The Captive Bride
by Charles Wykes


INTRODUCTION 

They are blessed with everything, this small segment of lucky women who bask 
in the glow of affluence, education, wealth, social distinction. Life for 
them is a magic carpet woven of rich experience. Yet one tragic flaw, one 
pull of the thread, can easily deface the perfect pattern of their lives. 
Consider our heroine, Catherine-"Carrie"-Ann Kelly, a Vassar graduate with 
everything in her favor. . .everything that is, except the physical love of 
her husband. 

Ironic, too, that a woman's fear of her own sensual nature is often relieved 
by the recreation of violence responsible for her abnormal anxieties. Such 
is the case with Carrie, daughter of a staunch Irish Catholic Senator who 
took out his political frustrations in the bedroom. From childhood to 
womanhood, the ears of Carrie's memory echo with her mother's frantic cries 
of pain on the other side of the bedroom wall. Sensual yet timid, the 
freckled-nosed woman guards her virginity like a precious jewel until 
marriage when he discovers it is nothing but a cheap rhinestone . . . 
worthless and disappointing. 

As the wife of a professor of South African history, an advocate of white 
supremacy, Carrie is automatically the target for Berkeley radicals who 
raise their fists in a cry for racial equality. Fast moving and 
unfortunately but necessarily violent is the account of the delicate woman 
who one sunny day in October is kidnapped from campus, held captive in a 
condemned building and repeatedly violated in every way possible by her 
terrifying abductors. 

In the face of a potentially shattering experience it is Carrie's victory 
over her delicate psyche and the limitations of her own sensual nature that 
carry her through this explosively experience a healthy, psychologically 
well-adjusted wife, capable of satisfying her husband in the ways that often 
count most. 

-The Publishers 


CHAPTER ONE 

So this is where I'm going to live! thought Carrie Kelly, squinting through 
the rain spattered window of the sleek black chauffer driven limousine whose 
headlights looked like one more set of glowing eyes in a monster caterpillar 
creeping along its slow, steady path through the heavy torpor of San 
Francisco's rush hour traffic. 

"And we thought we had traffic jams in Boston!" A firm, masculine arm 
slipped around the collar of her camel hair cashmere coat as classic as the 
beauty of the dimpled face lifting up to the man cuddled warmly beside her. 
My husband, thought Carrie with a shy, nervous smile. Husband . . . ? The 
unfamiliar word echoed strangely in her head, and in the bright yellow smear 
of car headlights, the curly haired woman stared with intent curiosity at 
the tall, distinguished man whose clean shaven neck smelled warmly of 
cologne. 

In the year since their engagement, Edward Tarrington III bore the same 
noble posture that had caught Carrie's attention two years back as she sat 
in a Vassar classroom chewing on her Bic pen and listening to the clipped 
British accent of Dr. Tarrington delivering his Tuesday lecture on South 
African repression following the Sharpeville Riot of 1960. The natty forty 
year old professor, charmed by Carrie's misty green eyes haloed by a mop of 
chestnut curls, invited her to discuss over a cup of tea the Afrikaner 
defeat in the Anglo-Boer War. Their student-teacher relationship was just 
that for two years. Her father, a U.S. Senator had reared her in the power 
of rhetoric. Repression, oppression, suppression, depression . . . 

Rather than lose a student, Dr. Tarrington opted to gain a wife, and he 
started looking at her body instead of her mind. 

And Senator Kelly was relieved! The difference in their ages bothered him 
somewhat, and he would have preferred a Harvard law student for a son-in-law 
. . . but at least Dr. Tarrington wasn't one of those Marxist idiots! Of 
that he made certain by checking out Dr. Edward Tarrington III through 
Washington channels and discovering through dossiers that his future 
son-in-law was the heir to a Durban, South African shipping firm and owned 
half of the Indian Ocean seaport! The fact that he hadn't a single drop of 
Negroid .blood in his veins eased his mind along with documentations that 
Dr. Tarrington's racial policies were as bigoted as his own . . . 

"How much longer do you think it'll be before we get to the city?" asked 
Carrie, gazing out over the horizon to the right where the misty gray-blue 
skies met the murky Bay waters, and an occasional flutter of white overhead 
marked the eternal battle of the seagulls struggling against high winds. 

The middle aged professor smiled under the slim line of his manicured 
mustache that twitched with flattery at what he interpreted to be his new 
bride's eagerness to reach their apartment and get on with this business of 
playing husband and wife. 

As the raindrops pinged on the car roof, a cold shiver like the wriggle of a 
snake crawled up Carrie's spine at the limousine driver's reply: "Oh, 'bout 
thirty minutes, I'd say . . . " To fill in the clumsy silence, he asked, 
"You two visiting San Francisco . . . ? " 

"No . . . moving here. We've just been married." Edward gave his bride a 
polite little hug and rubbed his panted knee against her dimpled, stockinged 
one. 

Even through the warmth of her coat, Carrie shuddered, right up to the puffy 
nipples of her creamy breasts that spiked out under her knit dress. The 
sexual side of their relationship had yet to rear its ugly head. Their 
marriage certificate had nullified all excuses at intimacy and she was a 
wife, not a student which made her duties more personal than handing in a 
term paper on time. As much as she adored Edwards mind, his body was still 
foreign territory, and she would have given anything to keep it that way! 

At least he wasn't like those rich spoiled Harvard boys who plumped up their 
egos by pumping you full of booze and hauling you off to a cheap hotel to 
screw you silly. Nor was Edward stuck full of cheap ideology . . . 

Only one other guy had tempted Carrie, though Papa never got wind of it. 
Like everybody with money, an education and a choice, Carrie had flirted 
with radical ideology in the name of Peter Goldberg. Theirs was a casual, 
short-lived affair. . . going to political rallies and attending lectures on 
Third World strife. Peter possessed an athletic body and a Marxian mind, for 
like many rich Jewish boys from the East whose parents had joined the 
Communist Party in the heat of Nazism, Peter carried a guilty complex that 
compelled him to hide his wealth by dressing in drab work shirts and levis. 
His kinky, unruly hair never looked combed and every thought and action he 
related to the need for radical social change. 

Intriguing was this flirtation with radicalism, but hardly acceptable to the 
Senator's stodgy way of thinking, and Carrie dropped him like a hot potato 
on his first clumsy attempt to take her to bed. Well, almost that fast.. . 

Lost in a world of thought, Carrie watched the windshield wipers slap beads 
of water in mesmerizing rhythms. 

* * * 

The sky was dark and hard with a few stars shining diamond-like overhead 
when Peter and Carrie walked back from the auditorium to Peter's one bedroom 
basement apartment. Their shoes slapped on the naked sidewalk and down three 
steps to where Peter slipped a key in the lock and yanked at a cord attached 
to a bare light bulb that bathed the dingy surrounds in an unholy glow. 

Carrie's perky upturned nose wiggled, feeling a sneeze build from the musty 
dampness of the cement floored room where the stains on the painted walls 
testified to many damp spring nights. 

"Sorry it's such a mess, but I've been working on my doctoral thesis," 
apologized the thirty year old, "and besides that, I'm naturally messy." 

"Oh . . . ? " Carrie stood clutching her hand bag, feeling terribly 
uncomfortable while Peter cleared the bed of its littered papers and stacked 
books. The feeling of the room was one of stark deprivation and Carrie 
wondered how anybody could live in such a sty . . . ideology or not! Her 
wealthy lace curtain Irish background had never seen the likes of this and 
it struck her that Peter's mind must be so engulfed in his studies that 
creature comforts didn't exist. 

Below her black beret hat, her olive eyes took in the unsightly sight of 
this barren room where in a corner stood a sink propped up on two pieces of 
wood, its eternal drip having left a rusty smudge. On a dusty window ledge 
sat a bar of soap, a frayed toothbrush and dishwashing liquid above which 
the only window in the apartment looked out onto legs scissoring back and 
forth on the grimy sidewalk, drunken feet kicking cans and rats rattling 
around in trash cans. Carrie shivered. 

Other than the bed and a small table, the furnishings amounted to a poster 
of Lenin which hung grease-spattered above the hot plate, and above his bed 
Fidel Castro stared back at her. There was something strangely romantic in 
Peter's true denial of materialism. 

"What did you think of the film, Carrie? I thought it interesting that Amin 
was put into office because they wanted a weak leader whom the whites could 
control . . . " Slap! He threw a heap of books in the corner, clearing off 
the bed. Marxism didn't completely negate physical contact and Peter hadn't 
seen the likes of this Irish lovely amidst the crew of uncomely Taoists, 
Marxists, and Venceremos supporters! Most of the women who shared his 
ideology were either ugly and/or lesbians and he wasn't about to let this 
Vassar coed slip away without knowing how it felt to fuck a man with guts! 

Carrie had the bosom of a Jewish mother with the long, tapering legs of a 
French woman, and the sparkle of the witty Irish. Everything about her 
exuded a lust for life, and most important, a brilliant mind which, like 
his, was constantly searching for alternatives. Had he known she was the 
conservative Senator Kelly's daughter, perhaps he wouldn't have wanted to 
touch her with a ten foot pole, for the U.S. Senator was known for weeding 
out undesirables in the university system and running dossiers on them as 
thick as the New York telephone directory. That included, him-Peter! 

Standing up straight, he turned to see Carrie perusing his bookcase, running 
her finger along the line of tatter paperbacks and hefty volumes. Silent as 
a cat, he snuck up behind her, his arm softly brushing against her sweatered 
bosom as he reached over her shoulder to pluck a notebook from the dusty 
shelf. 

"Look at this," he said with pride. "Notes from my Columbia days on the 
riots back there in the late '60s. You're probably too young to remember 
that." Peter shook his head discouragedly as if something dear had been 
lost. "Too bad those days are past. . . 

Christ, everybody wanted changes then. I remember fighting pigs and smashing 
windows and throwing up from tear gas . . . now college kids are wearing 
loafers and joining fraternities." He shook his head with true misery. 

Having been reared with the idea that there are only two decent radicals: 
Joe McCarthy and a dead Communist, Carrie was truly awed. "Whom, you mean 
you remember FSM and Ann Arbor and Kent State?" her green eyes flashed 
against his brown ones, and suddenly all her political science courses 
jelled into one of moment understanding. Here was a man who had lived, 
politics, not just taught them. 

"Honey.. . I was there. Got scars to prove it, but I won't show them to you. 
. . yet" Deftly, he spun her around, took the notebook out of her hands and 
set it on the shelf next to a Notes from Mao Tse Tung. "To know, you have to 
experience, and I'm about to give you an experience you won't forget.. . " 

He pressed closer to her, so that he was pressing her against the book case. 
Carrie started a little and he felt her muscles tense against his body. Was 
it fear, or the rudiments of desire? She gave a little nervous laugh. "Now 
Peter, don't start that. You know that I talk more liberal than I am." 

"Bullshit . . . " he muttered, nuzzling his shaven cheek against her head. 
God, her hair was fragrant and he reeled from the scent of it, musing at the 
contrast between her lush beauty and the dankness of his living quarters 
where she stood out like a rose amongst a heap of trash. Her perfumed skin, 
the feel of her lithe body against him . . .he had to have her! 

He pressed closer still, feeling her move backwards imperceptibly, but far 
enough to keep him from pressing his loins against her belly. He tilted his 
face forward, resting his chin against her temple. She turned her face 
upwards to speak and suddenly they were kissing mouth to mouth. 

Telling herself to loosen up, that she was kissing more than a man . . . she 
was kissing a man's conviction, his way of life. . . she let his tongue slip 
into her mouth to run over the row of her pearly white teeth. But then it 
happened as it always did. 

Her mother's voice shattered the glass bell jar to wag a warning finger at 
her. "Men . . . they take from you and give nothing but heartache." These 
words came from a woman who'd hated her overbearing husband for taking to 
the bottle when Washington's frustrations got to him and then taking it out 
on her hide in the bedroom. There was another side to Carrie's fear, too, 
but she couldn't define it.. . 

Carrie closed her eyes and let the pressure of his soft lips propel her into 
the cradle of his muscular arms, but only for a moment. Sputtering, she 
pushed herself away from him with the palms of her hands. 

"No . . . please . . . " 

Peter let out a long sigh of defeat. "Come on, Carrie. . . for chrissakes, 
loosen up. It's only a kiss." 

Yes, it's only a kiss, her mind repeated and she forced herself to submit, 
feeling the delicious, tingling touch of Peter's tongue as it skipped 
lightly across the sensitive underside of her lips, and then the electric 
shock of it as it thrust into the steamy confines of her mouth. 

In the light of the naked light bulb Peter turned Carrie around and pulled 
her tighter against him. He could feel her response in the soft surrender of 
her lips, the squirming of her young, lithe body, the turgid nipples under 
her lamb's wool sweater. 

Carrie opened one olive eye to stare into the bold dark ones of Fidel Castro 
who stared down at her under his black beret, looking defiantly militant on 
the wall. The set of his jaw and the evil glint in his eye seemed to 
threaten her into submission as if the machine gun he held in his hand could 
shoot bullets, and she surrendered, pressing her body tightly against 
Peter's, feeling the tingling sensations of pleasure course warmly through 
her responsive body. Her better senses were saying stop but her body 
overruled the intellectual command. She swayed, moving her stiffened nipples 
against his work shirt. She was relaxing into the moment, allowing her body 
to savor the warm, delicious contact, letting his insistent levied knee 
spread her thighs. Carrie was shamefully aware of the creamy wetness in the 
sheer panties that embraced her private parts and she shuddered 
involuntarily with shocks of delight as Peter's tongue lapped at her 
sensitive neck. 

"Carrie, oh, Carrie, I want you as badly as I want to see this rotten world 
change," Peter whispered into her open mouth. 

"Oh, yes . . . " 

His agile tongue thrust itself hotly deep into the warm and salivating 
depths of her Irish mouth, sending sensation after sensation through the 
nerve ends of Carrie's body. Experimentally, she sucked on it, soft murmurs 
of passion mumbling from her kiss-swollen lips. 

Go ahead, her body was saying.. . . here is a man who wants you for more 
than your body. And, as his hand rose slowly up her sweatered rib cage to 
embrace one of her full breasts, she found herself lifting her shoulder to 
tauten the creamy flesh-tantalizing them both even more. 

Carrie groaned and allowed her thighs to part farther. She could feel the 
trembling in her buttocks as her skirt hiked higher up her thighs at the 
insistence of his knee thrusting deeper between her legs. Carrie was giddy 
with passion, more so than she had ever imagined possible . . . and with a 
man so wonderfully different from herself . . . a man who swore he'd give 
his life for the cause. She began slipping into a heady twilight zone 
between reason and desire and her long, trim legs tightened against his 
muscular thighs, the crisply laundered feel of his Levi's rubbing against 
her stockinged flesh. His knee was cradled up against her slowly moistening 
vagina. 

Peter was lost in desire . . . and though his strict minded code of ethics 
denied him materialistic pleasures, they clearly said nothing about sex! 
Fleetingly, he wondered if she was on the pill and if not, did he have any 
condoms left? While one hand lavishly caressed the fleshy mound of her 
breast, he let the other slide down her back to her slender waist, then 
downwards along the arc of her trim ass. He paused there, fondling the ripe 
flesh and she leaned forward further into him in delicious approval. 

She was letting go tonight . . . no denying that. Why.. . he didn't ask and 
didn't care. He knew only that he had to get her down on the bed before 
things ended up the way they always did: Carrie suddenly jerking away from 
him and putting space between them. Usually she would mutter something 
unintelligible as she bolted for the dormitory door. 

"Carrie, you're a fantastic female," he breathed into her ear. 

Carrie started to speak, but Peter quickly halted her reply with a fervid 
kiss that covered her whole mouth. Meanwhile, he had maneuvered his hand 
from her softly trembling buttocks down her thigh and up under the raised 
hem of her skirt. Like a slow-moving serpent, his hand eased upward, one 
finger at a time, sliding along the silken expanse of her thigh . . . 
upwards, slowly, skillfully. 

Goosebumps rose on the dusky flesh of her thighs. If he could get his hand 
in her panties, it would be minutes before he had her spread out on the bed. 

A gentle finger touched the edge of Carrie's filmy panties, sliding under 
the girlish garter belt she wore. The finger snake slithered cautiously 
through the softly curling forest of pubic curls. Just one thirty-second of 
an inch more and it would have slipped into the silky crevice, sliding along 
the thin, moist trench to her vagina. Gently, gently, easy, fella . . . 

Peter compelled all of his disciplined forces of restraint. Control now was 
the acid test. He wanted nothing more than to rip off Carrie's panties, 
unleash his swollen cock and fuck her on the spot while Castro watched from 
his wall perch! 

Carrie gasped and shuddered and then suddenly, inexplicably, pulled back. 
There was a fierce look in her green eyes. Sparks seemed to fly from them 
like chips of fire from a blacksmith's anvil. Peter clutched her hardened 
breast tighter with one hand while his other finger grabbed hold of the 
softly curling pubic hair inside her panties. His voice was coarse with 
passion and emotion as he tremblingly begged, "Carrie, no, don't make me 
stop now. I've never wanted a woman as much as you. I want you more than my 
crumby, Ph.D. Oh, please.. . " 

Peter tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away sharply and clutched 
at his biceps in a fierce, clawing, clenching way. She was becoming a 
wildcat. The leprechauns of guilt had seduced her before he had a chance to. 

"Stop it, Peter," she screamed at him. Her beautiful face was distorted with 
emotion. Anger, fear, passion. Peter noticed the cords distended on Carrie's 
smooth, tawny throat as she fought to get away. 

"You don't respect my feelings!" she blurted at him as wetly streaming tears 
began to fill her enormous eyes and cascade down her firm, flushed cheeks. 

Peter relaxed his hold on her, taking his fingers reluctantly away from her 
smooth breast and from the dank cavern between her legs to envelop her in a 
restrained embrace. "But Carrie," he managed. "I was respecting your 
feelings, your response, your body language. You were ready to let loose and 
you know it." 

At this Carrie broke away from him and stood with her back to him. Tears of 
outrage streamed down her beautiful Irish face. Ugly thoughts roared through 
her head like a rebellious train racing out of control through the night. 
Oh, why couldn't he let her have her secret little pleasure, take what she 
could allow herself to give him and be happy with that? Why did he have to 
assume that her response to his probing hands and fingers was an invitation 
to go further, to thrust his hardness up into her tender body. 

They were all the same ruttish animals. No man content to just kiss and 
cuddle and caress-to hold her intimately, but not too intimately. Men didn't 
possess the sensitivity to see the beauty of restraint. No, they had to get 
between your legs with their hard, cruel penises and split you apart before 
they were satisfied. They were all just like . . .just like her father. The 
blinding insight suddenly split her brain. Those nights when she awakened in 
the dark to hear her mother's sobs following the crack of cruel hands 
buffeting a tender woman's face! 

Night after night, she remembered now, she had heard her father's coarse 
gruntings, heard the squeaking mattress heave rhythmically beneath the pair, 
heard her mother's pitiful moans as she submitted to her drunken husband. 
Carrie's body shivered involuntarily as again the ghastly sounds throbbed 
through the ears of her mind the way they had when she had lain in her small 
bed as a child. Unknowingly, she had vowed to herself then as a tiny girl 
that she would never allow a man to take her virginity-never! 

"Carrie . . . ? " Peter said tentatively, slipping his arms around her, 
pulling her gently against his loins. She could feel his hard, distended 
penis under his Levi's throbbing against her firmly fleshed buttocks. Carrie 
reacted with a jolt as she felt the long, stiff cylinder of flesh pulsate 
into the crevice of her buttocks. 

"Peter . . . I've had enough!" Carrie spat the words and jerked his hands 
from her waist and pushed past him, striding toward the door. 

"C-Carrie, I don't get it," Peter stammered. "One second you're hot to trot 
and the next you're an ice cube." 

Carrie's eyes were burning coals. "Why don't you go pick up one of your 
liberal Communist girl friends . . . I'm sure they're used to hammers and 
sickles." 

Peter spread his hands in a frustrated gesture. "Hammers and sickles . . . 
what the hell are you talking about?" He started towards her, the bulge in 
his Levi's highly apparent. 

Lifting her hand from the door, Carrie pointed to his crotch. "That's what 
I'm talking about!" she wailed. "Go use your tools on somebody else." 

A slam of the door ended Carrie Kelly's vicarious flirtation with radicalism 
and, except for blurred images of Peter Goldberg's face on a mimeographed 
handbill stapled to campus bulletin boards and light posts, Carrie never saw 
Peter again. 

With the advent of springtime, her attention turned to the distinguished 
South African history professor who wore decent clothes, combed his hair and 
lived a respectable, if somewhat dull lifestyle. 

* * * 

The Bay Bridge connecting San Francisco with the East Bay marked the end of 
the rainstorm, and the black limousine sped along the eight-mile stretch 
amidst the thunder of honking horns and the lightning of car headlights. 
From the freeway they headed for Berkeley, driving down infamous Telegraph 
Avenue which, as usual, was steaming with bedraggled street people amassed 
together in heated revolt. 

Edward's frown turned to a gasp as he grasped his bride's arm protectively. 
"Something's happening . . . look!" 

"Somethin's always happening in Berkeley, sir," chuckled the driver 
amusedly. "Jes' another riot . . . " 

Nothing compared to the riot that's going to be raging in our bedroom when 
Edward takes me to our house tonight and wants to consummate our marriage! 

