, Sleeping Beauty! Yeah! Choke me with that hard cock! Feel my teeth on your joint? You dig that, don ’t you? Okay, you’re getting ready to come now, Big Fellow, aren’tyou?. . .

Don woke in the throes of the most exquisite sensation he’d ever known. The sunlight blinded his opened eyes for a moment. And his immediate consciousness was concentrated on the core of this unexpected ecstasy. Mind and body, he gave himself over to it. His eyes closed again with the surging release of his lust. After a moment the thrill subsided and he opened them. He blinked to accustom them to the sunlight and then looked down at the lower half of his body. He focused on the tresses of red hair fanning out over his stomach and legs. His brain still sleep-fogged, it wasn’t until Wilma raised her head to look at him coyly that he recognized the instrument of his pleasure. When he did, his brain was still unable to comprehend what had happened, or why. His puzzlement showed in his face.

“Sleeping Beauty wakes,” Wilma purred.

“What? I don’t—what’s --?”

“Or rather Prince Charming. Sleeping Prince Charming.”

“Wilma, what the devil --?”

“Call me Cinderella. I’m your Cinderella, my darling. Or, better still, your Fairy Godmother. I just wave my wand -- I mean your wand -- and happiness is yours.”

“Now, wait a minute --”

“Yes, but only a minute, my darling. And then—” She swooped down for a brief instant and caught his sticky penis in her mouth again.

“Stop it!” Don pulled away and stood up. “What do you think you’ve been doing?”

“Didn’t you enjoy it?”

“I was asleep!”

“That doesn’t answer my question. You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”

“I can’t really say,” Don said stubbornly. “I was asleep.”

“Not at the end, you weren’t. And either you were enjoying it then, or you’re the world’s greatest actor.”

“All right. I enjoyed it. Naturally. But if I’d been awake, I never would have done it. I mean I never would have let you do it.”

“Why? Because you think it’s perverted or something?”

“No. I don’t think it’s perverted. I’ve always wanted—Hell I’m not going to go into that. That’s none of your business!” He took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. “I wouldn’t have done it because I’m engaged to Glory,” he said finally. “And you know that.”

“I know that. But Glory never gave you pleasure like this. You know that. Admit it.”

“We’ve got a whole life ahead of us,” Don said, the shakiness of his voice telling Wilma she’d hit home.

“A whole life of frustration. I know these prissy rich girls. Underneath everything, they really think sex is dirty. She’s never going to give you this kind of pleasure. Come on now, Don, admit it. Is she?”

“I don’t know,” Don shrugged half-heartedly. “She's not like you. That’s for sure.”

“And what am I like?” Wilma asked him softly.

“You’re -- brazen—that’s the word. You’re brazen about sex.”

“Maybe. So what? I see what I want and I go after it.”

“You take it. And without asking, too. The question is: Why did you do it?”

“Maybe I’m in love with you.” Wilma smiled.

“No.” Don shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it. Really, whatever prompted you to -- to come on like that?”

“All right, I’ll tell you the truth. I came on you lying here naked and you were having a dream. It must have been a very sexy dream while I was watching you, you got this gigantic hard-on. I began to cream just watching you. I guess I lost control and I just had to do what I did.”

Don thought about it a moment and then nodded reluctantly. “I guess I can understand that,” he said. “What’s done is done,” he added. “There’s no point in crying over it—as long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“Don’t you want it to happen again?” Wilma asked in a husky voice.

“It mustn’t. Glory and I love each other. I don’t want anything to spoil that.”

“She wouldn’t have to know.”

“No.” Don shook his head firmly. “I’d know. I’d never be able to stand knowing I was cheating on her. You have to understand. I love her.”

“I wonder if she’s being that faithful.”

“Glory? Don’t be ridiculous! The idea of being disloyal to me would never enter her head. Besides, the opportunities around here are pretty limited.”