 CHAPTER TWO 

It certainly is true that getting involved with a younger woman gives you a 
new outlook, thought Edward Tarrington III feeling exuberant and sexy as he 
guided Carrie by the hand toward their new home in the Berkeley Hills. He 
squeezed her playfully as he lifted her slender, feather-light body in his 
strong arms, feeling younger than he had in twenty years as he carried her 
over the threshold. 

It was a lovely home, situated on the eucalyptus shaded hillside with a 
panoramic view of San Francisco stretched out like a post card below. The 
living room was a Danish modern masterpiece, tastefully and expensively 
furnished with a fireplace at one end large enough to roast a deer. 

When Carrie exclaimed that she wanted to sit out on the balcony and stare 
out over the misty waters, he hid his impatience behind an indulgent smile. 
As far as he was concerned, the tour of the house could wait until tomorrow 
morning; there was another tour he would rather take, and that was straight 
up Carrie's smooth young leg! 

Hold your horses, Edward! he cautioned himself. You've waited two years to 
take Carrie as a wife, and now you can wait another few minutes. Remember, 
she's an innocent little thing. . . not like those cheap-assed whores in 
Durban. 

"Would you like a blanket to wrap around yourself?" he smiled at the lovely 
moppy-curled bride. "It's going to be nippy out there." Carrie declined and 
headed through the black and white kitchen to the back screened-in porch. 

Not wanting to let his shy virgin see the humiliating, pulsating bulge in 
his tailor-made suit pants, Edward remained strategically behind her as they 
stood out on the balcony staring out over the splatter of distorted city 
lights and listening to the monstrous roar of city energy that seemed so 
distant yet so threateningly close. Edward pointed out the orange ribbon of 
lights that marked Telegraph Avenue, then guided his finger to point out the 
Carillon Tower on the Berkeley campus. 

Fog slapped against her face, but Carrie stoically braved the inclement 
weather while her eager husband stood by, taking in the voluptuous 
silhouette of her heavy young breasts as high and proud as her morals. 
Edward's impatient virility gave another painful jerk against his boxer 
shorts and, with a moan of passion, he moved toward his new wife. 

His words tempered the uncontrollable passion he felt: "Come inside, 
darling," he murmured, taking her arm and pulling her close to him. "You'll 
catch a chill." 

Carrie's head whipped around so sharply that her silken chestnut curls 
brushed tantalizingly against her husband's shaven cheek. Intoxicated by the 
floral fragrance of her hair, Edward threw discretion to the winds and 
pressed his hungry lips against her soft ones in the most intimate kiss he'd 
ever dared to give his chilly bride. 

It took every ounce of willpower Carrie could muster to keep from pushing 
him away and releasing her mouth from his bruising kiss. But when he pressed 
closer to her and she felt the undeniable throbbing bulge hidden like some 
hungry animal between his legs, a chill shudder crawled up her spine, and 
the ears of her memory reverberated with her mother's helpless sobs. 

"It-it is awfully cold," she shivered with a nervous little laugh, 
deliberately making her teeth chatter and crossing her arms over her 
breasts. "I think I'd like a hot bath, all right?" 

"Anything you want," answered Edward with painful chagrin, feeling his penis 
throb in true misery behind the trap of his zipper. 

Thank God for little favors, thought Carrie, relieved to find the master 
bedroom had a private bathroom which, judging from its pink and white marble 
decor, she assumed was hers. At the risk of seeming rude, she locked the 
door behind her and ran the bath tub full of hot steaming water and climbed 
in. If only I never had to leave this tub, she thought fleetingly as the 
womb-like warmth of the water bathed her fevered sensual fears and lapped at 
her chin. 

Outside in the dimly lit master bedroom, Tarrington paced the floor in his 
Gucci shoes, sipping at a double scotch up neat which he'd found in the well 
stocked bar. He wondered with a flush of embarrassment if his forty year old 
hard-on had frightened his bride and he hoped, with panic, that she wouldn't 
pull one of those typical head-ache excuses on their first night together. 

"Take it easy," he muttered into his Chivas Regal. "Act natural.. . be 
tender . . . she'll eat it up." He wished it were some kind of wind-up toy 
that responded on command rather than jutting out to stab his beloved in the 
stomach every time he tried to get close to her! He knew that it was tenting 
his pants right now and with a grunt, he slammed his scotch glass down on 
the bedside table and slipped into his black silk pajamas. 

His fingers were struggling with the last pearl button on his pajama shirt 
when his bride, looking like Aphrodite herself, emerged from the bathroom in 
a virginal white lace nightgown that looked like it belonged to a twelve 
year old . . . except for the delicious mounds of her full, milky breasts 
that bounced with every step, swaying from side to side like a well-oiled 
gate. When he squinted, he could make out the berry tips of her puffy 
nipples and he drew in his breath, his mustache twitching nervously. For a 
second, he wondered who was the virgin . . . Carrie or him! 

Inexperienced Carrie sucked in her breath in relief at the sight of her 
pajama clad husband whom she'd feared might be waiting in the nude for her, 
stretched out on the huge bed like a Playgirl centerfold . . . his big thing 
pointing up to the ceiling flagpole-like. Nevertheless, she timidly avoided 
his ardent gaze that seemed to probe into her mind, demanding an 
explanation. 

"My darling, can I get you a drink?" Edward's blue eyes sparkled with 
anticipation. "I had a bottle of fine champagne chilled waiting in the 
refrigerator. May I?" 

Keeping her long-lashed hazel eyes glued to a painting hanging above the 
bed, she nodded, forgetting her distrust of mind-numbing alcohol and the 
deleterious affects it had on her father's psyche. Had Carrie followed her 
self-preserving instincts, she would have followed her husband into the 
kitchen, but the thought didn't occur to her fevered mind until he returned 
with a glass of bubbling liquid in his hand. Edward gestured toward the bed 
and Carrie sat down next to him. He made no attempt to grab at her half 
naked body and, as the calming alcohol mixed with her fevered blood, she 
felt a wave of relaxation waft over her. She even managed to laugh at 
Edward's diatribe against Berkely radicals and left-wing professors. 

Three times he'd sauntered off in his slippered feet for the kitchen to 
refill her glass, and on the fourth go-round he came back with the bottle in 
an ice bucket. Maybe, she reflected as the champagne gurgled out of the 
bottle and into her glass, Edward just wants companionship instead of a 
bedmate.. . somebody to mate his socks and tag along to boorish professors 
parties and discuss the Regents' policies. That fallacious rationalization 
boomeranged when she caught his burning sidelong glance crawling up her 
silken calf to where her nightgown gaped open to reveal the creamy flesh of 
her inner thigh. 

Edward reacted like a mouse caught biting at the cheese in the trap. He 
lunged toward her and planted his mouth firmly against her rosebud pink 
lips. Disregarding her shocked gasp and the quivering resistance of her 
tautly compressed lips, he tried to snake his hungry tongue in between her 
lips. 

Dread, scorching as a burning torch, raced through Carrie's body, firing her 
with adrenaline-inspired courage. "Ed-Edward! What are you trying to do," 
she choked in an angry tone as, with unexpected force, she raised her knees 
in a natal position and springing them, pushed him away. 

Edward's salt and pepper mustache twitched with treachery and his eyes 
narrowed to two blue slits. What the hell. . . didn't he have a right to 
kiss his own wife? What he thought and what he said took divergent paths as 
he said: "Darling, you have such succulent lips I couldn't help wanting to 
kiss them." 

Something tight in her husband's voice frightened Carrie. Not only did he 
look like a stranger, but he sounded like a stranger and his normally gentle 
eyes flashed with firecracker sparks of bestial lechery. Somehow the 
intellectual man at the podium had transformed into a Marquis de Sade of the 
bedroom! God, why did I get married? her spinning brain wailed, as with a 
lewd groan, the six foot male grabbed her roughly and pressed her slender 
body beneath his black silk frame, pinning her to the mattress. 

"No . . . no . . . noooo . . . please NOOOOOOO!" she whimpered, her mind 
still echoing with her mother's voice through the bedroom wall. "I. . . I'm 
not ready for this! Oh, please . . . don't scare me . . . don't hit me!" 

Edward panted with confusion. Hit her? Did she have a loose screw in that 
Vassar brain . . . if so, it wasn't from too much screwing . . . that was 
obvious. He spoke to her like a teacher instructing a pupil. "There's 
nothing to be afraid of, Carrie. Besides, we're married. Remember this 
morning in your parents house in Boston . . . Do you remember vowing to love 
me?" 

His forehead wrinkled with impassioned anguish before he took another lunge 
to silence her protests. His mustache tickled her nose as he clamped his 
wetly heated mouth against her naked one. Catching her in a moan, he 
succeeded in snaking his long, rough-velvet tongue deep between her cringing 
cheeks and the timid virgin shivered in disgust as he teased at her teeth 
and the sensitive walls of her mouth. 

Making love to a reluctant virgin was not Dr. Tarrington's forte. His first 
marriage, which had lasted all of four months, had been to a well-bred slut 
in Durban; his father had it annulled and wiped out all record of his son's 
plummeting morality. In the ensuing twenty years, he'd devoted his talents 
and energies toward scholasticism and ivory-towered academia which left him 
no time for hanky-panky . . . except for an occasional discreet call girl. 
Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the delicious task of 
arousing a terrified twenty-two year old virgin. 

Nothing like the direct approach, he mused, steeling his stomach muscles 
himself for another knee in the gut as he took the heaving mounds of her 
round, cantaloupe sized breasts in his hands and squeezed the warm pliant 
flesh until it oozed out between his fingers like bread dough. She'll like 
it in a second, he rationalized, his own grunts blocking out her whimpers. 
They all love it. . . 

Even though the heater was blasting out clouds of warm air, Carrie's five 
foot six body froze in icy dread as her impatient husband kneaded her 
sensitive breasts and ground his hips against her quivering upper thighs, 
wedged open by his grinding pelvis from which the bloated rod of his 
thrashing penis dampened her nightgown protected flesh with the first pearl 
of semen oozing from its single eye. Carrie felt the champagne bubble in her 
stomach and for a second she feared she might be sick. 

To heck with marital duties and gentle affection! Wrenching her lithe loins 
out from under his squirming body, she clawed at the bedspread trying to 
gain leverage to scramble off the bed. The champagne had dulled more than 
her mind . . . it had dulled her reflexes and with a shrill wail of despair, 
her knees crumpled under her and she collapsed like a rag doll on the 
thick-pile carpet. On her hands and knees, she darted with frightened mouse 
speed toward the bathroom, but muscular arms grasped her around her slim 
waist and dragged her squealing, writhing body back up onto the bed, inching 
her knee-length lace nightie up above her full flaring hips in the foray. 
Carrie's feline green eyes faded with fright as she gaped horrified down at 
the shamefully immodest sight of her exposed thighs and white nylon panties. 
She screamed with fear and outrage as Edward, the suave professor, yanked 
the nightie all the way up over the jewel of her navel.. . up over the 
strawberry tipped mounds of her breasts. 

"Ohhhh . . . ohhhh! You beast!" she shuddered, her stomach goose bumping 
with humiliation as his twitching mustache tickled her belly while his 
tongue darted into the dimple of her navel. 

Her whimpers fell on deaf ears, for the frustrated bridegroom grappled at 
her silken skinned bosom, his snaking penis squirming in the open fly of his 
pajamas. Marriage vows, hopes and dreams for the future, decorous propriety 
were all water under the bridge as the floodgates of his passion burst and 
swept him along in the age-old tide of male lust. 

"Beautiful. . . perfect. . . lovely . . . " he groaned in lecherous ecstasy 
as though he were staring at a naked centerfold. "You've got a perfectly 
proportioned body," he said matter-of-factly. 

So he's really a dirty old man at heart! Carrie's mind spun dizzyingly. He 
dreams about his students being naked! Why. . . oh. God, why did I marry 
him? 

There was no time for psychoanalysis as the well-built professor wedged his 
thighs between her fear paralyzed legs and his manicured hands dragged her 
demure white nightgown over her tousled dark hair giving it an unceremonious 
yank that tore it from her quivering body. Ignoring the tiny shivers of 
unwanted excitement that shot from her titillated nipples to every nerve 
ending in her subjugated body, the fearful virgin let out a plaintive wail. 

"NOOOOOOOOOO . . . NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" 

The young woman's screams reverberated through the pitched ceiling bedroom 
in an eerie, unholy way, but Edward Tarrington paid no heed. He was busy 
stripping off his black silk pajama bottoms with his left hand while the 
right one remained glued to his wife's heaving breasts, and the blood was 
pounding in his ears as it rushed through his brain to circuit through his 
heart and charge on down to his loins to bloat his engorged penis another 
lustful inch. 

For two years I mamby-pambied around talking about Anglo-Boer Wars and 
Soweto uprisings . . . and I was a perfect gentleman. I don't want a 
student. I want a wife! He exalted as he fastened his mouth on the tiny pink 
button of his bride's spiking breast. I gave her A's and plumped up her ego 
. . . and now it's time to pump her full of something else! 

Edward Tarrington III was far from the violent type, but had he seen himself 
he wouldn't have recognized that mild mannered man who paid his parking 
tickets, contributed to charities and helped ailing people open heavy doors. 
Yet, now, as his hands and hungrily salivating lips squeezed and licked and 
sucked at Carrie's every ripe young curve as though she were a ripe pear to 
be nibbled from its core, he would have been truly shocked. Not only was he 
scaring her, he was hurting her. 

Deluding himself into believing that Carrie's panic-stricken whimpers were 
purrs of delight, and that her frantic thrashing and squirming under his 
weighty body were expressions of her insatiable desire for his penis, Edward 
eased himself into position where his blood-throbbing thickness was poised 
spear-like above his curvaceous naked bride's sparsely curled femininity. A 
prideful spasm shot through him as he leered down at his manish blood 
infested cock. He'd never seen his penis this big before! Certainly little 
Carrie would be pleased . . . 

Pleasure was the furthest thing from the Irish bride's mind as she, too, 
stared with glazed eyes at the thick veined hunk of male flesh wagging 
before her eyes in an obscene hello. Fleetingly, she wondered if her 
father's penis was that big and if so . . . no wonder her mother cried in 
pain. Her terror tripled. 

Oh God, I don 't want that ugly thing inside of me! It won't fit! Nothing 
fits up there! 

The middle-aged professor guessed wrong again when he mistook his wide-eyed 
bride's open-mouthed gape as an expression of admiration for his engorged 
manhood. Despite his advancing years and dignified position, he felt 
fantastically wild and virile as a young African savage ravishing his first 
maiden, and his thick rigid cock grew even longer and harder as he feasted 
his sex starved eyes on the tantalizing, curl fringed slit up between his 
wife's whipped cream thighs. When she moaned and writhed beneath him, he 
caught a fleeting glimpse of the delicately pouting coral-pink cuntal lips. 

"Please, Edward. Pleeez!" 

But the professor pressed on . . . until she grabbed him by the hair and 
yanked hard, bringing his well-bred senses back to life. He paused while her 
fingers slipped from his silky gray hair and his wildly throbbing cock 
poised so it just grazed the silken strands of her pubic hair. Edward 
blinked and swallowed his anger. 

Again he sounded like the professor: "Don't be scared, darling. It'll only 
hurt a little at first and when you see how good it feels you'll love it! . 
. . you'll learn to love it!" he put it in a cruel aside, clenching his 
teeth. 

Carrie stared up at the perspiration-beaded male face hovering close enough 
to her own. He was blinking rather stupidly, she thought, and his harsh 
breathing reminded her of horses she used to ride as a girl. Disregarding 
his athletic physique, she shuddered at the vulgar coating of sweat which 
glistened over his bulging muscles. Squinting with pain and hatred, she let 
her eyes rest on the disgusting, squirming sight of his baseball bat cock 
poking up between his thighs. 

"NOOOO!" she let out an involuntary shriek that threatened to shatter the 
crystal champagne glass on the bed table. "Don't you dare touch me with that 
thing!" she spat up at him. 

The last thing the professor wanted was to rape his wife. What if she 
humiliated him by demanding an annulment? Wouldn't her senator father make 
him pay for that! Or insisted on one of those barren marriages where the 
couple had separate bedrooms? Both possibilities were horrifying, and Edward 
moved a token inch away from his naked bride. 

"Carrie, darling, you're being irrational." The words fell rather stiffly 
from his parched lips. From the way his wife stared at his proud erection as 
though it were s snake in a zoo cage, it was making him feel most 
unconfident in his husbandly role. 

"It's normal for married people to express their mutual affection 
through-harumph-sexual intercourse. Of course I don't want to hurt you.. . 
but we have to do it sometime." 

The growing lump in Carrie's throat seemed to melt at these words. Now this 
was the Edward she knew and trusted.. . not the grunting animal who'd ripped 
off her nightie minutes before. If that ugly penis hadn't been wagging at 
her, she might have believed him. 

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered. "I-I don't know how to be a wife . . . that's 
all.. . " She sniffed. "Maybe in a couple of days . . . " 

A couple of days! Edward's mind shouted in frustration. Hell, I'll have to 
lock myself in the bathroom and shoot it against the wall by then! 

"I can't wait, darling," he gasped as the sperm churned into smooth butter 
in his fuzzy testicles. Almost unconsciously, he began massaging his purple 
knobbed penis, pushing the rubbery foreskin back to reveal the Cyclops-like 
eye from which the fluids oozed in pearly drops. "I need you now, darling." 

Recoiled from the renewed tone of brutality in her husband's voice, Carrie 
involuntarily clamped her thighs together to shut out the menacing male 
weapon that hovered a scant inch above her fearfully cringing vagina. At the 
same instant Edward's long pent-up lust grew too urgent to contain a second 
longer and he jerked his hips back down toward the enticing rose pink cuntal 
slit half hidden beneath her foresting pubic curls. 

"Ohhhhh!" yelped the shocked wife as her naked upper legs trapped the blood 
engorged cock shaft making it throb between her clenching muscles. To her 
amazement, the penis felt warm and smooth, instead of cold and slimy, as 
she'd expected. 

Carrie's high-pitched exclamation was drowned out by a frenzied groan from 
Edward. The massaging quivering of her inner thighs squeezing at his turgid 
cock set the sperm churning wildly in his lust bloated balls, and there 
wasn't a thing he could do about it. It gushed out hose-like, squirting over 
Carrie's creamy belly to run down the crevice of her buttocks. 

"OH, SHIT!" he bellowed in impotent fury as his pent-up semen gushed in 
thick white jets. "NNNN-OOO!" 

He was ejaculating before he'd even deflowered his virgin bride, cumming all 
over her naked loins like some dumb thirteen year old kid! Furious shame 
intermingled with the ecstatic sensation of physical relief, and he cursed 
in incoherent frenzy as his spasming penis splashed its fiery load over 
Carrie's fear-stiffened body. Finally, totally spent both emotionally and 
physically, he collapsed like a limp sack of potatoes upon the virgin's 
cringing figure, nearly knocking the wind out of her as he fell. 

For a few panicky moments Carrie lay unmoving beneath his panting body, her 
brain reeling dizzily and her flesh crawling as the sticky fingers of sperm 
dried on her pure unsullied flesh. Too shocked to move, too bewildered to 
weep, she lay there staring up at the ceiling while the sperm trickled in 
lewd running streams down onto her burning cunt lips where it cooled and 
dried. 

At last, when Edward's harsh breathing had evolved into deep snores, she 
slid out from under him and headed directly for the bathroom. In the full 
length mirror she caught a naked glance at her reflection and hastily filled 
the tub. Sperm had dried in disgusting white rivulets; her dark pubic curls 
were matted with the sticky cum and there was a bruise on her left breast 
which would be an ugly black-and-blue souvenir by tomorrow morning. 

Feeling as if a million lustful bugs were crawling over her demeaned body, 
she lowered her aching frame into the warm tub and scrubbed furiously at her 
sperm-splattered flesh until her stomach and legs were red from abrasion. 

But she still had her virginity! 

Carrie almost smiled until she realized that Edward would still be naked and 
maybe he'd want to violate her in the middle of the night, catching her off 
guard while she slept.. . 

At last, when the tub water turned icy, the shivering brunette climbed out 
of the tub, dug another nightgown out of her suitcase and tiptoed into the 
master bedroom. She snapped off the overhead light, and turned on the 
bedside lamp, deciding to leave it on all night, should Edward decide to 
repeat his disgusting performance. Edward snored on top of the covers, 
sprawled out with his limp balloon maledom half hidden between his hard 
muscled thighs. 

Carrie was about to yank down the covers and slip into bed when she paused, 
a quizzically curious expression wrinkling her satin forehead and she stared 
unblinking for several seconds at his harmless deflated penis as one would a 
sleeping snake in a glass cage, waiting for the first perceptible movement 
before jumping back in fright. 

Hunkering down and bending her knees, she examined it from every possible 
visible angle, biting her lips nervously as she took in the wrinkled, 
rubbery flesh with the pinhole slit in the middle. Daintily, her fingers 
loosened their hold on the blanket, letting it flutter from her hand, and 
slowly she pointed her index finger at the withered flesh and a scant 
quarter inch away from contact. Then, rebuking herself for that rash impulse 
to touch Edward's penis, she quickly crawled under the covers and tried to 
think of anything but nasty sex to fall asleep. 

Counting all the sheep in Australia wasn't enough to distract her from 
thinking about tonight's torrid ugliness . . . and not enough to ignore the 
presence of the wheezing male body occupying her bed. 

Before drifting off into a restless, nightmare-sprinkled sleep another 
horrible thought pierced her numbed mind: 

What about tomorrow? What about when we go to bed mid he takes off his 
pajamas and that ugly thing is all big and hard again? What then? 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Una Hart sat in the Berkeley campus Political Science Building thumbing 
through a pile of lectures, notebooks, and useless memorabilia that littered 
Dr. Tarrington's corner office. Usually she wore a pair of faded khaki army 
pants and a work shirt, but now that Dr. Tarrington was back on campus she 
was back in costume in her tight-fitting calf-length skirt and frilly 
blouse. The skirt's waistband was too tight and the long-sleeved blouse made 
her feel as if she was wearing a straight jacket . . . to say nothing about 
the stylish platform shoes paining her ankles. But she'd sworn her loyalty 
to Jackson's cause, and if it meant dressing like a woman, she'd suffer 
through it until the deed was accomplished. But that didn't mean she had to 
wear a damned bra! 

"Nice to be back in Berkeley," said Dr. Tarrington from his desk where he 
slipped his glasses down his aquiline nose and stared over the 
tortoise-shell rims at his sexy research assistant. "Something about the 
West Coast intrigues me. Say . . . " he started, pulling off his glasses and 
staring at Una who sat nibbling daintily on a ballpoint pen as if she might 
be playing with a man's cock. "Was there a riot down on Telegraph Avenue 
last night?" 

Her sultry dark eyes had a faraway look in them when she lifted her head up 
from the files. "No, I don't think so. There hasn't been anything political 
happening in Berkeley since they shot up and burned out that bunch of 
kidnappers in L.A." Her long dark eyelashes fluttered over her cheekbones 
and, with the light shining from the back of him onto the sheer cotton of 
her lace-trimmed blouse, Edward could make out the puffy outline of her 
tawny nipples. 

The professor dropped the subject, pushed his jutting erection down with the 
heel of his hand beneath the desk, slipped his glasses back on and struggled 
to concentrate on his South African History 101 course outline. After his 
humiliating wedding night fiasco, it had been a relief to leave the house 
and come here to the ivory towered mental security of his office which had 
been left vacated in his absence. And to see Una! Lord, why hadn't he 
married her? 

He knew why. Something mysterious about her . . . a haughty aloofness, a 
surreptitious quality that made him feel obliged to apologize when 
accidentally he bumped into her or brushed elbows. Unlike most of the 
Berkeley intellectuals, she dressed like a woman . . . no overalls and work 
shirts for her! One hundred percent woman was she, with her curly baby 
blonde hair and round brown eyes. And she was brilliant. For the three years 
of his on-and-off visiting professorship, she'd served him well. Beauty and 
loyalty and brains-what more could he want in a research assistant? 

Pushing his doubts and worries about Carrie to the deepest, darkest corner 
of his mind, the suave professor scratched down notes on a yellow legal pad, 
sneaking fervent glances over the rim of his bifocals at the ripe young 
mounds of Una's tight buttocks waggling in front of him as she alphabetized 
a stack of papers. When she pulled open the filing cabinet drawer, the light 
caught the profile of her nipples tenting out through the blouse she wore. 

Carrie would never dress so audaciously . . . he mused. But then, he 
probably wouldn't have married if she had. Still, there was nothing wrong 
with taking a peek at what other women had to offer. 

Subconsciously, the distraught professor had resigned himself to a cold 
marriage, separate bedrooms and psychiatric bills to figure out why Carrie 
was so petrified of that thing, as she called it, between his legs. 

When the Carrillon Towers chimed noon, Una set aside her work, bade goodbye 
to the professor and sashayed out the door letting Edward get a healthy peek 
of her silken thigh that peered out from the slit that ran up the side of 
her 1930's gabardine skirt. The garment clung to her well-rounded body with 
the tenacity of wet jersey, so tight he could see the crevice between the 
half-moons of her succulent ass-cheeks. He made a mental note of asking her 
to discuss with him a proposed lecture series after work some evening.. 
.over a cool glass of wine...? 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

"You're late! I told you the meeting was set for five-thirty," railed 
Jackson, shooting his sometimes lover a baleful look as he sank into a 
tattered overstuffed chair with marijuana holes burned in the threadbare 
arms. 

"What are you bitching about?" charged Una angrily, tearing at the tiny 
pearl buttons of her blouse as she stomped through the littered living room 
of Jackson's Berkeley hovel and collapsed wearily down on an Indian 
bedspread covered mattress matted with dog hair. "You don't have to get up 
for work every morning at eight o'clock and have some impotent old bastard 
stare at your ass all day!" She kicked off her platform shoes and yanked the 
lace-trimmed blouse down over her satiny arms and her full, milky bosom. 
Breasts bouncing like water filled balloons, she jumped up from the 
mattress, unhooked her skirt at the waistband and stepped out of it, her 
lush body deliciously naked except for a pair of bikini panties that clung 
to the crevice of her ass as she stormed toward the bedroom. 

Jackson didn't bother to look up. He sat slumped in the chair, beer can in 
one hand while the other black paw pushed back into place the multi-colored 
crocheted hat that lopped over his black forest of kinky pubic-like hair 
that sprung from his head. 

When she returned, the attractive blonde research assistant wore a pair of 
faded out men's overalls rolled up to her slim mid-calves, her half-dollar 
sized nipples peeking out from the sides of the bib, one size too small for 
modesty. With a tired sigh she collapsed back down on the mattress and 
rubbed her aching feet, her nipples winking out at the black leader like the 
eyes of a prostitute hanging on a lamp post. 

"When is this scene gonna come together so I can quit working for that dumb 
bastard?" she snapped. "For three years I've been digging through his 
lectures, his letters and anything I can get my hands on, and I can't find 
anything to prove he's working with the CIA to keep South Africa under white 
rule. 

But no . . . " she gestured disgustedly, throwing up her hands. "You guys 
just fart around all day and get loaded and talk. TALK! You never do 
anything meaningful." Her dark moonish eyes fell on an ashtray brimming with 
matches and marijuana butts. 

"Farting around? Who's farting around?" bellowed Jackson, sitting up 
straight in his chair, his panther-like body ready to spring, his long black 
fingers digging into the chair arm. Muttering to himself, he jumped up and 
began rummaging through a suitcase he'd pulled out from under the sagging 
sofa while the blonde stared at him in expectation. From this angle, she 
could see one side of his thin, chiseled face-the side with the faint scar 
running along its proud African cheekbone. Una's breath quickened as she 
examined the South African Liberation Movement leader's ruthless expression, 
for that scar-which he told he'd acquired in a knife fight during a Black 
versus Chicano uprising in San Quentin prison-always triggered a tremor of 
sexual arousal in her. 

Truth be known, the radical leader had sported that scar since the age of 
twelve when he'd got into a knife fight with a white boy standing in a 
school lunch line in East Oakland. But Jackson had always wanted to be 
somebody important, somebody brave, and he brandished that scar like a 
purple heart. 

"Hey!" Jackson yelled at the two brothers out in the kitchen satisfying 
their marijuana munchies with a peanut butter sandwich. They stumbled 
through the door, their glassy eyes suddenly alert at the sight of the 
shining weapons. Until now, they'd not taken Jackson seriously about wanting 
to start a movement to free black South Africa from white rule and 
apartheid-a imagine name some politician had made up for separateness. But 
being college drop outs this was better than working and more exciting than 
competing to stay in school. 

Both James and Carl were white, and sometimes they felt they were fighting 
on the wrong side of the fence, but what the hell? The Black Panthers had 
turned into a bunch of pussy cats, Huey made a fortune off his ghetto rap, 
and the 1960's white radicals had all copped out to religion and straight 
politics. Now the brothers were excited at the sight of those guns-the first 
real weapons the SALM had acquired. 

"We gotta make a move to get ourselves recognized, man, and that's what 
these are for!" Jackson enthused, stroking the pistol barrels reverently. 
His black beady eyes shot sparks of triumphant anticipation. "We're gonna 
let people know who we are. Down with repression and up with arms embargos!" 
He brandished a pistol above his head and struck a pose that brought a 
disgusted snicker from Una who thought it corny, reminiscent of radical 
posters she'd seen in Berkeley bookstores. 

They were all squatting down on the floor pawing over the weapons when there 
sounded a loud knock on the door. Jackson's lean black body stiffened and he 
hastily snapped the suitcase shut and shoved it back under the cat-scratched 
sofa. 

"Who the hell's that? We're all here." 

Una's blank face stared back at him, and then James shook his blonde hair 
from his eyes. "Must be that dude we met over at the Mediterranean Cafe 
today, huh, Carl?" 

"Oh, yeah," agreed Carl, talking with his mouth full. "That guy." 

"What guy? Who the hell you idiots been talking to?" Jackson's voice was 
cold with fury and the biceps under his red fish net T-shirt bulged with 
anger. "How you think we're gonna do in the professor if you two guys are 
too stupid to keep your mouths shut!" 

James looked abashed and stared down at the floor in silence. From the 
sheepish expression in his marijuana clouded eyes, the leader correctly 
deduced that the two younger men had been jactating about their political 
affiliations. 

"Who the hell is he?" he demanded, working his square jaw in anger, and the 
knocking once again rattled the front door. 

"Far out dude, Jackson." James sounded defensive. "Give us a little credit, 
huh? He's from Harvard. . . been in Columbia in the middle '60s.. . from 
there he went to Ann Arbor and got some shit together there.. . Madison, 
Wisconsin . . . he's been all over man. I tell you he knows the action." 

"You're so goddamned dumb!" burst Jackson, but his expression softened. His 
ghetto education and prison sentence had taught him how to use knives and 
guns, but when it came to the fine points of strategy and communiques and 
anything that demanded education, he couldn't fight his way out of a paper 
bag. 

"Okay, let the guy in . . . but no blabbing until I give the signal and 
offer him a beer." 

The front door rocked on its hinges, and James rose from the floor, his 
lanky figure unfolding. The other three sat in hushed silence as the youth 
padded down the hall to admit the stranger, their ears cocked attentively, 
their guns hidden from sight. Only when the tall, bushy haired, well-muscled 
man strode into the room with a grin on his intent looking face did they 
relax somewhat. 

"Hi! Tried to make it on time, but I got kinda hung-up," the newcomer 
exclaimed in his Eastern accent. "How you guys been?" He nodded to James and 
Carl as if they were blood brothers. Then, turning toward Una and Jackson, 
he announced, "I'm Peter . . . Peter Goldberg." 

Jackson sat sipping his beer, his dark brooding eyes appraising every 
muscle, every inflection in the newcomer's voice. From his street education, 
he could tell this man could handle himself physically and he seemed very 
intelligent and sprinkled his conversation with enough names and places to 
convince the leader that here was a man who knew the circuit. His dress was 
right, too: faded work shirt, dirty levis, scuffed addidas and a 
hand-crafted belt. Confidence and personality exuded from his being, as did 
quotes from Marx, Mao, and Castro. 

Una, sitting in a half-lotus position on the dirty mattress, was equally 
taken by the stranger. This guy's got to be dynamite in bed. Squirming 
against the mattress as her ever-eager vagina began to swell and throb, she 
thought And I'm gonna find out! 

"Hey, man . . . you like a beer?" Jackson asked in an aggressive tone. 

* * * 

The five of them bantered ideas back and forth about the South African 
history professor suspected of linking arms with the CIA to keep dark, black 
Africa repressed. The room sparked with excitement and a new enthusiasm 
spirited them; James even sketched a black flag with a profoundly 
meaningless circle in the middle to use as the SALM's logo. Somebody got out 
a pencil and scratched down ideas for a communique to be sent to a local 
radio station. 

Only Una remained unconvinced that kidnapping and/or killing Dr. Tarrington 
was the most efficient means of exposing suspected CIA affiliates on campus. 
"If we outright kill him it's going to turn people off . . . but if we open 
up to the media the issue of suspected CIA involvement, we'll get more 
favorable attention and support. Remember, we're not a bunch of murderers . 
. . we're here to change things for the better." 

Jackson struggled to comprehend, scratching his head beneath his lopsided 
hat. Just when they'd worked out a feasible sequence of events, Una had to 
get intellectual. 

"So.. . we take his wife hostage!" Una continued, her eyes sparkling with 
the idea of committing such an audacious crime. "We can ransom her off and 
use the money in case we have to go underground . . . we'll need guns and 
cars and money to stay in motels and to rent apartments every few weeks and 
all that shit. Tarrington's loaded, and his wife is a senator's daughter so 
she's got bread and clout.. . " 

Jackson bristled with attention. Go underground, staying in motels, buying 
cars.. . f He'd never considered that angle of radicalism before, but it 
sounded more enticing than hanging around Berkeley and Oakland forever. 

Peter took a thoughtful sip of his beer, feeling a traitorous ripple of 
guilt squirm in his belly. Three years ago he'd have committed suicide in 
the library mall on campus rather than become a turncoat and work for the 
FBI. Damn, it was either this or rotting in jail after his bust on 
conspiracy charges to blow up Harvard's administration building. At least he 
was still working with like-minded people and he could talk about Marxism, 
the Venceremos League and wear levis and work shirts. It's just a job. . . 

"I see . . . give the bastard time to squirm his dirty hand into his bank 
account and pay for his sins against the people! What a brilliant coup!" 

Una's buttocks squirmed into the mattress and she wiggled excitedly, making 
her naked breasts bounce with anarchistic joy. Here was a man with brains 
and a cock to match-both big! 

Glowering malevolently, Jackson didn't quite understand all the words and 
ideas floating around, but he did understand Una's interest in the handsome 
East Coast radical. Instead of admitting to his feelings of jealousy, he 
became suspicious of the black haired radical. 

From that moment on, Una had become uncomfortably aware that the black 
leader wanted her to linger behind the others and stay overnight, ruining 
her chances for a private tete a tete with the Jewish college boy. Much to 
her relief, Jackson cornered her on a trip back from the bathroom and told 
her he wanted a little checking up done on the newcomer to make sure he 
wasn't connected with the FBI. The voluptuous blonde research assistant 
agreed instantly, trying to hide her glee at having Peter Goldberg to 
herself. 

"I think he's legit," said Una confidently in a throaty whisper. "He seems 
to know what he's talking about . . . how to handle sabotage and communiques 
and all that shit." 

"Maybe so," agreed Jackson. "But you know that Berkeley's got more agents 
and spies than dog shit. Who the hell knows what kinda guy would walk up to 
Carl and James and say he wants to get into heavy politics." 

Una's blonde curls swept over her shoulder as she nodded her head. "You let 
me take care of it. . . " 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

As she'd hoped, Peter Goldberg was in no rush to get back to his apartment 
and he quickly stepped in stride with her long legged pace. "Berkeley isn't 
the healthiest place for a woman to be walking around alone at night," he 
said in his Eastern mumble. "Which way you headed?" 

"Back to my place." I knew it! she rejoiced, quivering fingers of excitement 
jolting out to every nerve-ending in her sensuous young body. He wants me.. 
. as bad as I want him. "It's on the other side of Telegraph . . . but don't 
worry about me, I've got a brown belt to my credit." 

"Seems you have a lot to your credit," put in Peter, staring down at the 
brown nubs of her naked breasts bobbing under the lightweight faded work 
shirt she'd slipped into to protect her against the chill night fog 
fingering off the Bay waters to hide Berkeley in a bed of mist. 

"Why, Peter, how flattering of you," she said, fluttering her dark eye 
lashes in a way that most men found sexually appealing. 

It was around ten o'clock on an October Monday night and Telegraph Avenue 
was relatively silent, save for an occasional drunk heaving into trash cans 
and a few scraggly looking street people carousing, panhandling, and 
unrolling blankets from much traveled back packs. 

"Right this way," pointed Una. "I've got some good wine and some really fine 
health food bread . . . and my place is cleaner, too . . . and private!" 

Peter's lips twisted into a smile. So far, so good, he told himself. SALM's 
accepted you and Una's ah' but propositioning you. Keep cool and it'll be 
cool. 

Then, shoving those thoughts from his conscious mind, he resumed his former 
blank amiability. It was not difficult for him to throw himself into the 
role he was playing.. . but letting his emotions leak through his traitorous 
mask was difficult, very difficult to keep undercover when his job required 
digging into the psyche of a gorgeous woman like Una! 

Una's apartment was a one room studio with attached kitchenette and a small 
bathroom consisting of a shower stall and John. 

"I've lived here for four years," the curvaceous blonde explained as she 
rummaged through the refrigerator for a wedge of cheese and two green apples 
which she sliced and arranged on a breadboard. "It's cheap and the land lord 
doesn't hassle me about people staying over night." 

Peter nodded in agreement. Under Una's top layer of radicalism simmered a 
very sensual woman-judging from the intimate touches scattered about the 
apartment. Dainty Chinese tea cups, antique lace doilies and a satin 
bedspread. Sprinkled over the room in schizophrenic disarray were posters of 
Mao, Lenin and Communist literature still in their brown postage-marked 
envelopes. 

"Yes, it is nice here . . . feels really safe." 

"I'm glad." Una edged closer to where he sat perched rather clumsily on the 
end of the huge bed-really, there was no other place to sit in the tiny 
room. Una's musky perfume mingled with the sultry scent of incense to create 
a mood of intense eroticism, and her low, soft-spoken voice soothed his ears 
as the wine warmed his blood. 

Even if the female revolutionary had been fat, acne-scarred, and 
buck-toothed, his job would have been to seduce her in order to gain 
additional information about SALM and its intentions. What an act of God 
that she turned out to be a young, beautiful, amorous woman . . . with 
brains! 

Peter Goldberg had known lots of girls in his thirty-three years, and most 
of them had been liberated in the sense that they cohabitated with men and 
took 'the pill'. Most that is, except for that uptight Vassar girl who 
couldn't be loosened up with a ten-inch screwdriver. One of the things he'd 
learned over the years of his political activity and his short-lived 
underground career which ended in conspiracy charges, was that there was a 
certain type of female who turned up in radical groups of every persuasion . 
. . girls who got their kicks from violence and/or power. They were strong 
willed, often brilliant girls, often possessing a feline sexuality which 
made them magnetically attractive, but untrustworthy and deceptive. Una, he 
judged, was one such woman. 

Fleetingly, he wondered what she looked like dressed in a skirt or dress, 
instead of those damnable overalls. As he sipped his wine, the secret agent 
thoughtfully appraised the sensually enticing woman beside him. Blonde hair 
and brown eyes didn't seem the right combination of features for a radical, 
he mused, thinking now that he'd never trusted a blonde . . . ever. Blondes 
always seemed deceptive and too giggly. 

Peter shifted his legs as he accepted a second glass of wine, feeling his 
long thick cock stiffening in automatic response to the girl's sexual 
stimulation. Overalls were not what one would call a sexy outfit, but the 
way they hugged Una's ass, clutching at her taut moons, he wondered if she 
was as good in bed as the mouthwatering packaging promised. He read in her 
dark, oval eyes the blatant message that she was thinking exactly his 
thoughts. 

"Feel like some apple and cheese?" Una asked softly, holding up the 
breadboard with a modishly manicured hand. 

For a second, Peter stared at her sleek, dagger-like finger-nails, blood 
thudding faster than ever in his veins. "Yeah, I'm hungry all, right but not 
for that!" he replied, then suddenly pulled her against him and crushed his 
mouth against hers. 

The heady scent of her musky oil-perfume and her soft, naturally rouged lips 
excited the undercover agent more than ever, and he quickly slipped his 
tongue into the warm, smooth-walled cavern of her yielding mouth. For a 
moment she relaxed against him, but when he groped down to grasp the 
melon-round mounds of her breasts, she jerked away from him. 

"What kind of girl do you take me for?" she demanded, rather ridiculously, 
considering her obvious seduction of the attractive newcomer to SALM. "I'm 
not one of those weak kneed females who play kissy face and back off. Take 
me like a man . . . rape me?' i 

Aha! So that's her trick! realized Peter. She a ants to be raped! He'd met 
girls her type before they were rather common among liberated female members 
of terrorist gangs and other fringe elements of society. Well, if she got 
her kicks by being humiliated and dominated, fine with him. What the hell.. 
. ? a little kinkiness now and then never hurt anybody. 

"If that's what you want, baby, then let me oblige!" Peter felt his features 
twisting into a feigned snarl as he warmed up his libido for an assault on 
this woman's twisted psyche. 

As he lunged toward her, she began spitting and scratching at him with her 
long nails. Una was a strong, healthy young woman, but she was no match for 
the athletic agent; in minutes he'd pinned her down on the big bed by 
grabbing fistfuls of her silky golden hair and slapping her first on one 
cheek and then on the other. Then, still holding down her struggling head, 
he pinned her flailing arm behind her back. 

"You animal!" she hissed, tears flooding into her almond-shaped eyes as 
Peter twisted her wrists painfully. "Stop it! You're breaking my arm, you 
bastard! You dirty rotten fucking sonofabitch!" she screamed. 

A faint smile flickered over Peter's lips as the girl's hand clawed at him, 
trying to inflict pain. He felt certain that she was loving being ravished 
by someone whom she identified with James Bond . . . or a secret 
international agent. This was a new role for him! Then, as he stared at the 
heaving mounds of her melonous breasts, he fell into the spirit like a five 
year old on Christmas morning, and the fleeting grin tightened into a cruel 
grimace. 

"You give in?" he sneered. "Or do I have to slap some more sense into that 
head?" Just for good measure, he applied another stinging blow to her 
crimson cheeks and her eyes flashed with a raw mixture of lust and anger, 
sparking with a neurotic masochism such as he'd never seen. 

"You fucking bastard. You loose-assed idiot! Okay! I'll do what you want." 