“They’re not as limited as you think,” Wilma told him. “Take it from a girl who knows.”

“Maybe not for you. For someone like Glory they are. Besides, you just got through saying she was prissy about sex. How can you turn around now and insinuate that she’d be promiscuous?”

“I said she was prissy about what she did—not necessarily about who she did it with. These attractive, spoiled little rich girls like Glory always like to spice up their lives with a little variety. They may not have much know-how, but they get their kicks playing around all the same.”

“Oh, come on now.”

“I mean it. Suppose I were to tell you I knew for a fact that Glory was doing just that -- playing around with another man?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Suppose I could prove it,” Wilma insisted. “Then would you admit you were foolish to turn down what I’m offering you?”

“Maybe. But you can’t prove it.”

“I can. I will. But it may take a little time. Meanwhile, why don’t you let me make you forget Glory right now?” Wilma’s tongue darted from her lips suggestively.

“No! I told you, I don’t believe you. No! and that’s final!”

“You certainly are a prude.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just in love with Glory. Even if she won’t do what you did.”

“Then you admit it was good?”

“Terrific!” Don blushed. He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.

“And you think she’d turn down a ‘terrific’ experience?”

“I’m positively sure she would.”

“Well, my naive bucko, then it looks like I’ll just have to prove to you how wrong you are. Like I said, it may take a little while, but I’ll do it.” Wilma turned to leave. “I’ll be seeing you, sweetie,” she said. “And when I do, you’ll know how right I am about Glory.”

She took off her sandals to wade through the brook and then started down the path towards her father’s farm.

Don watched her go, more than half-regretting his stubborn refusal to let her repeat what she’d done to him. The truth was that the experience had shaken him up even more that he’d let her know. Now he admitted to himself that it made sex with Glory seem very tame by comparison. He recalled the feeling of ecstasy—it had seemed as though the top of his head would fly off with the intensity of it—and felt the heat stirring in his loins at the memory. He knew he’d never be able to forget Wilma’s effect on him. And, truthfully, he doubted that Glory would ever grant him the same favor. Naively, he believed that she just wasn’t that kind of a girl. Almost, he found himself hoping that he would see Wilma again.

He did, of course, on his visits to the Daweses’ home during the days which followed. But seeing Wilma there wasn’t what either of them meant. She was just the maid who worked there, except for serving Don at the table, she ignored him. Gradually, Don made himself forget her promise to see him again. He put her threats about Glory out of his mind and stopped thinking about the possibility of Wilma repeating the act she’d performed that day beside the pond.

But Wilma didn’t forget. For reasons of her own, reasons having to do with her vague plans to serve her father’s interests, she was determined to pursue the relationship with Don. She went about this indirectly -- by setting out to become friends with Glory.

This wasn’t hard. For all her wealth and cultured background, Glory wasn’t a snob. During her childhood, with her mother, she’d been held back from fraternizing with servants. But now, left to her own devices, she saw no reason to act that way. Actually, she welcomed Wilma’s friendship. With Don and her father kept busy all day and the meals and house taken care of by the Henshaws, time hung heavy on her hands. She was bored and lonely. Wilma’s companionship brightened her days considerably.

It began with them exchanging casual chitchat while Wilma cleaned Glory’s room in the mornings. On Wilma’s part, it was calculated girl-talk. A pretense of being the small-town girl who was overawed by her mistress’s travels and expensive clothes. Glory thought her sweet and innocent.

After a while, Glory was following Wilma from room to room as she cleaned, in order to carry on their conversation. When Wilma left at one o’clock for the four hours off she got every afternoon, Glory began to feel lost. She didn’t know what to do with herself and she couldn’t wait for Wilma to return so that they might chat some more while Wilma set the dining-room table for dinner.

The Henshaws watched the growing friendship with forebodings. But they neither said anything, nor did anything about it. They were too afraid of Wilma to chance interfering with any plans she might have had concerning Glory.