"All right, bitch!" Peter released his hold on her slender wrists. "Whatever 
I say, right? First, get out of those goddamned overalls and prove you're a 
woman!" 

The girl's big dark eyes stared at him through a film of tears and 
masochistic passion, but she didn't move. 

"I said get naked!" Peter snapped. "And I mean it, you cheap slut!" 

Grabbing her shoulder length hair again, he yanked her off the bed onto her 
feet. Then, quick as lightning, he pulled his hand crafted leather belt out 
of its hoops and flicked it in front of Una's face. 

"You hear what I said?" he threatened, falling into the role with flamed 
bravado. 

The glimmer of fear in the female radical's expressive brown eyes sparked 
Peter's latent streak of sadism into full flame. Finally he was making up 
for snippy nosed little rich Vassar brats like that 

Carrie what-was-her-name who let you play around . . . to a point and then 
cut you off like a whap of a meat cleaver. While Una slowly unhooked the 
suspenders of her overalls, pulling the loosened bib down over her naked 
breasts, he swished the belt menacingly in front of her face. With his free 
hand, he tore open his fly and pulled out his erect hardness so that he 
could massage its painfully throbbing head as he feasted his eyes on the 
lush splendor of Una's voluptuous figure. 

Consciously, Peter couldn't admit it, but this experience was worth the 
crumby conspiracy charge that landed him on the wrong side of Marx, Engels, 
and Una! 

Since the girl wore no panties, her sparsely curling blond-pubic hairs came 
into view the instant her lithe legs stepped out of the crisp denim of her 
overalls. Peter caught his breath as she bent submissively to pick up her 
discarded garment like as if she were a little girl being chided by her 
mother to clean up her room . . . never had he seen such perfect legs! Her 
tight, round ass-cheeks eased down into slender, but softly curving thighs, 
and her calves tapered into the slimmest of ankles. He could tell she didn't 
shave her legs, and just the finest of baby-fine peach fuzz covered her 
naked legs, bringing an appreciative throb to his purple veined manhood that 
swelled in his pumping hand. 

He almost wished she was wearing more clothes so he could appreciate in 
slow, painful movements the beauty of her lush, milky white body as piece by 
piece she stripped for him. 

"You bitch!" he yelled, rubbing his aching penis' thick foreskin back so 
that his bulbous, angry red I pointed at the girl's dark fleeced pubic 
mound. Again, he swung his belt in the air whip-like. 

"You creep! Is this the only way you can get a hard-on-by raping women?" 
hissed Una, reaching up to massage one of her own hardened nipples standing 
out like budding roses from the milky white mounds of her satin breasts. Her 
eyes rolled back in her head and she let her knees bend under the delicious 
sensation of her masturbating fingers that now pulled harder on her nipples. 
Looking down, Peter could make out the third rosebud of her sensuality, the 
swollen nub of her clitoris hidden in the forest of blonde pubic curls. 

A cruel, mirthless laugh spat from between his tightly compressed lips at 
the blonde's deliberate provocation. I'll give her what she wants, the 
little bitch! he vowed, swishing his belt through the air and letting it 
land with a sickening smack upon the girl's naked backside, leaving a red 
welt. Grinning, he made a cross-hatch with the belt on her blushing cheeks, 
biting her a second time and delighting in the shriek of her pain. 

"Don't call me a rapist!" he snarled, raising the whip again while his 
fantasies flickered in his head with sadistic mirth. 

"You Adolph Hitler, you Machiavellian monster!" 

Again the belt sang through the air, this time striking Una's soft fleshed 
upper thighs. She let out an anguished yelp and collapsed to the floor on 
her knees, her fingers pulling painfully at her breasts. 

"Owwww! You filthy pig!" she wailed. "Stop it! Don't rape me, don't rape 
me!" 

Another sadistic laugh rasped from Peter's lust-constricted throat as he 
gave the belt one last whip across her thighs. Quickly, stepping out of his 
levis, he stepped up behind where Una crouched against the edge of her bed, 
in the position of a little girl saying her prayers. 

"Get your ass down on the floor, bitch. I wanna take you dog style!" 

Without waiting for her to obey or protest, the lust-maddened sadist kicked 
his jeans from his ankles and lunged toward the naked research assistant. 
Still clad in his work shirt and Adidas, he pushed her face down on the 
old-fashioned, rather threadbare floral print carpet. Then, as his iron-hard 
fingers dug into the silken pliancy of Una's up-thrusting white buttocks, he 
forgot everything except the urgent throbbing of his cum-heavy penis and the 
waves of sadistic pleasure that flooded through his muscular body. 

Una was panting and gasping helplessly beneath him as he dug his nails into 
the tender flesh of her succulent ass-cheeks, digging her own fingers into a 
particularly garish Art-Deco rose on the carpet so hard that her knuckles 
had turned white. From the way the tendons stuck out on her swanlike neck 
beneath her tangle of blonde hair, he surmised that she was trying to keep 
from screaming aloud. 

Indeed, Una was controlling herself with what she considered the utmost in 
dignity. The shrieks that rose in her throat were cries of violent lust 
rather than fear or pain. An analyst had told her it wasn't quite normal, 
but she loved to be taken by a masterful, viciously powerful male like this 
Peter Goldberg. Her favorite fantasies flashed through her mind, condensed 
yet vivid as a drowning swimmer's instant recollection of his entire life. 
These daydreams of being ravished at gunpoint or knifepoint, as in her 
favorite violent adventure movies, had entertained her on many a lonely 
night when she had only her own fingers and a worn out dildo to satisfy 
herself. 

This hard muscled man was a much more self-assured, genuinely sadistic lover 
than was Jackson who couldn't hold off cumming more than five minutes . . . 
though he did love to take her anally, something she would later suggest to 
this hard-pricked Peter Goldberg! 

A moan of ecstasy rippled from her throat as Peter's strong hands dug into 
her sensitive upper thighs, and she could smell the intoxicating aroma of 
his man sweat mingled with the musky odor of his heated genitals. Though she 
wanted only to feel his hotly pulsing cock filling her burning vagina until 
it rammed up her belly, she continued to resist him, taking perverted 
pleasure in the pain as his gripping fingers tore at her flesh. Hot flashes 
of masochistic madness cascaded over every inch of her nakedly squirming 
body as his fingernails cut through the flesh of her upper legs. 

Nl be covered with scars and bruises! she thought, writhing in expectation 
as the traitorous radical's iron-hard male thickness pressured at the 
swollen, damp lips of her pussy. Jackson s going to be mad at me, but I 
don't give a damn! God, all I want is for this big, beautiful man to stick 
his hot prick inside me and fuck me to death! Fleetingly, her fantasies 
focused on her dead, mangled body splattered with sperm in every orifice . . 
. dripping from her vagina, her anus and her mouth to mingle in a sticky 
pink pool of blood and lust. She gave a little shriek of maddened lust. 

The record player's needle had stuck. Over and over again Helen Reddy wailed 
out her feminist plaint: 

'Cause I'm a woman, W-O-M-A-N I'll say it again . . . Neither Una nor Peter 
even heard the repeated phrase. The aroused blonde was actually gasping for 
breath as she felt the mushroom knob of the male she'd met just that evening 
shoving against the tingling lips of her maddeningly swollen cunt. He felt 
so hard . . . so damned, wonderfully hard! 

She'd never forgive him if he didn't tear her down there . . . just a 
little. 

Peter's breath was coming in frenzied gasps as he inhaled the intoxicating 
scent of her provocative musk oil mingled with the pungent smell of her 
cuntal juices. Christ! he thought dizzily, wondering if he was in an X-rated 
movie in which he'd suddenly become the star. She's already so wet and ready 
I'm going to slide in like butter. 

As the thought flickered through his passion-confused mind, Peter jerked his 
powerful hips forward and rammed his rock hard thickness several inches 
inside the girl's flowered open, ripely seeping pussy. He'd attacked her so 
unexpectedly and his heated flesh was so much bigger than Jackson's, that 
Una gave an involuntary yelp of pain despite the moistness of her cuntal 
channel. 

"Aaaaahhhhh!" she wailed as his huge ballooning penis tore into the farthest 
depths of her painfully stretched pussy with vicious, passion-powered jabs, 
slamming into her tender cervix. 

For a moment Una, experienced though she was in passionate exploits, thought 
she was about to faint. Never had anyone hammered into her with such 
punishing strokes! 

After a short while, however, as Peter's jouncing, blood-heavy testicles 
began beating a lewd tattoo against her oily nubbed clitoris, the cloud of 
unendurable pain cleared from her almond-shaped brown eyes and was replaced 
by burning glints of implacable lust. Her mouth gaped open and drops of 
saliva dripped from her lips as she panted like a dog in heat, and her 
nakedly uplifted buttocks wriggled up to meet each vicious thrust of Peter's 
turgid cock. 

Peter yanked her by the hair and craned her head around so that he could see 
his willing victim's lust-crazed clasping cuntal depths that trapped his 
penis like a mouse trap. Her pretty features were smeared into a mask of 
pure lust. Her eyes had rolled back in her head, showing only the whites and 
a tear of joy rolled down her flushed cheeks, telling him that she was 
nearing the point of orgasm as was he. This would be one mind-fucking 
orgasm, he told himself, but better to prolong it and listen to her beg. 
Calculatingly, he thrust deep inside of her, ramming hard into her cervix, 
then withdrew his prick so that his massively swollen tip was teasing at the 
lips of her cunt mouth. 

"No! No!" Una's shrill pleas reverberated off the walls of her one-bedroom 
apartment. "Don't stop! Fuck me, you bastard! Pleeeezzzz!" Whipping her head 
around in agony, her blonde hair flew back to slap Peter in the face in 
silken blows. 

"Beg you slut!" gasped Peter, holding himself back with masochistic will 
power. "Tell me how bad you want it-talk dirty!" 

"You dirty shit . . . you loose-assed bastard . . . fuck me.. . you impotent 
eunuch!" She insulted his manhood through hissing lips. 

"Come on . . . you can do better than that!" sneered Peter, truly anxious to 
hear what further obscenities this foul-mouthed woman could conjure up in 
her sick, twisted, gnarled mind. 

Una flinched at the insult, then jerked her trembling hips back in an effort 
to imbed the withdrawn penis into her burning cunt. Her entire body 
glistened with fevered sweat and her body quivered like the beginnings of an 
earthquake. "FUCK ME!" she spit out. "Fuck me. Make your cum drip all over 
me.. . make me dirty.. . hurt me. . . . HURRRRT MEEEE!" 

The sadistic man waited a fraction, then rammed his knobbish cockhead 
against her cervix so hard it doubled over at the end. Bestial grunts of 
pleasure spewed from her gaping mouth, and she bucked madly back at him, her 
head banging against the bed as she slammed hard into his groin. When Peter 
reached round her writhing sweat slippery body to massage her heaving 
breasts and pinch and torture her nipples, she couldn't contain another 
scream of passion. 

"Ohhhhhh! Harder, harder, HARDER! I'm cummming!" 

Grasping the ecstatically writhing girl's swollen breasts as though they 
were handles of a powerful motorcycle, Peter plunged into her cunt until his 
fuzzy testicles were about to explode with heated cum! She wailed out her 
orgasm and spasmed and convulsed beneath him, his own climax erupting. 

Their uninhibited groans mingled with the sounds of flesh slapping against 
naked flesh to form a lewd chant of animal lust as his pent-up semen sped 
down his throbbing cockshaft and splashed in hot gushes into the girl's 
clutching cuntal depths. 

"Ohhhhh . . . I'm cummming!" he wheezed. 

For a few long minutes they both lay shuddering on the floor in the throes 
of exquisitely powerful orgasmic release, their bodies welded together with 
drying sweat and sperm. Finally, Peter's hard muscled male loins went limp 
and his body dropped heavily onto the floor beside Una's, his spent virility 
rapidly deflating to a limp and useless appendage. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

The next time Peter Goldberg opened his clouded eyes, it was to stare at 
Una's spread-eagled sperm-splattered loins presented up to him like a 
ritualistic feast for the devils. The red cross-hatchings from his stinging 
belt had swollen into zigzagged welts and a shudder of mixed pride and 
disgust sank in Peter's gut. He had never hit a woman before. 

So this is it, huh." he thought, staggering to his feet and fumbling for his 
Levi's. No warm-up, no foreplay, no feeling.. . no lovemaking. . . just raw 
animal sex. Wearily, he reached for a pack of cigarettes which lay on the 
table beside the empty wine glasses and untouched cheese tray. He lit the 
Camel cigarette, inhaled deeply, and poured himself another glass of wine. 

The metallic whine of a zipper fastening brought Una back to consciousness 
and she rolled over so that she was facing the fully dressed near-stranger 
who minutes before had whipped and insulted her. Her long spidery eyelashes 
fluttered open and she blinked her eyes several times as if trying to clear 
her mind of its smoggy, polluting moral turpitude. A thin, chill wind of 
desolation wafted through her mind, but she refused to acknowledge it. 

"Brrr . . . it's getting kind of chilly . . . " she murmured shakily, 
pulling a blanket off the bed and wrapping her naked, cum-stained body in it 
instead of putting on her clothing. 

Suddenly, Peter Goldberg felt the nefarious claustrophobia of guilt and 
disgust choke him, and he wanted only to leave this place. But his assigned 
job with the FBI and its investigations into this new radical party calling 
themselves the South African Liberation Movement kept him there. 

'Cause I'm a woman . . . W-O-M-A-N the record droned on and the undercover 
agent quickly flicked it off. He threw back his head and poured the wine 
down his throat, then poured another glass for himself and one for Una. With 
a feigned smile of appreciation, he handed her the glass. 

"You're some lay, baby," he praised. "You and I are gonna have some good 
times together." 

Una brightened, her almost imperceptible frown vanishing as she accepted the 
glass of wine, pulled herself up into a sitting position and realized her 
desire to have this man who understood her sexual needs stay the night with 
her. Maybe he could take a shower and they could try it again . . . anally, 
this time. 

Indeed, the well-developed agent was thinking a hot shower might save him a 
trip to the VD clinic. He didn't like to be a prissy, but he'd caught some 
rather nasty diseases from innocent-looking women as clean and pretty as 
Una. Come on, get on with it, he chided himself. Catch her while she's 
vulnerable . . . ask questions, you idiot! 

"Liked that, huh? When do you want to get together again?" he murmured, 
hating himself for leading her on. 

The research assistant fluttered her long lashes, feeling too relaxed to be 
coy. "It's never as exciting the second time round," she murmured, lighting 
a cigarette. "You know that. . . " 

She's not stupid . . . just fucked up, thought Peter. Such a shame . . . and 
she's so pretty, too. What a waste of brains. All that education and no hope 
for a decent future. Christ, I hate to take advantage of her like this . . . 
" 

"It could be," he said. "Next time I can tie you to the bedpost and screw 
you somewhere else." 

The girl's body trembled in masochistic, involuntary excitement at his 
words, but she didn't encourage him. 

"I bet nobody in SALM ever did that to you . . . gave you what you really 
want, did they?" he probed. 

Una jabbed out her half-smoked cigarette and gazed up at the handsome 
traitor, her moody dark eyes pools of neurotic frustration. "No, they didn't 
. . . they're too hung up in their own male ego trips. Especially Jackson. 
You ever get close to a ghetto black who's spent time in San Quentin? Can't 
be trusted," she said blandly, staring at the wall. 

His curiosity piqued, Peter tried to sound indifferent, casual, but his 
attention was riveted on this girl's assessment of her fellow terrorists. 
"Jackson can't satisfy you, huh?" 

Una's defenses were down; she was sexually satisfied and woozy from the 
wine. Mentally she compared Jackson's lean black body with this stranger 
who'd just given her the best orgasm of her twenty-five years. Surely 
Jackson's jealousy of Peter was based on Peter's vast, experience working 
within the educational system trying to make meaningful reforms . . . 
instead of out in ghetto alleyways and behind prison walls. 

"Jackson's a good man," she replied. "He turns me on because he's brave. But 
. . . well.. . " Una paused, a far away look in her eye as she tried to 
formulate her thoughts into a succinct statement. "I.. . I'm not sure he's 
sincere about anything except his own ego and proving to the world he's 
somebody. He's too selfish to be a good lover . . . " 

"How can you call him selfish if he's risking his life for Blacks all over 
the world?" Peter struggled to sound sincere himself, and he swallowed down 
a traitorous snicker. He'd sat in on meetings in his younger years with 
anarchists who'd made the cover of TIME, and it was almost laughable to him 
that some uneducated ghetto boy from East Oakland thought he could free 
South Africa. 

"Gosh, it's hard to explain. Jackson doesn't really care about anybody or 
anything . . . he doesn't care if he lives or dies . . . it's like he's just 
filling in time." Una paused again, a faint look of horror drifting over her 
high cheekboned face, as though a terrifying realization had suddenly 
occurred to her. "None of us really care much about anything.. . do we?" She 
gulped. "We wouldn't be toying with guns and people's lives if we did." 

"Maybe so," Peter nodded. "But this world is so damned fucked up . . . what 
else can we do?" 

In truth, Peter did care sincerely about many things, particularly saving 
Dr. Tarrington's life from these loose-lipped radicals who would slip into 
violence if only to sluice through the boredom of their meaningless 
existences. Did this beautiful, brilliant woman really feel that apathetic 
about herself that she had to resort to ugly sex and humiliation to feel 
fulfilled? 

Peter continued to carefully probe the vulnerable blonde about Jackson and 
SALM and satisfied with the information, he helped himself to another glass 
of wine. 

"I better be going," he yawned. Noticing the shadow of disappointment 
crossing the girl's face, he lied. "I wish I could stay, but we wouldn't 
want Jackson to find me here tomorrow morning." 

"Hell.. . I was hoping we could fuck some more." Una's vitiated language 
sounded oddly incongruous with her little girl voice and often wistful 
mannerisms. 

Peter felt a twinge of pity for the mixed-up girl, but one night 
experiencing her brand of eroticism was enough for a life time. Besides, he 
was tired. Tomorrow demanded a lot of intensive, analytical thinking. 

"Me, too . . . you sexy bitch," he grinned lecherously, "I promise we'll get 
together again . . . soon." 

Swallowing down a lump of disgust, he forced himself into giving her a 
passionate good-by kiss and flicked off the light behind him. A satisfied 
smirk brightened his handsome face; he knew he'd made an ally with the only 
female member of SALM. Ambling down Telegraph Avenue, keeping a wary eye on 
the night people shuffling along its grimy sidewalk Peter darted into an 
all-night restaurant and called FBI headquarters to give them the good news. 

Sometimes he suffered a pang of nostalgia for days gone by when he would sit 
and plot against law enforcements; but tonight's experience with these 
desperate, selfish, unthinking terrorists had assuaged all guilt. 

Hell . . . maybe I'm just getting old, he mused, listening to the tinkle of 
his dime give way to the buzz of the dial tone. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

The fog cleared early Wednesday morning, lifting the white sheets from the 
skies to open onto a grand view of San Francisco from the Tarrington's 
Berkeley Hills balcony. Beyond the long curving wire strip of the Bay Bridge 
the unmistakable pencil point of the Pyramid building spiked, and to the 
right and up a tree-studded slope sat Coit Tower overlooking the Bay from 
its fortress-like position. 

Carrie telephoned her husband at his campus office and left a message with 
his baby-voiced research assistant that she would be honored if he would 
join her for lunch. Knowing Edward's penchant for punctuality, she allowed 
ample time for driving to and parking on the Berkeley campus . . .and maybe 
a pre-lunch stroll about the grounds. 

The aromatic Eucalyptus trees lining the Berkeley Hills bowed in homage to 
the gorgeous October morning and all of life animated its thanks for the 
weekend's badly needed downpour. Plump flowers held their heads high in 
reverence while birds scratched the dirt floor for earthworms. All was 
healthy and happy . . . except for Carrie. 

Dismal, depressing thoughts echoed in her empty mind as the elegant young 
wife, dressed in a two piece navy blue suit and beige eggshell silk blouse, 
turned the ignition in her car. He doesn't love me . . . he probably thinks 
I'm sick, frigid. He's so disgusted with me he won't even touch me. 

Since that night, Edward's advances had amounted to a politely aloft peck on 
the cheek and he slept to the right of the invisible board in their wedding 
bed, never venturing a hand to caress her waiting body . . . if he came to 
bed at all. Last night she had lain in bed waiting for him and awakened in 
the middle of the night to find him sleeping on the sofa. The precious jewel 
of her virginity, she discovered with grim irony, was actually a cheap 
rhinestone. She'd been cheated of its true value, guarding it in the jewel 
box of her secret femininity, adoring it, worshipping it, only to realize it 
was worth nothing. 

While Carrie brooded over these depressing thoughts, swerving her new Volvo 
down the snaky Berkeley Hills to the campus below, Edward Tarrington was 
instructing his research assistant to make reservations for he and his wife 
for luncheon at the Claremont Hotel. 

With a wide smile of acquiescence, Una obeyed, then excused herself to the 
ladies' room, slipped a dime in the hall pay phone and made the call SALM 
was waiting for. The coup, two years in planning would take place today! 
Carrie would be coming to meet her husband at precisely twelve-thirty and 
SALM would snatch her away in their 'borrowed' university car driven by 
Peter Goldberg. These tightly coordinated plans were verified and repeated 
in one harried telephone call. All systems switched to 'go.' 

* * * 

"Sorry, lady, but you have to have a sticker on your windshield to drive 
onto campus," rejected the university police guarding the north entrance to 
campus, disregarding the disgruntled professor's wife and telling her to 
park in a public lot for a quarter. Circling around, Carrie pulled into a 
parking lot and headed for Telegraph Avenue and the campus. 

I guess Edward wants me to make the first move, the dark haired Irish lovely 
muttered to herself as her high heels slapped on the corner street running 
perpendicular to Telegraph Avenue. But I can't, the virgin bride admitted. I 
want him to be gentle, but I want him to be forceful and strong. I'll never 
get over my hang-ups if he doesn't make me. I don't want to end up frigid 
and forty lying on a psychiatrist's couch contemplating suicide. 

It looked as though she'd walked onto a Medieval market square! Her high 
heels tapped faster on the Avenue's grimy cement as she glowered in disgust 
at the foul smell and crumbled up handbills littering the gutters. With a 
little cry of horror, she took a timely giant step avoiding a yellow stream 
of pungent smelling liquid spiting its way to the gutter to mix and mold 
with other trash; a dog had lifted his hind leg on a storefront. Two shaggy, 
grimy nailed, sun burned panhandlers blocked her path and demanded change 
for food. I feel sorry for m if self because my husband doesn't want to make 
love to me, but these poor souls don't have a crust of bread to fill their 
stomachs. Tempted to open her purse and flip them a quarter, she spied the 
hungry lineup of panhandlers eyeing her vulnerability and, despite a barrage 
of "fuck you lady, rich bitch cunt," she zigzagged down the street, elbowing 
past street craftsmen laboring over their wares. Her ears buzzed from the 
angry cries of self-proclaimed evangelists howling on street corners and 
nobody seemed to care about the dog droppings smeared over the sidewalk like 
an obscene layer of fudge. 

Shuffled along by the crowd she darted across the street to the campus where 
the noon time carnival of belly dancers, street vendors and street musicians 
buzzed about in a frenzy of churning sound and movement. 

An empathetic looking sparkly faced girl in loafers and knee sox directed 
Carrie to the political science building and Carrie's heart beat a pace 
slower. This place is unbelievable! How can Edward be serious about teaching 
here? 

Elbowed along by the chokingly close mass of humanity, she found herself 
wedged in a crowd watching a puppet show. From a distance it appeared to be 
a typical Punch and Judy show, but upon closer glance, Carrie's mouth gaped 
open, her rosy lips ovaling, and her velvety tongue clucked in a shamed tut. 
There were two naked male puppets with exaggeratedly stuffed penises and 
baby tangerines hanging as testicles, all fringed with dark yarn pubic hair. 
One puppet's eager fingers were squeezing at the Florida citrus fruit 
between the other's legs while he squealed in glee: "Oh, squeeze me! Squeeze 
my oranges! Try orange juice for breakfast . . . or for a snack . . . or 
anytime of day." The fondled puppet stroked at his own cotton erection and 
his button eyes rolled excitedly. 

Her manicured hand flew to her mouth, and Carrie stepped back onto 
somebody's toe and, separating herself from the jeering, laughing crowd, 
read "Gay Rights . . . Freedom for homosexuals . . . " printed on a banner 
flying over the puppet theatre. 

* * * 

While Carrie charged brusquely through Sather Gate heading north toward the 
political science building smothered in a glen of trees, a 'borrowed' 
university car smoothed uncontestedly through the guard's gate at the north 
end of campus and drove toward Dr. Tarrington's office. Inside the beige 
walled office, Una Hart sat with a smug expression on her beautiful face, 
watching the clock and delighting in the knowledge that Dr. Tarrington's 
boring, snooty-nosed little wife would soon be SALM property! I'd give my 
graduate degree to see that bigoted little cunt squirm when black Jackson 
grabs her! 

Already James and Carl were stationed outside the campus building sitting on 
the cement ledge rimming the flower beds reading the Berkeley Barb with 
disinterested minds, warily watching eyes and ears keened for the whistle 
blow that would signal Jackson's strong-hold on Carrie Tarrington. Now the 
only sound was an occasional dog's bark at a Frisbee flying past his nose 
and the peaceful trickle of Strawberry Creek cutting its watery path through 
the campus grounds. 

Jackson hid in the bushes like a preying panther, his dark, perfidious eyes 
watching for the professor's sexy little wife. His heavy black penis jerked 
like it always did when he thought about guns, riots and violence, and the 
thought of nabbing green eyed, melon-breasted Carrie Tarrington made it 
lurch an inch higher than normal. Professor's wives were usually 
dull-minded, flabby-breasted, gray haired women with no sense of humor and 
even less sex appeal. . . but he had to hand it to Dr. Tarrington. The old 
boy must be using that tool between his legs to keep a foxy fookin' broad 
like Carrie happy! snickered Jackson to himself, holding the tree branch to 
the side with one ebony hand. 

Yesterday wily Una had snatched Dr. Tarrington's wedding picture from his 
desk and had a quick copy made on the building's Xerox machine while the 
professor gave his three o'clock lecture down the hall. With that crumpled 
up picture in his hand, Jackson waited anxiously, his heart pounded like an 
African drum in his muscular chest. 

Inside the building, Edward Tarrington pushed up the starched white cuff of 
his shirt and glanced at his watch, irked by his wife's tardiness. If it 
takes her as long to make a silly drive as it does to warm up in bed, I'll 
starve to death! "She did say twelve-thirty, didn't she?" he sternly queried 
his research assistant who, for an unexplained reason elected to take a late 
lunch hour today. 

"She certainly did, Dr. Tarrington." You may never see that rich little 
bitch again, thought Una with cruel delight, a warm rush of heightened 
emotion peaking through her excited body at the knowledge that today was the 
most important day of her life. She had contributed something meaningful, 
something that would make history. "I'm sure she'll be along soon. You know 
how absolutely murderous traffic is around campus. You really ought to get 
her a campus parking permit, you know." 

While Una nervously busied herself watering the plants and filling the 
stapler . . . keeping a suspicious eye on the professor, outside in the 
bushes Carrie felt a hot sweaty black hand clamp over her mouth and the cold 
steel butt of a pistol wedge into her slender rib cage . . . 

At precisely one o'clock Una stepped out of the stuffy building into the 
mind-cooling brisk autumn air and, finding two unread Berkeley Barbs where 
Carl and James had perched, slid threw back her blonde head and laughed 
triumphantly at the heavens. 

Mission accomplished! 

Hoity-toity Mrs. Tarrington was theirs! Una's life meant something now. 
Taking in a few lungfuls of air and letting them out slowly, she calmed her 
fierce militaristic passion and, affecting the concerned expression of a 
faithful research assistant, she headed back down the dirty beige hallways 
dotted with staple-heavy bulletin boards, turned right and walked into Dr. 
Tarrington's office: 

"Dr. Tarrington, I don't see her anywhere. Maybe she went shopping down on 
Telegraph Avenue. You know how women are. . . ! " 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

"Dear God, this is a nightmare!" the terrified young wife screamed in silent 
panic as the yellow university car lurched around the cul-de-sac edged with 
flower beds within sight of the political science building, then slunk 
through a mass of students headed for class. Where her abductors were headed 
seemed a silly question: blood was throbbing in her temples so fiercely that 
she couldn't see anything but dizzy blobs of swirling color through the 
rolled-up car window, and she was in far too severe a state of shock for 
coherent, Holmes-inspired thought. 

The gray-haired university policeman stationed at the north entrance sat 
munching on a falafel as the university car paused at the congested exit, 
but any thought Carrie Tarrington might have held about crying out for help 
was quickly squelched by the sensation of the ice-cold steel gun butt 
prodding against the nylon-covered flesh of her inner thigh. Her mouth fell 
open as she stifled a scream of terror, and when the university policeman 
glanced in through the glass, he winked at the young couple in the back 
seat. 

Times sure are changing, he smiled to himself as he took another bite of his 
falafel. Christ, he's got his hand up her skirt! They're probably headed to 
some cheap motel for a lunch hour quickie. 

The black skinned gunman beside Carrie spoke for the first time as the car 
careened through the green light of University Avenue and squealed around a 
corner onto a less-traveled street. "Shut up, bitch," he barked, "or I'm 
gonna pump your pussy full of lead!" 

Carrie's fear-widened eyes rose toward her captor's face for the first time 
since he'd come behind her in the bushes outside of her husband's office 
building and jabbed a gun in her ribs. She shivered at the cold cruelty in 
his glinting black eyes. Having never sat next to a black man before, she 
cringed as his hot breath bathed her neck and she could feel each one of his 
heavy heart beats as he held her clamped to his chest. 

This isn't real! her tortured mind wailed again. I'm going crazy and having 
some dreadful hallucination! 

Carrie wasn't the only person in the car wondering if he was hallucinating. 
At the driver's wheel Peter Goldberg gawked slack-jawed in the rear view 
mirror at the ashen faced, unforgettably innocent Vassar coed he'd plotted 
to ravish three years back. Now he was an accomplice to her abduction! For a 
moment he had to remind himself that he was on the right side of the law 
this time, for a panicky feeling of de ja vue mingled with his sympathy for 
Carrie made him want to grab his own gun and blow Jackson's head off! He 
hated Jackson and Una and every frustrated militant-minded idiot who grabbed 
people indiscriminately and tagged a name to their silly cause to 
rationalize sadistically toying with others lives. Jackson . . . what 
tortures would he subject Carrie to? Rape? Murder? Send locks of her 
beautiful chestnut curls to her poor, grieving husband and then snicker at 
his anguish? 

Carrie Kelly . . . he remembered, with a tingle in his loins, her soft 
femininity . . . her staunch Irish Catholic morals. Yes, she had admired him 
for his disciplined mind and had even flirted with his lofty ideals, but 
radicalism wasn't in her blood. Now, simply because she'd married Dr. 
Tarrington she would probably end up with a slit throat stuffed in the trunk 
of a stolen car or dropped into the Bay with cement blocks chained to her 
slender white ankles . . . food for the sharks. 

Oh, it is inhuman! 

He stared back at her reflection, thankful that she hadn't recognized him. 
Had he aged that much? he wondered with an insipid concern which his 
rational mind quickly rebuked. If Carrie ended up fish fodder in the Bay, he 
had only himself to blame. Wasn't it he who overrode his superior's judgment 
by insisting that the FBI let the terrorists perform their kidnap before 
moving in for the arrest? 

Carrie's throat felt as if a noose were tightening around the silken white 
skin there. Five minutes ago she'd been smelling the geraniums while 
strolling along toward her husband's office when-no! It couldn't really be 
happening-she was imprisoned in a university car driven by a white man while 
a maniacal black shoved his gun right up against the crotch band of her 
panties! 

Carrie's relish colored eyes were blurred with unshed tears as she stared 
fixedly at the floor of the car, desperately trying to comprehend the 
reality of her predicament. 

The automobile jerked around many corners, zigzagging down residential 
blocks like a rat in a researcher's maze, swerving out of cyclists' paths 
and around parked cars. The frightened Bostonian wife glanced out the window 
to see the disheveled looking homes somewhere west of campus where the 
freeways interlaced overhead like so many gray shoestrings. Sprinkled 
amongst the cracked windowed homes and deserted broken-down cars, were 
factories, warehouses and gutted out buildings wearing 'condemned' signs. 

Then, as the black man's steaming breath flushed her soft neck, she felt him 
lean closer until his gun teased at the sensitive, panty-protected flesh of 
her vagina and she felt so nauseated that she closed her eyes and prayed to 
every holy saint Saturday Catechism had taught her to trust. 

"Well, Mrs. Tarrington, the driver said without turning his head and 
carefully avoiding the rear view mirror. "Here we are. Your new home." 
Christ, I wish I could blow that sonofabitch 's head off right now, but like 
a stupid idiot I put my gun under the hack seat! So help me, if he touches 
her. . . . 

The newlywed trembled violently as flickers of late night private detective 
movies flitted through her head. They're going to rape me right here outside 
of this dingy warehouse! 

A cold, metallic object pressured against her soft inner arm, and the 
brunette's head whirled around to see the driver's face for the first time. 
Peter Goldberg! A scream of recognition tore from her glossy red lips when 
she noticed the hypodermic syringe he was wielding with ominous intent. What 
kind of maniac has he turned into, her mind screamed when an icy twinge of 
horror gave way to a yelp of pain as he sank the gleaming silver needle into 
her yielding flesh. Hopeless sobs of despair rumbled from her chest as her 
body gave way to the numbing effects of the drug meant to dull her senses. 

Christ, I hated to do that! Peter started up the car again, jolting over the 
curb so violently that the kidnapped girl's already paralyzed teeth rattled 
and her slender body tensed in fear. Within minutes, however, she sank 
lifelessly to the floor of the car, a rainbow carousel of color spinning 
dizzily through her narcotic-numbed brain. 

* * * 

The smog-littered sky blocked out most of the stars studding the night 
skies; only the slivered moon pierced down from the heavens to streak in 
through the smudged windows of the San Pablo Avenue apartment, its unearthly 
radiance intermingling oddly with the neon lights and car headlights of the 
low-rent, congested area. 

Jackson, his tightly cut levis hanging around his black bony knees as he 
fondled his stud-sized penis, was staring in bestial anticipation at the 
limp, thoroughly drugged figure of the elegant Mrs. Tarrington. 

"You're one foxy chick, baby," he muttered, a greedy, Cheshire grin passing 
across his sharp-featured face. "I think your ol' man's gonna pay plenty to 
get you back in one piece." 

With his left hand, he reached out and yanked the unconscious brunette's 
skirt up around her tiny waist, simultaneously skinning back his dark 
foreskin to massage the bulging head of his blood-throbbing cock. Beads of 
perspiration broke out on his forehead as his black eyes feasted on the 
perfectly molded white curves of her nylon-covered legs, letting his gaze 
linger for long minutes on the rich swell of her hips and her girlish 
white-lace garter belt. Jackson could hardly believe he, a ghetto-born black 
man was in the presence of this holy white woman . . . and she was his 
property now! 

"Jes' you wait, cunt," he leered, reaching toward the row of buttons which 
fastened the bodice of her silk blouse. "When you open them white eyes of 
yours, you're gonna be starin' at one hunk of black flesh!" 

Just before his black bony fingers touched the voluptuous mounds of the 
young prisoner's gently heaving breasts, Jackson exerted an immense effort 
of will and pulled his trembling hand away. Then he zipped up his fly, 
stuffing the swollen black genitals behind the zipper and sucked in his 
breath. His penis ached in its denim trap, but he tried to ignore the 
pressure. Much as he longed to rape this vulnerable white bride, his greed 
and ego-mania overwhelmed his lust. 

With a final sneer at the lush female figure sprawled out on the unwashed 
foam rubber mattress, the kinky-haired terrorist picked up the alligator 
handbag which had fallen on the floor beside her. A little spasm of anger 
flooded through his animalish veins as he realized that Mrs. Tarrington's 
clothes and accessories were worth more than his father's monthly salary.. . 
which fed nine hungry children. This woman had probably never gotten her 
hands dirty, had no idea what it was like to eat turnip greens and beans 
instead of steak and champagne . . . or to see your father beating your 
mother in a drunken fit of frustration from not being able to find work. 
Shit, she didn't know a goddamned thing about life. But she'd learn . . . 

Then, as he dumped her purse open, its contents vomiting out, he forgot his 
bitterness and centered on his greed. Christ, the woman was carrying five 
hundred dollars in travelers cheques.. . not to mention the VISA, 
BANAKAMERICARD, and MASTER CHARGE cards! 

Jackson was joyfully counting out the green bills and stuffing them in his 
pockets when he heard footsteps on the rickety steps leading to the second 
floor apartment with a 'Condemned by Berkeley Fire Department' sign on the 
front. That would be James and Carl, he reasoned; Una would still be in Dr. 
Tarrington's office trying to console the poor bastard, and Peter was 
writing a communique to be sent to the local radio station. That kept the 
newcomer out of the way. 

Carl and James were out of breath by the time they reached the top of the 
squeaking stairs. 

"Did ya get the car back to the university car pool?" demanded the terrorist 
leader. 

The two nodded simultaneously. "We've even got the release slip," put in 
Carl, fumbling for it in his pocket, the slender beam of his penlight 
cutting lightning streaks through the dark, dank interior of the chilly 
condemned apartment. 

"For Chrissakes, don't go carrying evidence like that around in your 
pockets, you dumb ass!" glowered Jackson, the whites of his black eyes 
scintillating marbly like an alley cat in the night. 

Neither youth seemed to hear him, for they'd craned their necks to look 
through the doorway at the limply lying female form. Carrie's mouth hung 
open and the red highlights of her chestnut curls flamed in the dim light of 
the kerosene lantern sit-ting on the dusty floor next to her, bathing the 
room in an eerie, flickering glow that reminded the shivering Carl of his 
grandmother's wake. 

James whistled in appreciation. "Shit, man. What a piece of ass! That 
wedding picture didn't do her justice!" 

"Nobody's playing cupid . . . " Carrie was Jackson's prize, as were the 
contents of her pocket-book, and he wasn't about to let these white honkies 
touch her until he'd savored a piece of her white meat himself. "Get your 
asses out of here before the place starts swarming with cops. We don't wanna 
blow it now. How's Peter doin' with the commui-" Jackson couldn't remember 
the word. "That damned ransom note . . . " 

"He's over at your place workin' on it now." Carl flicked on his penlight 
and streaked it down the steps to make certain no rats crossed his path. 
"Ain't you coming with us?" demanded the blonde haired militant in an almost 
belligerent tone. "You don't wanna stay here with her . . . if the cops come 
. . . " 

"Somebody's gotta stay to keep guard, stupid. She'll be conscious before 
morning." Then, in an attempt to mollify his compatriots, Jackson added: 
"Take some of this money and score yourselves some good dope." His black paw 
plunged into his bulging Levi pocket to draw out two twenty dollar bills. 

The wide-nosed leader breathed a sigh of relief as, with a number of 
backward glances over Carrie Tarrington's shapely body, Carl and James 
tip-toed down the rickety steps and walked off into the blackened night. 

I been waitin' for this, gloated Jackson. This white southern cracker's 
gonna be crunchin' under my jaws when she comes to! 

With deftly fingered delight, Jackson removed the prisoner's gold watch, her 
diamond engagement ring and gold wedding band, and the diamond-studded chain 
from around her neck. Carrie stirred slightly at the feel of his cold 
fingers prodding her ivory-white neck, but her eyes remained shut. The 
expensive jewels were stuffed in his pockets along with the credit cards and 
money and Jackson calculated gleefully how much they would bring at Fat 
Eddie's Pawn Shop down in East Oakland. 

Jackson couldn't help but feel smug. His wide features broke into a 
self-congratulatory grin. Jackson McBee was no common pimp pandering girls 
down on McArthur Boulevard and driving a dented up black Cadillac. No, sir! 
Pimping, pushing drugs . . . that was kid's stuff. He was in the big league 
now . . . working with people with brains, making a name for himself. Yeah, 
it's my trip.. . he gloated. It's all my trip! Ain't nobody gonna call 
Jackson stupid no more. . . 

Once again he jerked down the zipper of his jeans to stroke his horse-sized 
pulsating pole of hard black maledom. If the morphine worked normally, she 
would be awakening in about twenty minutes, leaving him just enough time to 
strip her down and tie her up. Christ, he hoped he didn't squirt it off 
before then! The thought of ramming his cock into the helplessly bound rich 
white bitch was giving him the wildest hard-on he'd had since a forty year 
old hooker took his virginity at the age of twelve. 

Working fast as his bony fingers could, the abductor quickly eased off his 
unconscious victim's clothing to reveal the creamy whiteness of her pure, 
virginal body. A few curling tendrils of soft brown hair stuck out through 
the elastic leg bands of her tiny white bikinis, and his long tongue flicked 
over his thick parched lips as he stared at the mountain of her vaginal 
mound. His two big black hands tugged the fragile bikini panties down over 
her well rounded hips and down over her shapely calves . . . clear down to 
her slender ankles, letting his animalish eyes feast on the pouting mound of 
her untouched cuntal lips. 

Jackson's cock gave a vigorous lurch of appreciation as he stared down at 
Mrs. Tarrington's inert figure, clad now in a girlishly proper white lace 
garter belt, sheer stockings, and white lace brassiere, all fresh and white 
as her virginity. This was not the first time Jackson had violated a 
woman-though never a woman as innocent looking and fresh as this one. Within 
seconds, he'd pulled off the silk stockings and bound her slim wrists and 
ankles with firm square knots. Now, when she woke up, she wouldn't be able 
to move anything but her head. 

The hard muscled ex-San Quentin-convict-turned-terrorist saved the white 
creamy mounds of Carrie's strawberry tipped breasts for desert. With 
lingering, mouthwatering slowness, he unhooked the flimsy lace brassiere, 
his bony fingers working clumsily at the tiny white hooks, finally ripping 
them off in his frustration. His black hands crushed the succulent 
ivory-white mountains of soft, flesh, squeezing them until her pliant 
feminine flesh oozed between his grasping fingertips; the excitement of 
using this unconscious woman according to his own lustful whims caused his 
penis to stiffen into iron-hard readiness. 

Christ, she's got big tits! he exclaimed in silent delight. On a sudden lewd 
impulse, the sex-maddened man sank his livery mouth down against the pink 
buds of her proudly straining twin flesh mounds, twirling his long tongue 
over the tiny tautening nipples until he was rewarded by a low, almost 
imperceptible moan uttered between her slightly parted lips. 

She's coming to! he exalted. And she's gonna rake up to see one hell of a 
hard-on! Ain't no white honky got a cock like ol Jackson! 