“It’s not our business,” Johanna told Harvey. “If we just stay out of her way, maybe she’ll leave us alone. If we don’t interfere and do like she wants, maybe she’ll give us back that picture she took.”

“But s’pose Mr. Dawes finds out about her?” Harvey worried. “S’pose he finds out she’s really Ben Malden’s daughter?”

“No reason he should. He never even asked her last name. An’ if he had, I s’pect she’da give him a false one.”

“But s’pose someone in town finds out she’s workin’ here an’ tells 'him? He’s liable to fire us. What’ll we do then?”

“We’ll jus’ have to face that when it happens. Maybe it won’t never.” Johanna sighed. “Meantime, what she does ain’t none of our affair.”

While they were discussing her, Wilma was in the upstairs part of the house, making the beds and talking with Glory. Actually, she was doing more listening than talking. Glory was pouring out all the loneliness and boredom which marked her days since coming to Glenville.

“If I didn’t have you to talk to, Wilma, I swear I think I’d flip my lid,” she was saying. “With Daddy and Don so busy all the time, I just don’t know what to do with myself. When you go away in the afternoons and I’m left all alone, the hours drag by like days.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” Wilma said warmly.

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude. I know you have your own life. But thanks awfully for asking me.”

“I didn’t ask to be polite. Really, why don’t you come along.”

“Where do you go?”

“Oh, no place special. Sometimes to a movie. Sometimes to town to window-shop. Sometimes down to the pond for a swim. I guess, with the weather getting warm, the pond’s the place I go most.” Wilma was lying. In reality, she spent her afternoons at the farm visiting with her father.

“But don’t you go with friends?” Glory asked. “Don’t you spend your spare time with the other people your age?”

“Mostly not. They’re usually all working in the afternoon. To tell the truth, I’ve got about the only job in town with afternoons off. So mostly I go alone. And always when I go swimming.”

“Why always alone then?”

Wilma giggled and didn’t answer.

“Come on, Wilma, why?”

“Oh, you know.” Wilma even managed a blush.

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

“Well, ’cause I like to swim in the raw.” Wilma looked down at the floor. “I suppose you think that’s just awful,” she added.

“Not at all. It sounds like fun. But aren’t you afraid someone will see you?”

“No. Where I go, nobody else ever comes. At least, not during the week,” Wilma explained.

“It sounds lovely.”

“Well, would you like to come with me then?”

“Yes, I would. Very much. When? Today?”

“No. Not today.” Behind her girlish smile Wilma’s mind was racing. “I have some chores I have to attend to today. Let’s make it tomorrow. All right?”

“Tomorrow it is then,” Glory agreed.


“Tomorrow” dawned bright and clear. By afternoon there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Glory found herself waiting impatiently for Wilma to get through with the housework so they could leave for their swim. At one o’clock promptly the two girls left the house.

Twenty minutes later they were at the pond. To Glory it looked like a bright jewel nestling deep in the woods, surrounded by thick shrubbery which would surely conceal them from prying eyes. “Oh, this is lovely,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands like a little girl.

“Isn’t it?” Wilma agreed. “This is my own special, private place. You’re the first one I’ve ever brought here.” Speaking the words, Wilma smiled to herself, remembering the interlude with Don which had taken place, practically on the very spot they were standing. She reached down for the bottom of the simple dress she was wearing and pulled it over her head.

“Why, you’re not wearing any underwear,” Glory observed, surprised.

“I never do when I’m coming here. Sometimes even when I’m not going swimming. Do you always wear undies?”

“Sometimes I go without a bra,” Glory admitted. “But I always wear panties,” she added primly.

Not always, Wilma thought, remembering Glory’s bare buttocks that night in the parlor that she’d spied on her and Don. Aloud she said, “Come on. Get out of your clothes and we’ll take a dip.”

Glory took off the blouse and slacks she was wearing. She hung her lingerie beside it on a tree branch and turned to Wilma.