True! His blood engorged ebony cock was dangling directly over the white 
girl's flat white belly and, with a quick flick of his slim hips, Jackson 
let the lust swollen spear slide up to her melon round breasts, then back 
down over her satiny smooth body and slightly spread thighs. A thin trickle 
of pearly pre-cum smeared ominously over the girl's nakedly magnificent 
loins, like the opening chapter of a pornographic novel. Carrie shivered in 
her drug-induced stupor, her comatose mind dreaming of a wet, slimy snake 
crawling all over her naked body. 

Now! Jackson thought excitedly. Now! He reached up and ceremoniously tore 
his crocheted hat from his kinky black hair and carefully set it next to the 
kerosene lantern sending red flickers of light over the spooky silence of 
the filthy room where the roar of freeway traffic overhead reverberated like 
the low, steady roar of a lion. 

He bent down, his knotted black hair mingling with the clean, perfumed 
chestnut curls of Carrie Tarrington's sparsely-haired pussy, then sighed in 
lewd ecstasy as his velvety tongue darted out to part the silky curls as if 
he were God parting the Red Sea. In a minute, he'd made contact with ocean's 
floor, running his tongue over the coral pink flesh of her fresh tasting 
vaginal lips and was kicking his muscle bound legs free of his levis as 
shamelessly he buried his head between her silken thighs. 

I'll show her what a black man got that no white dude never though t of 
havin'. That impotent ol' man of hers never done to her, I'll bet.. . 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Carrie lay semi-conscious swooning from her deliciously soothing 
morphine-induced dream. In her mind, she was laying in an open field, green 
as a queen's emerald, with flowers splattered over the countryside like so 
many sprinkled jewels while the golden sunlight sprinkled over her body, 
soft as angel dust. The heavily perfumed air was rich with the scent of 
fertility. 

Somehow, she had lost her clothes, but it didn't matter, because monarch 
butterflies were circling above her, covering her nudity in flickers of 
orange and black . . . and besides, Daddy was there, without his clothes on, 
so of course everything was fine. Even when a big black snake uncoiled its 
shiny body from a twisted tree trunk and slithered over her naked body, she 
wasn't really afraid. Nothing could hurt her with Daddy close by. 

The warm, tingling sensations grew more intense as Carrie's drug-dulled 
brain cleared. Vaguely, very vaguely, the over-protected virgin realized 
that the pleasurable feelings were centered in her breasts and down between 
her legs. Still, she felt no fear.. . only a sense of relief and peace as 
she lazily stretched her legs further apart and swiped her velvety tongue 
over her parched reddened lips. 

Gradually, the butterflies of her dream died one by one and the heat of the 
afternoon had lifted to be replaced by a cold waft of Arctic wind. Instead 
of laying in a pristine pasture of harmless creatures, she was hurled into a 
den of coiling, hissing snakes. . . . 

Carrie's long lashed lids flickered open. There was no pasture, no 
butterflies, no Daddy . . . instead, her brain was spated with horrifying 
memories of the man, black as charcoal, holding an ice-cold gun against her 
spine, who'd forced her into a car and then rudely shoved his nasty weapon 
up under her skirt. 

My skirt. . . . Where's my skirt? Carried puzzled dizzily. Dear God, where 
am I? Fear, loud as the freeway traffic overhead, echoed in her fevered 
mind. 

Gradually the fog cleared from her mind, like dew slowly dissolving in the 
morning sunlight, and she found herself staring in wide-eyed horror at her 
virginal, naked body sprawled out on a dingy mattress. The young bride tried 
to clasp her tiny lotion-soft hands to her swelling bosom in her gesture of 
fear, but found that her arms would not move . . . her wrists were tightly 
bound with her own nylon stockings. Panic-stricken, she gazed wildly around 
the light splattered room where red lantern flames illuminated the smudged 
windows and the grimy, dusty floor and the dank smell of musty neglect stung 
her nostrils. OH GOD! 

The vile, flat featured terrorist who'd abducted her from within sight of 
her husband's parked car and had done God knows what dreadful things to poor 
Edward, was crouching over her tied-down body with his disgusting thick 
lipped mouth planted on the tulips of her never-before-touched vagina! 

"AAAEEEEIIIII!" 

The terrorized wife's scream sluiced through the eerie silence of the 
condemned building, and Jackson slapped her across the face with the back of 
his hand. "Don't you make another sound, lady, or I'm gonna have to get 
nasty . . . and I don't wanna scar up that pretty white flesh of yours." 
Carrie's lithe body flexed involuntarily and her legs struggled to kick out 
in defense, but they wouldn't budge; they, too, were bound, keeping her face 
down on the dusty smelling mattress. 

"Don't try none of that shit!" snarled the young black terrorist, leaping 
down upon her helplessly stocking-bound body. "Jes' cause yer Daddy's a 
Washington big shot, don't pull no punches with me!" 

The man's wiry-muscled body, firm and sleek as a panther, nearly knocked the 
wind from the frightened girl's lungs as he fell upon her, but the instant 
she caught her breath, she screamed again and struggled, her naked body 
squirming like a white earthworm being sliced in half by a shovel. Pure 
terror swept like liquid lightning through her veins, erasing every trace of 
erotic pleasure, as evil-eyed, scar-faced Jackson planted his repulsive hand 
down between her quaking thighs. 

"Shuddup, bitch!" hissed Jackson, savoring the sounds of his own sadistic 
snarl. 

Even though he spoke in a low voice, there was an icy, ominous note which 
frightened Carrie so badly that her shrieks died in her throat and her 
futilely straining figure fell limp. Instinct for survival told her that 
this man would delight in torturing her, and she remembered that he carried 
a gun. Obviously, her captor was a raving maniac: her only hope lay in 
trying to placate him. 

"Wh-what do you want with me?" she choked out in a piteous squeak. "Please . 
. . if you'll take your hand away I'll give you anything you want. My 
husband's rich and I . . . " 

A cold, cruel burst of laughter interrupted Carrie's timorous cries. "If 
your husband wasn't rich and white you wouldn't be here. That nigger-hating 
sonofabitch is gonna pay every cent he's got to get you back . . . if he 
wants you when I'm finished with you. Maybe you never heard of Jackson 
McBee, lady or of the South African Liberation Movement. . . ? " 

Terrorists! Kidnappers! "Oh, no, pleeeezzzz!" Carrie whimpered as the black 
man's rough fingertip crawled along the sensitive lips of her 
never-before-violated vagina. "Get your dirty . . . hands off of me you . . 
. you animal!" I never let Edward touch me there. . . but to have a black 
man do it.. . oh, God! 

"Black hands . . . ? Is that what you was gonna say?" he taunted, digging 
his outstretched bony middle finger deeper into the cringing folds of his 
victim's genital flesh until he discovered the tiny button of her clitoris. 
"Don't seem to make much difference to a whore like you, lady . . . my, my, 
but my finger is all wet from your cunt." 

It was a few mindless seconds before Carrie comprehended the man's vile 
words, but when the obscene meaning sank in, her parchment-white skin 
blushed bright red. 

The dirty, ugly black maniac! But she dared not open her mouth. Tears were 
flowing down her burning cheeks now, and although she refused to admit the 
awful truth to herself, a peculiarly ticklish tingling had arisen in her 
finger-ravished vagina. 

Until now she had deliberately averted her eyes from the black bat-sized 
spear jutting out from his loins, but finally she found her eyes drawn to it 
like a mosquito to a campfire. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time as 
its shiny ebony skin stretched tautly over the bulging veins of his 
blood-fed penis. 

Carrie struggled to lift her eyes from it, but it throbbed before her eyes, 
its black mushroomed head oozing drops of pre-ejaculate cum that squirted 
from its tip like a snake's flicking tongue. Somehow, the kidnapped bride's 
terror was actually less acute than it had been on their wedding night. 
Worse still, this disgusting creature was actually stimulating her 
traitorous body! 

The bride had no difficulty in identifying the uncontrollable sensations of 
sexual arousal stoking in her heated loins. Sometimes, half-waking from a 
strange dream, she'd allowed her girlish thighs to rub together first 
softly, then faster and faster until she was perspiring and breathing 
heavily beneath her night gown. That same unwanted excitation was building 
in her now, as this vile black man thrust his dirty middle finger into the 
pure pink walls of her virgin pussy. How could a disgusting animal whom she 
feared and loathed make her feel this way? 

"Like it, huh?" taunted Jackson. His other hand reached up to tweak her 
sensitive nipples, pinching the nerve-filled buttons until they grew erect 
and puckered. "Getting hot for my big black cock?" 

Carrie sucked in her breath as Jackson gave his hugely swollen purple-veined 
black polished thing a proud, lustful glance. Nausea rose in her churning 
stomach and panic temporarily overwhelmed her sinful feelings of arousal. 

"You filthy animal!" she spat at him, forgetting her fear of physical harm. 
"Oh, God, stop it! Get your hands off of me!" 

Her arrogance reminded Jackson all too vividly of the way white folks had 
treated his black ancestors for two hundred years and a hot flood of hatred 
surged through his veins. Those years of contempt, segregation, Ku Klux Klan 
meetings, Imperial Wizards and cross burnings had to be atoned for! SALM, he 
now realized, was a petty white man's game about as consequential as a 
Sunday afternoon football game. Peter, Una, Carl and James could write 
speeches and communiques until their fingers bled, but that wouldn't hurt 
the bigoted whites and it wouldn't change their minds. Any effects this 
kidnapping might have on political policies would be short-lived 
sensationalism while he rotted in San Quentin fighting off Chicanos and 
prison guards. Racism was his cross to bear until the day he died. 

Take revenge now! his gnarled mind screamed and his maddened hands roved 
over the helplessly bound woman, a vindictive smirk distorting his flat 
features into a headhunter's mask of hate. The professor's wife was just 
another rich cunt whose husband taught repression to save his white ass from 
the blacks who outnumbered his race three to one in South Africa. Now she'd 
have to plead and beg for mercy . . . 

Jackson slid his middle finger all the way to the top of Carrie's 
desire-drenched vagina and at the same time began a tormenting tweaking of 
her clitoral bud with his thumb tip. His leer of triumph widened as he felt 
her naked body spasming beneath his manipulations, heard her breath catch in 
her throat, watched her eyes glue themselves to his prodding fingers in 
haunted, hypnotized disbelief. Christ! She was acting as if no man had ever 
done this to her before! Jackson knew he was good with women, but wasn't 
this white bitch's response a bit overdone? 

Carrie was trying her best to numb her body and dull her responses, but no 
mental concentration of conjured up fear-real as it might be-would quell her 
flaming nerve ends. Until now she'd always considered herself a stubborn 
Irish woman with morals to match a nun. Yet now, as this unforgivably vile 
creature's fingers dug into her guarded femininity and his beer-smelling 
breath bathed her navel in a dank bath, she could not stop herself from 
sinking into a whirlpool of wanton lust. Every nerve in her untouched loins 
was quivering electrically, from her scalp to the tips of twitching, curled 
under toes, and her hips were writhing into the mattress, bucking up to meet 
his filthy fingers just as if she were a cheap whore. "Oh, noooo!" she 
wailed. 

The professor's wife recoiled as her own sluttish cries of delight echoes in 
her buzzing ears, for she realized the baby kitten mewls coming from her 
parted lips only urged him on. It's repulsive, but I can't control myself. 
I'm acting like a whore! 

Even as her conscience rang with self-disgust, Carrie was bucking her 
feverish little cunt up to meet the man's forever blackened fingers fucking 
into her virgin pussy. I must be dead and gone to 'n U. she thought wildly, 
for her whole body felt as if the mattress she lay on was a bed of burning 
coals, scorching her traitorous body. 

Not hell, stupid-heaven! a voice chuckled from her subconscious. This is the 
pleasure your mother felt but never admitted to when your father cornered 
her in the bedroom and demanded indecent things of her. Your mother loved 
it, but she was too weak to admit it! 

As the female juices of Carrie's gushing pussy dripped down Jackson's black 
finger, he pulled his finger from her quivering cuntal depths, popping like 
a cork from a champagne bottle. Before removing his huge hand from her pubic 
mound, he tickled the puckered brown ring of her anus in anticipation of 
future delights. One day soon he'd suck that honey-scented pussy till she 
screamed for more; he'd fuck his giant cock between those prissy lips; he'd 
give it to her in the ass like he did to Una. Now, tonight, he was content 
to fuck her tight, well-oiled pussy and show her exactly how a black man 
could liberate her uptight white body! 

"Mmmmm . . . aahhhh," a groan of frustration rose in Carrie's throat as 
Jackson withdrew his finger from her pussy, but then a low gurgle of horror 
burst from her rouged lips as she saw the black terrorist wrench his thin 
body to a kneeling position and guide the angry-red length of his throbbing 
penis up along her churning white belly, snaking its black slimy path. For a 
horrified second, she feared he might shove it into her mouth. 

Instead, he guided his cock toward her heaving breasts and in terrified 
fascination, she watched the fleshy shaft mashed up against the tautly 
responsive nipples of her naked breast, the black mushroomed head shimmering 
in the light of the kerosene lantern. Her wide green eyes bulged from their 
sockets as she saw first one, then the other, of her ivory white breasts 
smeared with the vile man's sticky white sexual juices. 

He's not human! Edward is right!. . . Blacks are animals! Yet even as her 
conscience decried this vulgar assault, she felt her faithless body breaking 
out in a passionate dew of perspiration and tremors of unwanted sensation 
were slithering from her desecrated raped breasts down to her fitfully 
quivering pussy. 

Vm just as bad as he is-I'm foul, dirty and sex crazed! Nobody should be 
feeling the way I do . . . 

"Nice tits, lady," Jackson muttered through passion-parched lips. "But I 
think I oughta fuck you now . . . nice lady like you deserves a favor." 

Carrie's naked young body froze into icy rigidity at her kidnapper's 
sneering words. Tortured wails broke from her heaving chest as the lusting 
yearning in her tingling pussy battled with the strict Irish Catholic 
edicts. When the snarling male pressed the blunt tip of his iron hard cock 
against her virginal cuntal lips, panic and pleasure stormed like lightning 
and thunder through the inexperienced bride's goose bumped body. 

"No, please, STOP!" Carrie struggled against the fiery fingers flickering 
out from her steaming pussy to stoke her loins. It was simply unthinkable 
that she should lose her treasured virginity to a black rapist instead of 
her loving husband. "I.. . I've never done . . . it.. . I've never.. . been 
with a . . . man before!" she gasped. "Please, stop. OH, please, please . . 
. " 

"You what?" Jackson couldn't believe his ears. Shit, he didn't know there 
was a female over twelve who was still a virgin in Berkeley. She was 
married, for Chrissakes! By God, maybe she wasn't lying. Still . . . 
virginity was something you were born with and lost with your first front 
tooth. 

"Pl-please," she sobbed brokenly, unable to control her emotions as the 
angry-red eye of his thick veined penis seeped with anticipation and prodded 
against her cringing cuntal slit. "You've taken my money, my pride.. . but 
please leave my virginity!" The young rapist's reply to this pitiful plea 
was swift and unexpected. All his sadistic instincts surfaced like a dead 
fish at the sight of this proud white woman's tears and helpless whimpers, 
and his cum-filled testicles churned with impatient lust. He positioned his 
lust-swollen cockhead at the gaping wet lips of her cunt, licking at her 
vagina in a wet French kiss. Flicking his hips forward with a low growl, he 
rammed his cock several inches up the tight warmth of her virginal vagina. 

"AAAAAHHHHHHhhhhh!" All the unwelcome pleasure fled from Carrie's brutally 
impaled body at once as violent pain swept through her with hurricane-like 
gusts. "AAahhhhhh! Noooo!" 

So this is what her mother felt every night as her cruel father took out his 
frustrations on her femininity. It was more awful than dying at knife point. 
This black monster was eating away at her insides, tearing her apart down 
there as if that thing had teeth! Would she ever be able to walk again? 

The young bride's screams brought a sadistically cruel glint to Jackson's 
flashing black eyes, shining like two chunks of burning coals in the 
reddened lantern light. Up between her wide-stretched vaginal lips he forced 
his rock hard penis, stretching her tiny pussy to three times its normal 
size. Blood surged through his veins and thudded behind his temples, 
half-blinding him as he plunged downward with all the pent-up violence and 
hatred in his sleek black body. 

I'm gonna fuck this white bitch until she can't walk straight! he gloated. 

"Aaaaaiiiii! Ppppleeezz!" Carrie wailed as the fleshy weapon ripped into her 
cuntal sheath. "You're hurrrrrrtttinnng meeee!" 

The terrified girl squeezed her vaginal muscles tighter around the invading 
penis then collapsed in limp despair as her efforts only added to her 
torture. As her tight channel grew less resistant, the blood heavy cockshaft 
tore all the way up inside until he banged into the membrane of her 
maidenhead. 

VII be damned . . . she wasn't shittin' me 'bout bein' a virgin! Jackson 
almost climaxed right there when his swollen cock head said hello to the 
fragile hymen. His upper lip curled back like a conquering caveman and he 
threw his whole weight forward to shred the delicate tissue like so much 
Kleenex. His blood tingling balls slapped against the crevice of Mrs. 
Tarrington's splayed out ass-cheeks. 

Carrie thought she'd suffered the most severe pain any human could endure, 
but her agony grew with every inch of the kidnapper's plunging cock that dug 
deeper into the cavern of her vagina. Now she could scarcely breathe, much 
less scream, and her physical pain was so intense that she hadn't the energy 
to spare for mourning her irretrievable purity. As the red-hot poker of male 
flesh buried itself to the hilt in her pain-wracked channel and grazed her 
tender cervix, she fell into a semi-coma. 

Oh, God, his hairy things are touching my anus! was her last cogent thought 
for several moments. He's going to rip right through my belly! 

A fiendish grin curled over Jackson's thick lips as he realized he'd made 
her faint. Egoistic pride swelled his oversized member cock, making it so 
thick that her soft cuntal walls clung to its throbbing shaft with his slow 
withdrawal. 

Cool air rushed into Carrie's fire-filled pussy as her attacker's penis 
slipped from her tortured pussy with a lewd, sucking sound. Her mind came 
out of the fog, shaking away grogginess as she thought: Oh, thank God! He 
didn't kill me after all! 

But her relief was short-circuited as Jackson gripped her naked breasts like 
a bicycle and plunged back into her raw and bleeding vagina. This time the 
penetration was quicker, but no less painful and Carrie shrieked as the 
white hot flesh sank to the hilt and crashed against her womb. 

"Too much for ya, huh?" leered the kinky-haired rapist as he held his penis 
in an unmoving throbbing state inside her clasping tight cunt. "You'll be 
begging before you know it. Una begs . . . and you'll beg too!" 

"NO! NEVER!" spat the young bride. "I'd die before I'd beg." 

"You just might, cunt!" 

There was a note of chilling sadism in his tone that said in implicit terms 
that she was his captive; she had no hope of escaping his torture. She was a 
black slave girl being sold on the block-auctioned off like an animal. He 
could force her to do anything his cruel heart fancied and maybe he could 
even force her to find pleasure in this cruel rape. After all, his plunging 
fingers had already proven her body's betrayal. Why not her mind? 

No! she vowed. I'll hate him for the rest of my life for treating me like 
this! 

 CHAPTER TEN 

"You black bastard!" hissed Carrie, swearing for the first time in her life. 
"You perverted bastard!" 

To emphasize her protests, Carrie wiggled her hips down into the grubby 
mattress and flexed vaginal muscles she didn't know she possessed . . . all 
intended to force his ugly black thing out of her pure, plundered pussy 
before it ripped her to shreds. But, to her dismay, her movements only drew 
him further up into her, sucking his blackness inside her pink vagina like a 
vacuum cleaner sucking up dust. Every throbbing vein of his massive, 
unmoving penis pressed against the walls of her vagina when she clenched 
them, and his blunt cock head beat a torturous African black magic drum beat 
against her burning cervix with each inward stroke into her belly. 

I don V feel anything . . . she told herself at first; but with time, her 
guilt melted into pleasure and she knew she was lying to herself. Some 
strange, natural reaction which Carrie could neither comprehend nor 
rationalize was attacking her fevered loins, as if stricken by an obscure 
African jungle disease, and she couldn't stop her buttocks from wriggling in 
involuntary yearning as Jackson's quieted penis throbbed and flexed deep 
inside her womb. 

Jackson recognized the signs of submission when he saw them-he'd had enough 
practice with Una's perverted eroticism. His thick lips curled up and he 
flexed his cock again . . . this time rewarded by a low, helpless whimper. 

"Noooo!" Carrie's shrill cry screamed at her faithless body rather than her 
cruel attacker as she found herself tumbling into a black fog of sensation 
where pleasure intermingled with pain and quickly took control of her loins. 
"Oooooooouuuuggg-hhhh!" 

Jackson's black eyes flickered over the young married woman's lush body. He 
had won this round! Her white silk body was coated in a fine mist of 
perspiration like dew on a rose in the gray hours of dawn, and her full 
breasts were swollen and tipped by diamond-chip hard nipples. There was no 
mistaking the sensuous electricity which caused her faint whimpers and 
grinding movements, nor the outward flowering of her softly quivering 
vagina. Submission or slavery . . . she was his now! He held her soul and 
her body, and it had been ridiculously easy because he held the key: all 
women were whores-like his mother who supplemented the family income with 
another occasional street corner trick. 

Pride coursed through Jackson like liquid lightning, spurring him on to new 
heights of sadism. His dirty, jagged fingernails gripped her breasts, 
digging into the pliant flesh until huge red welts rose up on the sensitive 
skin and a rivulet of sweat trickled down from the valley between her twin 
fleshy mounds onto her girlishly flat belly. 

"Like that, don't ya, bitch!" the black terrorist taunted. "So the white 
lady likes black cock, huh?" 

Carrie blushed a brilliant shade of scarlet. Oh, God, if only it still hurt! 
she lamented in silent anguish. I'd rather be dead than feeling like this! 
God, Edward will never touch me again knowing I've made love to a black man 
. . . and liked it! 

The shame-stricken girl gritted her teeth and shook her tousled curls in a 
desperate effort to keep from muttering any sound that would signal her 
arousal; but when Jackson began pumping his cock in and out of her tender 
pussy with brutal intensity, Carrie couldn't hold back her gasp of 
masochistic joy. Her cuntal muscles, as though controlled by a switch, 
opened and closed around the pummeling penis, sending tremors of tingling 
desire throughout her shackled figure until her scalp shivered and her bare 
white toes curled under in helpless ecstasy. 

Jackson, incited by clasping muscles hugging his burgeoning cock, slammed 
his lust engorged penis into her with the force of a jet plane preparing for 
take-off. Both their sexual juices were flowing so copiously that they 
gushed in one white, sticky stream as he sawed in and out of her, making 
lewd sucking noises. 

Only one thing remained to be done: make her beg for it. This proud, 
upper-class bitch must beg, must sob in need for more of his hammering cock. 

'Tell me how good it feels, bitch!" he groaned, panting out of breath from 
the labor of his lust. "Tell me how much you like it!" 

It's no use! I can't stop myself! Carrie's dazed mind shuddered. He knows 
I'm really a whore at heart. I'm just a-she shivered, trying to think of the 
elusive word, all the time wriggling her hips upward to meet her rapist's 
ruthless thrusts. A NYMPHOMANIAC! That's what I am! lama sick sex maniac! 

"Say it!" Jackson growled through clenched teeth. His balls were aching with 
pent-up lust, but he couldn't allow himself his climax until he'd heard this 
bigoted professor's wife beg for more of his cock. "Go on! Tell me ya wanna 
be fucked! Say it!" 

The lust-maddened terrorist could read from his kidnapped victim's 
involuntary whimpers and moans that she was near her orgasm. With sly 
cruelty, he slowly withdrew his passion-swollen cock from her clenching cunt 
to let it lie dormant a mere tantalizing inch inside her voluptuous vagina. 

As much as Carrie hated herself for it, she couldn't keep her naked buttocks 
from grinding up against the wiry patch of his groin. Despite her aroused 
lust, she retained enough control over herself to keep the incriminating 
whimpers of frustration from bubbling from her lips. 

"SAY IT!" Jackson yelled. His sperm churned to butter in his testicles and 
he knew from the no-longer-virginal bride's grunting and scrunched-up facial 
expression that she, too, was nearing her climax. "BEG BITCH!" he rasped 
out, forcing his bulbous cock head a couple of inches into her juicy cunt, 
then tantalizingly withdrawing it again. 

"Noooo.. . noooo!" whimpered Carrie. Her words sounded pitifully pathetic in 
her own ears, like a bad actor trying to convince his audience a real bullet 
had struck his chest. She clenched her green eyes shut and prayed for 
strength from the Virgin Mary to resist this last, impossible sinful 
degradation. This scurrilous criminal-this scum of earth black man-would 
never have the satisfaction of hearing her beg for his . . . his thing! 

Jackson's beady eyes grew cold and flinty. "Do I have to beat it out of 
you?" 

When the girl's eyes remained passively shut and her lips refused to budge, 
the kidnapper's pent-up passion exploded in a animalish burst of jungle 
rage. One flattened hand slashed out to strike her shame-reddened left 
cheek, while the other grasped so fiercely at her right breast that she 
winced and yelped in real pain. Oddly enough, she was far less aware of the 
physical pain than of the masochistic excitement surging through her 
lust-peaked body. 

"Do I have to carve that pretty face of yours.. . or is that enough?" 

Thrills of terror inched along Carrie's frozen spine, and as she stared at 
her abductor's black, sweating face, something snapped in her psyche. 

What's the difference? her dazed mind whirled. He already knows I'm a whore. 
Why play games? He's crazy enough to cut up my face if I don't do as he 
asks. 

"All right. . . " she mumbled under her sweet breath, her face rubicund with 
shame despite the weird tremors of lust fanning out of her fire-filled 
vagina to every nerve-ending in her young body. 

Jackson raised his hand and slapped her again across the cheek, just for the 
pleasure of seeing her cringe beneath his strength. "Say it, you whore!" 

"I w-want you to do it to m-me . . . want you to fuck me . . . " The words 
whispered from Carrie's parched lips in a low, tremulous whisper at first, 
but when she heard her own voice mouthing the vulgar obscenity, she wanted 
to hear more. 

"Ohhh, yes!" she spat, loudly, shrilly. "Fuck me . . . fuck meee you black 
bastard!" 

"You said it, baby!" Jackson grinned and lunged. 

Carrie's sensitive cervix stung as the red hot poker of Jackson's black 
anvilled penis banged against it. . . but she scarcely noticed the pain. Her 
mouth had voiced what her body wanted so desperately, washing away all 
inhibitions. Everything incited her dormant passion: the pain in her 
ecstatically throbbing pussy, the unwashed odor of the man's sweat, the 
bonds on her ankles and wrists. 

"Screw me.. . fuck me. . . you bastard!" her own voice pleaded, sounding 
strange-like a poor quality cassette. Lord, she didn't realize she knew such 
obscenities. "I neeeed ittt! God help me . . . I have to have it! DAMN YOU, 
FUCK ME!" 

The sadistic ex-con squirmed with passion as he watched the pure white angel 
transformed into a black devil of lust. White hot semen boiled inside his 
hairy testicles as they slapped vigorously against the puckered hole of her 
anus and his cock banged to the hilt with every maddened stroke. Both of his 
black sweaty palms were clutching her breasts now, his unfiled nails digging 
fiercely into her unblemished ivory skin. His leadership would remain 
uncontested after the rest of SALM took a look at the humbled voluptuous 
professor's wife! 

Waves of slashing passion surged through Carrie with every jarring thrust of 
the Jackson's swollen cock. Gnashing her teeth, she arched her hips up to 
force him back into her burning cunt with every out-stroke, then ground down 
into the mattress on the down-thrust while the sac of his balls beat a 
maddening tattoo against her anus. When he crushed his mouth to hers and 
snaked his tongue between her lips, she didn't notice the stale taste of 
beer and barbeque, so far gone was she. 

Suddenly, the black body above her jerked and stiffened and his penis 
tickling against her cervix, expanded like a blown up balloon until Carrie 
was certain it would tear right through her belly. He tore his lips away 
from hers, groaning like a jungle animal, and through the hazy fog of her 
degenerate lust, she dimly recognized that something wonderful was about to 
happen. 

"UUUuuurrnnggghhh!" snarled Jackson. "I'm cumming in your hot cunt!" 

Hot jets of thick white semen splashed high up into Carrie's quivering cunt 
as the man's lewd cries echoed above her own breathless whimpers, above the 
full-volume rumble of freeway traffic and sirens of highway police chasing 
down speeders. Blackness studded with flashing neon-bright stars swam before 
her eyes, and then she screamed too, the high pitched wail of a 
demon-possessed madwoman. As the convulsing walls of her conquered cunt 
clasped around the surging, spurting cock, a tidal wave of ferocity flooded 
every pore of her perspiration soaked body, from her fettered ankles to the 
roots of her tangled and knotted chestnut curls. "AAAAIEEE!" 

The kidnapped bride's climactic scream was so piercing that down on the 
street below a hooker raised her head, wondering who was using the condemned 
apartment building for her John and wondering, too, if it wouldn't be 
cheaper than the motel down the block. Both Jackson and Carrie were moaning 
and spasming in erotic ecstasy, oblivious to all but the electrical 
intensity of their mutual orgasm. Especially the young bride, who'd never so 
much as dreamed that such carnal bliss existed. 

"Don't stop! Don't ever stop!" she wailed frantically, crushing her 
pulsating pelvis up against the man's still lunging penis as her first 
orgasm of her sheltered life reverberated through each and every cell of her 
long-denied loins. I've gone crazy-BUT I DON'T CARE! 

Then all coherent thought faded from her deflowered mind as she sank into a 
vacuum of physical release that tingled over her body, sparking her nerve 
ends. She spasmed in indescribable pleasure as thick, milky-white rivulets 
of sperm oozed from her cum-filled pussy onto her trembling thighs and the 
soft brown tendrils of her pubic curls. 

"Oh God! Sooo goooddd . . . soooggoodd!" 

Jackson relished his captive's cry and felt her body fall into limp 
unconsciousness beneath him. He'd fucked her so hard he'd damn near killed 
her! 

Summoning up his last reserves of strength, the sadistic rebel pulled his 
sated, deflating penis from the quivering hole of Mrs. Tarrington's pussy 
dripping with cuntal juices soft as melted butter. The lewd, wet sluicing 
sound it made as it pulled out delighted him, as did the sight of the creamy 
white spider webs of combined male and female secretions which threaded from 
his deflated penis. White bitch! Grinning egoistically, he hoisted his naked 
black body up over the unconscious body of the roped-down professor's wife 
and smeared his cum-stained penis over her unconscious face. 

I just might keep her for myself he gloated, as he slid his sperm-spattered 
cock over the girl's flushed cheeks, her closed eyes, her Irish nose. With 
her credit cards and money I can take her to Morocco and keep her my slave. 
To hell with Una, Carl and James. . . let them, fight the revolution. I 
ain't never had nothin' this beautiful, and I ain't about to give it up to 
free some dumb-assed niggers in South Africa. . . 

Jackson's limp male flesh shaft slipped from his fingers and away from 
Carrie's semen-glistening face as he collapsed in exhaustion next to the 
unconscious young wife's nakedly fettered body. As a mouse scratched in the 
corner, he fell into a satiated swoon, his pistol an arm's length away. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Across Berkeley, in a more posh section of town, Dr. Tarrington drained his 
third scotch and poured himself another as the unconsoling figure of a 
uniformed Berkeley police officer flanked by two detectives jotted down 
information. In the living room the televisions' evening news mumbled on: 

"News from Berkeley tonight . . . Senator Kelly's daughter, recently married 
to Dr. Edward Tarrington was abducted from the riot-worn Berkeley campus 
today. KOED radio station received a communique stating the kidnap was 
effected by a new radical group calling themselves SALM-South African 
Liberation Movement. F'olice have no clues as to her whereabouts . . . " 

The news throbbed against Edward's temples and he glared at the television 
set as if that box of glass and tubes was responsible for his misery. "Turn 
that damned thing off!" he barked. 

In the low-rent flat lands north of Oakland, Carl and James sat cross-legged 
on the threadbare rug of Jackson's apartment watching intently the 
television broadcast and christening SALM'S kidnapping with a marijuana 
cigarette and a bottle of Jack Daniels. 

". . . the communique demands a ransom of one million dollars for the safe 
return of Catherine Ann Kelly Tarrington . . . " 

Christ, it s a fairytale! Carl slapped his dirty knee joyfully, but his 
lopsided stoned grin faded quickly-Next to him James took a sidelong glance 
at Carl and a flint of shared suspicion sparked between them. James said it 
first: "I don't trust that asshole Jackson to make the pick-up. How do we 
know he ain't gonna squeeze out of the country and leave us with the 
kidnapping rap? He'll be layin' on a beach soaking in the rays while we're 
staring at the walls of San Quentin-from the inside!" 

In his north-side studio apartment Peter Goldberg sat chewing his 
fingernails to the quick, waiting for telephoned directives from FBI 
headquarters. I've got to get Carrie out of Jackson's grasp before he rapes 
her. Peter gnashed his teeth in anguish thinking of Carrie's pure Irish legs 
spread out-probably tied down-on some grungy mattress while Jackson stripped 
her shivering body naked and pounded his black cock into her pure, pink 
pussy.. . biting on her sweet little nipples and swirling his tongue over 
her creamy white breasts. Peter's penis gave a jealous lurch and he hated 
Jackson for getting all that pleasure when he, Peter, had treated Carrie 
like a lady back then . . . Why the hell didn't headquarters call so they 
could make the bust? That's the establishment for you . . . inefficient 
bastards, thought Peter, holding his head in his hands, pulling at his hair, 
hindsight fighting guilt and anguish wrestling with envy. 

One block off on Telegraph Avenue Una Hart sat like a smug Odalisque sipping 
a glass of wine on her bed, watching the evening news with unadulterated 
relish. Her feet ached from scouring the campus with Dr. Tarrington 
searching in vain for his wife and she never did get a lunch break, but her 
spirits soared high as the flight of a lonely seagull. Deftly, her slim 
fingers lifted up the telephone receiver and dialed Jackson's number. 

A foggy voice mumbled a hello. It was Carl, stoned, drunk and incoherent as 
a deaf-mute on a three day drunk. 

"Where's Jackson?" she blasted. "Why aren't you two idiots with him? You 
were supposed to make arrangements for the pick up . . . I don't care if he 
told you to go home!" 

Sixth sense, ESP, whatever it was, something chilling and bitingly vivid 
flashed in Una's mind and she sat smoldering, taking long drags off her 
cigarette, her mind cogitating, piecing together the fragments of the 
moment. 

Jackson, a white-hating sadist alone with the prissy, pure minded hostage . 
. . no doubt screwing her to the teeth. Una's pride was hurt; after three 
years of risking her neck digging in files, opening confidential mail, 
spying and literally supporting SALM, Jackson was getting all the pleasure! 
And maybe the money, too. He was dirt. He had no loyalties, no feelings.. . 
probably didn't care about the cause, either . . . just himself, the selfish 
bastard. Time would tell. If he didn't contact her in the appointed time, 
she would have to find out for herself what the problem was. 

A sliver of orange neon light pierced its way through the smudged window to 
awaken Carrie from a deep but fitful sleep. Her first groggy thought was of 
her empty, rumbling stomach that hadn't seen food since breakfast, but an 
instant later the rank odor of dried sperm, perspiration, and the stale air 
jolted her back into the present. 

My God! she thought, her head sinking down into the dirty mattress in abject 
defeat as she recalled the unforgivable response to her captor's brutal 
assault. How could I have done that? I must have been drugged . . . black 
men use a lot of drugs. 

Carrie grasped onto this rationalization, needing something to protect her 
mind from the shocking reality of her shamefully sinful performance an hour 
ago. She reassured herself that she was innocent, that she had been 
violated, but somehow her excuses seemed flimsy. Tears pricked her eyes and 
she moved her head to see the black shadow of Jackson reach an ebony arm out 
to turn the knob of his transistor radio. 

". . . the wife of noted professor, Dr. Edward Tarrington . . . " the 
newscaster droned. Carrie couldn't catch all the words, but she comprehended 
enough to cause a shudder to rattle her teeth. 

". . . possible link-up with new radical Berkeley group . . . South African 
repression . . . ransom of one million dollars for the safe return . . . " 

Carrie struggled to choke back her sobs, not wanting to remind her brutal 
captor of her presence in the room. Oh God! she wailed silently, burying her 
burning cheeks in the filthy mattress. Poor Edward! Poor Daddy! They must be 
worried sick! They don't know where I am! 

Yet even as she bemoaned her fate, a far corner of her no-longer-virginal 
wife's mind was vehemently disputing her conscious mind. 

How could you bear to face your husband again, anyway? this cruel, but 
truthful voice demanded. 

You 're not fit to touch the ground he walks on-you cheap slut! 

Beside Carrie, Jackson lay with one arm draped over his forehead, staring up 
at the plaster-chipped ceiling, the wheels of his mind meshing. 

Like the scales of a heroine dealer, his mind weighed the possibilities down 
to the tiniest fleck. It would be dangerous, of course, but if he played his 
cards right, he could make the pick-up himself and skip the country before 
the FBI caught a whiff of his trail. 

A million bucks could last me a lifetime in Morocco. J could get me a black 
servant and live like a king, he thought. Hell. . . I could bring this white 
bitch along and let her keep house for me. First I gotta get her outta here 
so nobody can find her.. . nobody's gonna get a nickel from Tarrington 
unless they got his wife, too. 

Feeling the mattress sag slightly under his shifting weight, Carrie 
hurriedly clenched her eyes shut and feigned sleep. Please don't let him 
touch me again! I can't stand it! 

"All right, you bitch! Stop playing like you're sleeping." The familiar 
snarl rang in Carrie's ears, the dank smell of his beer and barbeque breath 
stinging her nostrils. "You and me are gonna have a little party here before 
we move. Open those green eyes and take a look at what you're having to 
drink." 

Shivering in dread, the naked bride did as she was told, then gasped in 
wide-eyed horror. In his black hand Jackson brandished his long ebony penis, 
fully erect and glistening at its bulbous tip from pearl-like beads of 
liquid excitement. 

"Noooooo . . . please, noooo . . . " Carrie protested in a weak whimper. 

He wants me to take that awful thing in my mouth.' she thought, her eyes 
widening in revulsion and nausea. I can't do that! How could I face Edward 
if he knew I'd taken a black thing into my mouth! 

Yet even as her frantic protestations echoed through her shock-disoriented 
brain, the victimized professor's wife knew she would not resist. All her 
energy had been drained already, and fighting off the cruel rapist was 
futile. Besides, disgusting as the admission was, she felt her pulse 
quickening and her vagina tingling at the sight of the huge cockshaft which 
inched closer and closer to her flushed face. 

Oh, God, no! she moaned to her traitorous body. If you get out of control 
again, you're sicker than you thought. 

"Looks good, huh?" sneered the lust-crazed terrorist. "Stick out your tongue 
and have a lick!" 

Without even giving the cringing girl a chance to obey, he grabbed two 
handfuls of her snarled chestnut curls and jerked her tightly compressed 
lips up against his blood-swollen cockhead. Carrie squirmed in disgust, 
almost gagging from the taste of his male juices. But she kept her mouth 
clenched shut. 

"Open up, slut!" commanded Jackson. 

The humiliated bride started to shake her head in firm refusal, but in the 
next instant vise-like fingers were pinching her nostrils together. For a 
short while she kept her mouth shut as the heated pressure of his iron-hard 
black flesh bore down on her soft lips, but it was a wasted effort. 
Inevitably, she had to gasp for oxygen, and the massive penis sprang into 
her mouth, bloating her cheeks. 

The acrid, unwashed taste and odor of the man's genitals overpowered the 
inexperienced girl, making her stomach bubble with nausea. She tried to hold 
her tongue free of the throbbing penis, but the heated male flesh was 
pushing all the way down her throat and filling every centimeter of her 
mouth with black male flesh. The thick vein on the underside was pulsing 
against her tongue, wriggling like a worm in her mouth and she could feel 
the blood pulse to the bloated tip, making it grow inch by cruel inch until 
the blunt tip prodded against her larynx. 

"Aaaaahhhh!" the degraded wife moaned. "Nnnnaaaahhhh!" 

Her own moans sounded like grunts from an animal in her ears, for her whole 
face was mashed against his hairy balls and her lips were straining to 
encompass the giant hunk of flesh. It wasn't just her inhuman cries that 
told her that she was nothing but a cheap little whore; the tiny electric 
fires flickering along her traitorous body were the real proof of her 
degeneracy. 

"Suck it baby! Eat it like a nice licorice stick!" leered the sadistic 
rapist. "If you do a good job, I'll fuck your hot little cunt again . . . 
remember how much you liked that?" 

OH GOD, HE'S RIGHT! Carrie's tortured mind screamed. My vagina is tingling 
again and I can't stop these sinful feelings! 

The ravished bride gave in. Without further urging, she began hungrily 
lapping at the pulsating penis, tasting and nibbling and swirling her tongue 
around the sensitive glans as though she'd been born doing this. Strange 
masochistic fires of lust exploded inside her as she acknowledged her own 
sick perversity, and she gave in to her libido, bowing to its lustful 
demands. 

I wonder if my father made my mother do this to him! Maybe she loved it, 
too! her disoriented brain whirled as she clasped her cheeks around the 
burgeoning flesh cudgel with sinful delight. She hail to love it! It's 
wonderful! 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

Now that Jackson had tied up Carrie's unconscious, sperm-splattered body in 
his newly discovered hideout in a condemned house two blocks away, directly 
under the thundering underpass, he congratulated himself on a job well done. 
His white teeth sparkled gloatingly as he listened to the fire trucks scream 
their sirens and screech to a halt in front of the flaming apartment 
building that moments before had been Carrie Tarrington's prison. Standing 
in the glass cage phone booth, fingering a slender dime, he could see red 
fingers licking at the endless void of the night skies, bathing the city in 
a hideous orange glow and choking it with smoke as the building exploded 
into flames like a dried Christmas tree. 

All of Berkeley was aware of the five alarm fire-especially Dr. Tarrington 
who sat half drunk and fully expecting the telephone to scream shrilly as he 
stared with numbed fear at the smoky clouds rising from the flatlands below. 
Was his dear, sweet little Carrie in there, screaming for help while the 
flames licked at her quivering flesh? His lip curled back in a snarl of 
hatred for her abductors while his house, infested with policemen, FBI 
agents and newsmen, turned into an ant hill of activity. Their poking around 
his house and flicking cigarette ashes on his Persian carpets was beginning 
to annoy him. To them Carrie's kidnap was just another headline story from 
Berkeley; none of them cared if his wife was dead at the hands of a black 
man. 