“You sure do have a beautiful body,” Wilma said with honest admiration.

Glory blushed. “Thank you.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Wilma was staring at her bust. “What do you wear, a thirty-six bra?” she asked.

“Thirty-eight.”

“C-cup?”

“Yes. Wilma, stop looking at me that way. You’re embarrassing me.” Glory wondered at the sudden hot flush which swept over her at Wilma’s scrutiny. “Come on, let’s go in the water.”

She dived into the pond and Wilma followed. They both came up sputtering. “It’s so cold!” Glory exclaimed.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Yes. I already am. Oh, it feels delicious.”

They frolicked in the water for about twenty minutes and then came out and dried themselves with the towels they’d brought. Wilma stretched out in a pool of sunlight and motioned for Glory to lie down beside her.

“I have to be careful. I haven’t gotten much sun yet this year,” Glory told her. “I have a tendency to burn instead of tan.”

“I brought some suntan lotion. Stretch out and I’ll put it on you.”

“Oh, good.” Glory lay down on her stomach.

Wilma got on her knees and began applying the lotion to Glory’s back. She kneaded it into the flesh, smiling to herself at Glory’s purr of contentment. She worked her way down Glory’s back and then began massaging the oil into the younger girl’s hindquarters.

“Ooh! That tickles!” Glory writhed under her touch and became aware that she was pressing her belly into the warm earth and that it felt quite good.

“Relax.” Wilma slapped the tense buttocks lightly and the muscles loosened. She finished rubbing the oil there and over Glory’s legs and then told her to turn over.

“I can do the front myself,” Glory told her.

“Well, if you’d rather --” Wilma didn’t make a point of it. She could wait.

They lay in the sun for about an hour. Then Wilma got up and went over to her clothes, ostensibly for a cigarette, actually to check the time with the wristwatch she’d left in her dress pocket. Yes, it was time.

“Oh, damn,” she said. “I’ll have to go back to the house.”

“What for?” Glory asked.

“I’m out of cigarettes. And if I don’t get a cigarette when I want one, I’m one very unhappy girl.”

“Take one of mine.”

“You smoke those filtered things. I can’t stand them. No, I’ll just hop back and get my own. It won’t take long.”

“I’ll go with you.” Glory started to get up.

“No. Don’t bother. You look so comfortable lying there. Stay and enjoy the sunshine.” As she was speaking, Wilma was quickly pulling her dress over her head. She slipped her feet into her sandals. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and started down the trail quickly to forestall any more suggestions from Glory that she accompany her.

A few moments later Wilma mounted a small hillock and gazed back down at the shore of the pond. She squinted her eyes and nodded to herself with satisfaction as she saw that Glory was still lying there naked. The sun was speckling her voluptuous young body, and from this distance she looked like some sort of pagan offering, a virgin beauty staked out to appease the wrath of the gods.

Staked out. That accurately described Glory’s position as far as Wilma was concerned. She was staked out just like a bait in a trap. Succulent, irresistible bait!

And Wilma was about to spring the trap. . .


CHAPTER SEVEN


Wilma had arranged for the trap ingeniously during her afternoon off on the previous day. It had been a busy afternoon. And it had been an afternoon which offered at least one surprise.

“You want to do that?” she’d asked Rafe, startled by his request.

“Yup. I allus had a hankerin’ to try it.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“Aw, come on now, Wilma, you’re not goin’ to get all shocked an’ like that, are you?”

“Baby, you couldn’t in a million years think up anything to do with sex that would shock me.”

“Good. Tell the truth, Wilma honey, I sorta got the idea watchin’ them Henshaws that night.”

“Why, Rafe,” she teased him, '“There’s no telling what you’ll be wanting to do next. Little boys I expect, or something just as queer.”

“Ain’t nothin’ queer ’bout what I’m askin’!”

“Isn’t there? A good psychoanalyst might find it very revealing.”

“I don’ hold with them head shrinkers. But if you don’ wanna do it, Wilma, why you jus’ say so. I sure ain’t gonna beg it.”

“Will you do what I asked you anyway?”

“Nope. Why should I? You wanna favor from me, well, one good turn deserves another.” He giggled. “Hey, you catch that, Wilma? One good turn derseves another. Ain’t that a real knee-slapper?”

“High comedy,” she observed dryly. ”All right, Rafe. I’ll do it your way. But if I do, you’ll do whatever I want. Is that understood?”

“Now wait a minute! Jus’ what’re you gettin’ me into, Wilma? I ain’t gonna break no laws, or nothin’. Maybe you better tell me what it is you want afore we call it a deal.”

“All right.” Wilma told him then.

When she was through, Rafe scratched his head. “Gee, I dunno. It could be risky.”

“Not if you do just what I say. Only be sure you don’t get carried away. She’s a good-looking girl.”

“Yeah. I seen her roun’ town.” Rafe licked his lips. “But suppose she hollers ‘rape’ or somethin’?”

“There won’t be anybody to hear her. And you’re not going to rape her or hurt her. Once it’s over, she’ll just forget about it.”

“Suppose she don’?”

“She will.”

“I dunno, Wilma. It still sounds risky to me.”

“Rafe.” She sidled up to him and pressed his hand to her breasts. “Do it for me.”

“Gosh, I’m not—”

She kissed him on the lips, shutting off his objections. “Please, Rafe,” she murmured when the kiss was over.

“An’ you’ll do it the way I want?”

“Just as soon as you do me this favor.”

“No!” Rafe pulled away. “I ain’t trustin’ you nohow, Wilma. You do it first, or it ain’t no deal.”

“All right,” she said. “And then you promise you’ll do it?”

“I promise.”

“You do it just right, Rafe,” she cooed in his hear, “and maybe I’ll give you a little bonus after it’s over, too.”

Rafe gulped. His hands were greedy, grasping at Wilma’s blouse. “When?” he asked. “When are we a-gonna do it?”

“No time like the present,” Wilma crooned “Come on out in the barn and we’ll do it in the hayloft right now.”

Rafe followed her eagerly. She led him to one of the stalls in the barn and started to take off her clothes. “You get undressed, too,” she told him.

Both naked, they scrambled up the hayloft. Rafe reached for her hungrily and fastened his mouth over one breast. In his eagerness he slobbered over it and Wilma had to conceal her disgust. But she had the experience to do this successfully and Rafe never guessed that her skin was all but crawling at the drops of drool his hungry mouth had deposited on it.

A sudden sound made them both sit up quickly. “What was that?” Wilma whispered.

The sound came again. “Aww, that ain’t nothin’ but the hogs oinkin’,” Rafe explained.

“How fitting,” Wilma murmured.

“How’s ’at?”

“Nothing.” She leaned back in the hay. “Come on, lover, back to your trough,”

It went over Rafe’s head. He fell on top of Wilma again and resumed what he’d been doing. “This is s’posed to really excite a woman,” he said after a while, pausing for breath.

“Oh, it does,” Wilma assured him, carefully keeping the boredom out of her voice. “It just makes me hot all over.”

“Yeah. I’m one feller what knows how to satisfy a woman. I allus allow as how she’s gotta get her kicks, too. Know what I mean?” He snapped his teeth at Wilma’s other breast.

“I certainly do,” she sighed, wishing he’d hurry up and get it over with so she’d have enough time to do everything that had to be done that afternoon.

Rafe did speed things up. His activity may not have been having much effect on Wilma’s 1ibido, but it was exciting him. “Turn over,” he told her, becoming more anxious to get on with it.

Wilma turned over. She felt Rafe’s tongue sliding over the backs of her legs and then his lips were all over her buttocks. He licked the length of the cleft, dipped his tongue deeply into the anal cavity, sucked hard at her narrow rear hole. Despite herself, she started to squirm under his nibbling and kissing and licking. He played with her for a long time there, using both his hands and mouth. Then—“Ready, baby?” he asked hoarsely.

“Oh, yes,” she moaned falsely. She rose on her knees, thrusting out her haunches to make things easier.

She felt his hands exploring and then clawing to force her buttocks wider apart so that he could ram his blunt, stiff penis up her bunghole. Then his hands slid around in front of her, squeezing her breasts. The discomfort eased for a moment, only to be replaced by a sudden, sharp pain as Rafe thrust violently for the target. “I’m gonna shove my pecker right on up yer tush-twat ’til you bust plumb apart!” He panted. He, was deliberately brutal, laughing loudly at the genuine moan of anguish which escaped Wilma’s lips as he forced his way.

Once he was lodged, Rafe began to move more and more violently. Wilma felt as if her body were being ripped apart. He was too big. She was too small. He’d kill her! She was sure of it! “Oh, stop!” she begged, the anguish becoming too much for her. “Please stop!”

But Rafe was beyond even hearing her. He was pounding away at her hindquarters now like a beast gone mad. Nothing could stop him until he’d finished.

The whole thing took only a moment or two, but Wilma thought it would never end. It was like a red-hot poker ripping and tearing and beating at the most tender part of her body. And with the pain there was the knowledge of the indignity of allowing this animal to take her in this fashion—this completely selfish way.

Suddenly Rafe let out a whoop and rolled over on his back, taking Wilma with him without loosening his hold. Wilma all but fainted at the final anguish this caused her. But immediately she felt Rafe shoot his hot load deep into her bowels and then the pressure inside her subsided. He was through and Wilma clamored off him as quickly as she could.

After this, she thought to herself, hemorrhoids would be a relief!

“Whoo-ee! Now, baby, weren’t that somethin’? I don’ know as I ever come off that good afore. Truth now, Wilma. You ever knowed it better?”

You moron! she thought, filled with rage. What do you think that I or any other woman could get out of that? It’s your pleasure from my pain, you bastard! That’s what it is! And someday, Rafe, I’m going to get even for this. You just wait and see! I’ll get even!

“Never,” she said aloud. “I never had it better.”

“An’ how!”

“I’ve got to be going now,” she said. “Don’t forget about tomorrow, Rafe. Three o’clock

“I’ll be there. Hey, Wilma, you mean what you said afore ’bout maybe givin’ me a little bonus?”

“You do it right, Rafe, and we’ll see,” she promised. Over my dead body, you pig! she thought to herself. Over my dead body!

Still cursing him, Wilma got into her father’s old Ford and drove to town. She went directly to the factory gate and parked her car outside. She waited patiently across from it, knowing that sooner or later Don must leave by this gate.

Wilma looked at her watch. Five minutes to five. She’d be late getting back to her job at the Dawes house. It didn’t matter. The Henshaws would cover for her. They wouldn’t even say anything about her lateness. They wouldn’t dare.

The five minutes passed and the whistle blew, sounding the end of the working day. Workers flocked through the gate, but Wilma looked in vain among their work clothes for the business suit she guessed Don would be wearing. It wasn’t until after the crowd had dissipated, some fifteen minutes later, that she finally saw him. He started across the road to get the company car he drove. Wilma’s call made him veer off his course to the parking lot.

“Hello there,” he greeted her. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“What about?” He looked at her suspiciously.

“You know what about.” Wilma confirmed his suspicions.

“Look, Wilma, what I said that day at the pond still goes. I love Glory and I don’t want to get involved with you.”

“I know. You love her and she loves you. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re still sure she’d never cheat on you?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, Don, how can you be so blind?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s been cheating on you every day for a week that I know of. That’s what I mean.”

“I don’t believe you.” Don’s voice was shaky.

“I can prove it.”

“How?”

“If you’ll do as I ask and meet me where I tell you tomorrow afternoon, you’ll be able to see for yourself.”

“Wilma, if this is some kind of trick to get me to --”

“It’s not a trick, Don, believe me. You wanted proof and now I’ve got it for you. The question is do you have the guts to face up to what your beloved Glory really is?”

“All right,” Don said grimly, “what do you want me to do?”

Wilma spelled it out for him, going over the directions twice to make sure there would be no slipup. “Tomorrow then,” she told him, starting up the car. He nodded and walked off toward the parking lot. His shoulders were sagging and he looked very tired. “Tomorrow,” Wilma called again as she drove past him. . . .


And “tomorrow” was here. Wilma stood on the hillock and looked down at the shapely young blonde girl lying nude in the sunlight beside the pond. The figure was completely relaxed, completely unsuspecting. Glory looked very small, very helpless from this distance.

Wilma smiled to herself grimly. The trap was set. All that remained was to trigger it.

Wilma continued up the slope to the small copse of woods fringing the top. She followed the path she found there, coming out on the other side of the grove. A dirt road ran alongside the woods here, and she easily spotted Don’s company car parked a little ways down it. He got out of the car as he saw her coming.

“I must be crazy to come out here in the middle of a working day,” he greeted her.

“You won’t be sorry.”

“You’re wrong. I will be sorry. If what you say about Glory is true*and, mind you, I still don’t believe it!—I’ll be even sorrier.”

“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make you forget her.”

“No you won’t.” Don sighed. “l hate myself for doing this. No matter what happens, I’ll go on despising myself for letting you talk me into it. If I had any sense, I’d turn right around and drive back to the factory.”

“You can’t do that! Not until you see for yourself what’s been going on. You know yourself that if you turn back 'now you’ll always be tortured with doubts about Glory.”

Her point struck home. “All right,” Don said, Let’s get on with it.”

“Follow me,” she told him, and led him back the way she had come. “Oh, wait a minute.” She stopped. “Have you got the field glasses I asked you to bring?”

“Yes.” Don tapped the side of the attache case he was carrying to indicate they were inside.

“All right then. Come on.”

When then reached the hillock overlooking the pond Wilma pointed down toward Glory. “There she is ” she said.

“I see her. So what?”

“Notice she’s naked.”

“What does that prove? She’s sunbathing, that’s all.”

“She’s waiting for her lover.”

“That’s what you say. But I still think you’re lying, Wilma.”

“Then wait and see.”

“For how long? How long do you expect me to go on with this—t.his disgusting farce?”

“Not long,” Wilma said calmly, ignoring his attitude. Just take out your field glasses so you’ll have a clear view of the show.”

While Don was doing as she said, Wilma climbed a little higher on the hill behind him. She fished a red bandana from her pocket and waved it high in the air for a brief moment. Then she replaced it and came up beside Don again. “Don’t worry, you won’t have long to wait,” she assured him. . . .


Rafe had been sitting in the crook of the tree watching the pond for about an hour. He hadn’t been bored. Watching the two naked girls, and now Glory alone, his mind had conjured up all sorts of erotic visions in which he played the major role.

That Glory … Man what a piece! A feller could really have himself a time with a hot number like that one! An’ them New York girlies really know all the tricks! Man! To back-scuttle her like with Wilma yestiday!

He looked at Glory’s bottom, round and firm as she lay stretched out on her stomach. Her legs were slightly apart. She reached behind her to flick away a fly buzzing around the small of her back. Her buttocks quivered with the movement, golden mounds swaying in the sun spray.

Rafe licked his lips. Made for cornholin’! His eyes stayed riveted as Glory turned over. She stretched out on her back and put one arm over her eyes to shield them from the sun. Her breasts swelled, the nipples tautening as the heat fell on them more directly. Rafe looked anxiously toward the hillock in the distance. He wished to have some real kicks.

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