All mouths clamped shut and several pairs of anxious eyes greedy for a 
story, a clue, fell on Dr. Tarrington as he carefully picked up the ringing 
telephone receiver and answered it in a voice shaky with fear and emotion. 

". . . Leave the bills in a garbage bag in the dumpster in back of Sammie's 
Cafeteria on San Pablo. You get your hot-assed little wife back two hours 
after the pick-up. You fool around with cops and shit and you ain't never 
gonna see her sweet little face again." 

Instantly, Dr. Tarrington recognized the uneducated, obscene language of a 
ghetto black filled with perverse hatred for all white men and he shuddered 
and shivered as if a blast of Arctic wind had gusted through the opened 
door. 

* * * 

Carrie wasn't the only one in misery that night as the moon rose from its 
watery grave and splattered light over the murky Bay waters. 

Una Hart stomped up the steps to her apartment, her heart throbbing with 
agonizing rejection and her fists clenching with hatred for a man whom she 
had trusted. "The disloyal, cheating, double-crossing mother fucker!" she 
sputtered, her lungs burning from the brisk walk back from the hideout which 
Jackson had set afire without contacting any of them about his change in 
plans. Now she knew why he hadn't called her as planned. 

She hated herself for believing in Jackson and being sucked in by his jive 
talk of freeing black people from white oppression. He d never planned on 
going underground or dedicating his life to the cause, she thought. Hell no! 
It didn't take the investigative brain of Holmes to figure out that Jackson 
was about to take the money and run, leaving the rest of them to face the 
fireworks. 

Una poured herself a glass of wine, drank it in one gulp and refilled it. 
I've got to get out of here before the FBI closes in on us. If they catch 
Jackson hell sure an hell turn states' evidence on me and I'll be the one to 
rot in prison. She'd been rejected, cheated and her life stretched ahead of 
her like a barren desert highway leading into a dark void of nothingness. 
Her misaimed mind refused to believe the obvious-the cause was dead. 

I can go to South Africa and start up a new branch of SALM there. But no . . 
. I'm White . . . nobody would trust me. . . especially the blacks. Or . . . 
I could go to Rio and find myself a rich man who'd support me. 

Una sat for long moments, nervously peeling the label from the wine bottle 
with her slender thumb nail. And if I go to Rio, what then? I won't fit into 
that crowd . . . nobody down there takes anything seriously. Nobody cares 
about things as seriously as I do. What's life but a cruel, dirty joke.. . " 
She snickered bitterly to herself, the skin of her fair-complexioned face 
feeling tight with infinite emptiness, her eyes open but seeing nothing in 
the black vacuum of life. 

Slowly, deliberately, she rose from her bed and strode to her dresser where 
she opened the top drawer and pulled out a bottle, uncapped it and shook out 
several morphine tablets from the stash that Carl had melted down to drug 
Carrie Tarrington. Draining the wine bottle to the dregs, she threw a 
handful of yellow capsules into her mouth and washed them down with the 
wine. 

Death is the only true romance, she thought, lying supine on the bed. Now 
I'm going to sleep for a long, long time . . . Finally I'll have somewhere 
to go. 

As Una fell into a deep comatose slumber, Peter Goldberg pulled his pistol 
from the desk drawer, slammed it shut, and filled the barrel with bullets, 
his fingers working deftly, his mind calculating. In two years of working as 
an undercover agent for the FBI he had yet to shoot a man and squeamishly he 
hoped he wouldn't have to point this barrel between the eyes of the poor, 
messed-up Una Hart . . . or Carl and James, Jackson's white puppets. 

I want Carrie alive! It's my fault I let Jackson have her in the first 
place, but by God, I'll find her! 

FBI headquarters had telephoned minutes before, informing him that in the 
commotion of the fire trucks, congested traffic and idle onlookers, they had 
lost Jackson's trail. Whether or not Carrie Tarrington's fine white flesh 
had disintegrated into a charcoaled mass of ashes and bones, they weren't 
certain. The fire would have to be extinguished before they could surmise. 

His only hope of getting to Jackson were James and Carl who were gullible 
and short-sighted enough to be talked into anything . . . including turning 
state's evidence on Jackson and clearing their names. Neither had been in 
the kidnapping car or harmed Carrie in any way. Like Una, they were 
Jackson's buffoons, extension of his own screwed up ego. But, with typical 
institutional blunderings, the FBI had lost track of Carl and James who, 
unbeknownst to Una and Peter, had defied Jackson, left no word of their 
whereabouts and snuck out of Jackson's apartment. To further complicate 
matters, he couldn't reach Una who was either not at home or wasn't 
answering her telephone. Nobody knew the two SALM members were sitting in a 
San Pablo street bar heatedly discussing over a pitcher of beer and amateur 
country and western music what to do next. 

Finally, with their bellies full of beer and their minds buzzing with fury 
at the ex-con black leader whom Una hinted would cheat them out of their 
fair share of the ransom money, they zipped up their jackets and headed out 
into the crime-ridden area of town where hookers sported their wares and 
drunks guzzled Thunderbird wine. 

Maybe the FBI didn't know it, but they were positive Jackson wouldn't send 
his hostage up in flames when she was worth a million dollars alive. 
Certain, too, that Jackson was traveling on foot, they set out in search of 
Carrie Tarrington, knowing that whoever had her had the million dollars. 

The weight of the pistols dragged in their down jackets and the combination 
of marijuana and alcohol had imbued the pair with King Kong courage as they 
tromped down dingy alleyways, dark and silent except for the occasional bark 
of a warehouse Doberman pinscher keeping guard and the scratch of rats 
scouring trash cans and littered debris in search of food. 

Difficult it was for Jackson to realize so much had happened in ninety 
minutes: moving Carrie to this flea-infested deserted house hidden under the 
shadows of unlit street lamps, burning down the evidence of his former 
hideout, and making arrangements for picking up the ransom money tomorrow. 
Now, safe, nervous and slightly out of breath, he lay on the tattered bed 
next to Carrie's shivering, sleep-stirring body and listened to the 
crackling fire raging out of control, its flying sparks lighting up the 
skies like Fourth of July fireworks. 

Carrie was half awake, he realized, squinting at her bruised face splashed 
with orange light and encrusted with dried sperm, and her tied-up body 
looked mangled as a broken doll in her ripped blouse and wrinkled skirt. Her 
hideous condition and vulnerable frailty flinted a spark of sadism in his 
black heart. 

There's only one thing I ain't done with this white bitch, he thought 
triumphantly.. . . and I ain't gonna go to Morocco until I finish her off. 

Carrie's half-conscious body didn't feel the rough hands momentarily untie 
her wrists and ankles and flip her over like a breakfast pancake. She 
groaned slightly from the dizzying after-effects of the morphine and the 
mind shattering fatigue of fear and rape she'd suffered at the hands of this 
madman. Only when she felt the calloused hands tie her wrists again with the 
ropes of her twisted nylon stockings, did she open one green eye to see her 
tormentor slip out of his pants and drop to his knees in back of her on the 
squeaking, dust-filthy mattress. 

With painful tantalizing slowness, Jackson let out an obscene moan and ran 
his long bony finger along the soft crevice of Carrie's buttocks, his ragged 
finger nail searching for and finding the puckered buttonhole of her anus. 
She lurched, winced, and gave in to the pain as he probed at the tiny hole, 
wriggling his probing finger into the tight elastic opening, his black body 
shimmering with unholy intent as the fire played over his shadowy figure. 

His words stung her consciousness, but only for a moment. "I'm gonna fuck 
that white ass of yours, Mrs. Tarrington," he spat menacingly. "I'm gonna 
shove my cock up that tight ass hole of yours and squirt my black cum into 
your asshole. . . and when your bigoted husband gets you back, I want you to 
tell him how much you love ol' Jackson's cock." 

Propped up on his knees, Jackson stroked with his free hand his hardened 
penis until it stood out in a forty-five degree angle, hard and black as a 
chunk of coal. It wouldn't take much taunting to get her going now, he knew, 
and for the pleasure of seeing her squirm out of control, he lowered his 
head, his kinky hair tickling deliciously the split of her buttocks as he 
shot out his long rough tongue and lathed it over the puckered bud of her 
most intimate parts. 

A shiver of vulnerable delight goose bumped Carrie's body and with a growl, 
Jackson ripped off her blouse in one yank, wadded it up, and threw it in the 
corner. Her skirt came next, joining her blouse in a wrinkled heap like so 
much old newspaper. 

Oh Lord, whimpered Carrie silently. What kind of block magic does this man 
use? I can't take much more of this. But she could . . . 

Jackson slithered one long hand underneath her buttocks to cup her pubic 
mound and stretched one finger to massage the bud of her clitoris, still 
slippery and swollen from the last time he'd raped her only two hours 
before. Or was it two days.. . ? Oh, she couldn't be sure of anything . . . 
except for the electrical sparks of lust charging over her body from the 
tips of her hardened nipples to the ends of her chestnut pubic curls matted 
with Jackson's dried cum. 

With a savage grunt, Jackson dropped his hand from the mushroom tip of his 
black mushroomed cock head, raised a finger to his mouth and spat on it, 
then rubbed his saliva over the puckered hole of Carrie's anus, the only 
lubrication she was to receive. 

"Get up on your knees, bitch!" he growled, slapping her creamy ass-cheeks 
cruelly till Carrie, with a groan of real pain, wriggled her buttocks 
compliantly and rose painfully to her knees. 

"Higher!" he blasted, grabbing her around the waist and forcing her into a 
dog-like position until she thought her spine would snap. 

Oh, dear God, he's really going to do it! He's going to put his big black 
thing in me back there! Carrie had never heard of anal sex, but her 
tormentor was preparing her for the initiation. 

To fight meant more pain, more humiliation, and she winced only slightly 
when he pulled her legs wide apart and levered himself between her creamy 
thighs, aiming his blood-bloated penis straight at the eye of her rectum and 
pressured relentlessly against the skinned resistance. 

"Oooooucchh! You're hurting meeee!" Carrie gave out one yell of anguish as 
the bloated head of his penis popped through the elastic rim of her anus and 
wriggled cruelly into the buttery depths of her bowels. The first stab of 
pain was too numbing to register in her swirling brain and she merely bit 
her lips and whimpered submissively . . . a broken woman with a broken 
spirit and shattered morals. A wave of self-hatred began to splash over her 
brain, but it didn't have a chance to crash against her fragile psyche, for 
a second wave of pain swelled in her bowels as the cruel rapist shoved his 
penis with a flick of his hips, banging her head into the iron posts of the 
headboard. 

He's going to rip me apart.. . he.. . he's going to rum me forever! her mind 
wailed. But I deserve it! I don't deserve to ever have sex with Edward or to 
have his children. I'm a disgusting woman. I'm as crude and lustful as 
Jackson. I'm worse . . . he was born with nothing and I was born with 
everything. He doesn't know any better . . . but I should. 

Her thoughts were shattered with the next thundering plunge of Jackson's 
blood-fed cock gouging into her tender rectal walls, sending a charge of 
pain up her spine that nearly made her gag. Gnashing her pearly teeth, she 
clenched her anal muscles, trying to squeeze him out and was immediately 
rewarded by a lecherous grunt from the pumping madman behind her. 

"You got natural talent, lady. You're gonna make ol' Jackson cum if you 
don't quit squeezing my cock like that!" 

"Never! I'd never try to please you!" she yelled. "NEVER!" And to cut off 
his pleasure, she relaxed her anal muscles until her anus expanded a full 
two inches. Jackson continued fucking into the depths of her bowels like 
waves crashing against rocky cliffs. To her dismay, the pain lifted like fog 
on a dewy morning and the yellow glow of carnal bliss pierced through her 
agony. She screamed out, more from the mental anguish of her masochistic 
lust than from the physical pain of her anal rape. 

Out in the alleyway Carl stopped short in his tracks, drew out his pistol 
(though he'd never shot a gun in his life) and halted James with a gestured 
hand. Putting his finger to his lips, he crooked his head, shaking his 
blonde hair out of his eyes, and motioned toward the ramshackle house facing 
the alley. Stealthy as alley cats they stole toward a first story window and 
peered in. 

The two of them stared slack jawed as the fire-lit skies shimmered over 
Jackson's naked ebony back and he pounded into the hostage's tortured anus, 
cries of mixed pain and pleasure rippling from her parched lips like squeals 
from an animated doll. 

"Jesus Christ!" James stood on his tip toes and peered over the cracked 
window ledge. "He's fucking her in the ass!" he hissed. 

"Hell, yeah! God, what a honey!" returned Carl, feeling his penis lurch 
enviously. "Fuck the money. I want a piece of that ass! Christ, look at the 
way she's takin' it!" 

Guns drawn, their nylon jackets rustling in soft whispers, they drew their 
guns and tip toed in Addida-soft steps up the rickety steps of the house and 
took Jackson by surprise. 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

"Damned establishment can't do a goddamned thing right," grunted Peter. His 
blue Volkswagen screeched to a halt outside of the blazing inferno whose 
age-old tinder crackled like popcorn over a hot stove. Stupid agents should 
have nabbed all of the SALM members by now. But no. . . they have to fart 
around. 

Disregarding the fire hydrant with its attached placenta-like hose pumping 
water, he parked his car in front of it and shoved his gun in his back 
holster. 

His guilt was beginning to lift now that he was finally on the trail to 
rescuing Carrie Tarrington. Peter had been feeling guilty about having any 
part in her kidnap. She was so fresh, so innocent. . . and he didn't like to 
have it on his conscience that he'd let such an attractive and harmless 
female fall into the hands of sadistic radicals like Jackson and Una. 

The FBI still suspected that Carrie was burning up in the fire that was 
flushing his cheeks now, but he knew better because he knew the machinations 
of a radical mind. Hell. . . that's what I'm getting paid for, he thought, 
elbowing his way through the gawking onlookers watching the roof collapse in 
a gust of flames. 

Two cruising undercover agents had seen two white men stalking the streets 
in the neighborhood and, surmising it to be Carl and James sniffing out 
Jackson's trail, Peter hastened to follow the lead. 

His desert boots shuffled silently down an alleyway not far from where he'd 
parked his car when he stopped short and listened outside of a condemned 
house. Was that an alley cat in heat screaming in the night, or was that a 
tortured cry of a human in pain? 

"Aaahhhh! Nnnoooo!" 

They're raping her, by the sound of it. His conscience singed with guilt and 
despair, he tip toed into the filthy, bad smelling house which was 
completely dark, save for the sparkles of fire light. Gun drawn, ears and 
eyes keened for attack, he squinted into a flashlight lit room to see four 
grappling figures. 

"Hold her down, you idiot!" he heard James grunt. "C'mon, hold her head! How 
am I gonna get my prick inside her cunt unless you keep her from wriggling 
around?" 

There was a skirmish, after which Carl ended up sitting on his knees before 
Carrie's wailing face, between she and the headboard with his finger digging 
into her naked breasts. The scene resembled something from a cult 
initiation. 

Carrie lay on the mattress with her wrists tied to the iron bedposts and her 
buttocks waving in the air while Jackson pounded fitfully into her anus and 
James wriggled under her torso to sink his penis into her vagina from 
beneath, causing the sinews of her arms to stand out like telephone cords 
under the strain of her position. 

Peter knew he ought to be disgusted by this vile display of animal passion, 
but he could not deny the wisps of envious excitement that wafted through 
his virile loins at the sight of the beautiful naked female. He pulled the 
trigger on his gun, aiming it at Jackson, but some strange voyeuristic 
excitation prevented him from breaking up the salacious carnal scene. 

"No . . . nooo! NOOOOO!" Carrie chanted in a weak, muffled voice. 

Haven't I suffered enough ? she asked herself dully. Now these animals, too, 
as well as that foul-smelling Jackson. 

Yet even as she cried out in naked despair, tendrils of unwanted desire were 
teasing at the nerve-endings all along her sensuous figure. The smell and 
taste of Carl's genitals excited her, and the prodding sensation of 
dope-clumsied James fumbling between her legs for her cuntal opening brought 
on even stronger sensations of sinful lust. Before she could stop herself, 
she'd let out a moan of crazed carnal hunger and screamed at Jackson to keep 
fucking. 

Peter's eyes bulged from his head as he watched the obscene foursome. Was 
THIS the innocent virginal bride he'd gone out of his way to save? 

"Aaaah!" Mrs. Tarrington whimpered as James' bulbous cock head slipped into 
her avidly clasping cuntal channel. "Yeah, you bastards! Let me suck you! 
And fuck me hard, harder!" 

In less than one day the gang leader had assaulted the hostage three times, 
until by now she'd become a mindless mass of raw female flesh, and the 
moment she felt the electrical surgings of oncoming arousal, she turned into 
a bitch in heat. The morphine had dulled her senses and the pain . . . or 
some of it. This, together with his constant sexual attacks had reduced her 
to a slave who bore little resemblance to the sparkly-eyed coed Peter had 
once known. 

"Unnngg," grunted James as he rammed his long-frustrated penis into the 
girl's wetly clasping vagina. "Christ, she's tight. Ain't that so, Jackson?" 

Jackson's only reply was a bestial groan of ecstasy and James grunted in 
agreement, forcing his short stubby cock between the unresisting hostage's 
soft, warm lips and thrusting into her mouth as hard as he could. Since he 
was generally too stoned to go through the ceremony of seducing a girl, he 
hadn't been with a woman in quite some time. Already his balls were boiling 
with pent-up semen as they slapped against the helpless prisoner's chin. 

She's not worth bothering to save, Peter thought dully. He dropped the gun 
into its holster and started out the door, not bothering to close it. The 
FBI would be closing in on them after the telephone call he was about to 
make . . . and that would end the case. 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Edward Tarrington paced nervously in the hospital hallway waiting for the 
doctor to finish with his examination of Carrie's ravaged body. It seemed an 
eternity before the kindly looking physician finally closed the door behind 
him and walked out into the hallway. 

"Well? How is she?" demanded Tarrington. 

The doctor stared at him silently for a moment, then guiding the professor 
by the elbow down the hallway to more private quarters, he said, "It's hard 
to tell just yet. She's been injected with a high dosage of morphine, but 
not enough to do her any permanent damage. It's the other problem, though." 

Dr. Tarrington stiffened. "Which is.. . ? " 

"She's been raped vaginally, orally and anally." 

Edward buried his face in his hands and moaned, feeling sorry for himself as 
well as Carrie. They had yet to consummate their marriage before his 
innocent, virginal wife had been raped by a black man. 

"Mr. Tarrington, I'm not a psychiatrist, but I've seen a lot of rape cases 
come through these experiences easily . . . women are naturally more 
resilient to both emotional and physical pain than are men. It's the people 
the closest to them who . . . well, can either help them through it or make 
it worse." 

The distinguished professor looked up in disbelief at the doctor. "They've 
raped her every way possible and you're as much as telling me that if Carrie 
becomes . . . becomes frigid, it's my fault." 

"I didn't say that, sir," defended the doctor patiently. 

"What the hell would you do if that was your wife in there?" blasted the 
professor. 

"If she were my wife," started the doctor, his arms crossed over his chest, 
"I'd go in there and say, 'I love you, Carrie. Let's not let this awful 
experience ruin our life together. Let me help and I'll be as patient as I 
can.' " 

The professor watched the doctor head off down the hall to answer the 
intercom page. Dr. Tarrington stood there for a moment, wondering how best 
to handle the situation. He really did love his wife, he realized; earlier, 
perhaps he had merely wanted to possess her, to show her off to the academic 
world as a trophy to his own egotistic virility. 

He cringed, thinking of what their life would undoubtedly be during the 
duration of their marriage. He wasn't lying to himself when he thought of 
her as being a frigid wife, and now after having been raped by a sadistic 
black man . . . well, he would have to get his sex somewhere else. Life 
would have been beautiful if only . . . if only . . . 

There was no use in avoiding the inevitable. Not knowing what he would say, 
he walked down the hallway and peeped inside his wife's hospital room door. 

Carrie was propped up in bed, her stark white hospital gown providing a 
sharp contrast to the ugly blue bruises on her forehead and cheeks where 
Jackson had beaten her. They stared silently at each other for a moment. The 
wise professor stared at her, delving into her eyes and face as if looking 
for some hint of how he should best approach her . . . she at him as if some 
wild, timid animal needing only a sudden movement on the part of the 
beholder to dash into flight. 

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, strained and unrecognizable even to 
himself. "The doctor.. . says you're okay, darling." 

She nodded, just once, the long graceful lines of her throat flexing as she 
swallowed painfully. 

Tarrington sat down on the high bed and reached out to take her hand. Odd, 
he thought as he gazed at her slightly swollen lips. Those bastards raped 
her mouth . . . came in her mouth! Someone else took her virginity, took her 
every way they could, and what do I feel? Abruptly, as he spotted the 
bruises on her neck, he felt an overpowering wave of pity and love for her 
again. Painfully, he watched as the tears welled up in her green eyes and 
she opened her mouth to speak. 

"Edward . . . oh hell!" she exclaimed with a sniff. "I never liked the name 
Edward, it sounds so stiff and unexciting. Please let me call you Eddie . . 
. " 

The offbeat remark threw him off balance for a moment, but he was forced to 
grin in spite of himself. "Call me Eddie if you like." 

She gripped his hand so tightly that he could feel her fingernails biting 
into his flesh as she put her face on the crisp shoulder of her gown and 
wiped some of the tears from the corner of her eyes. Then she drew in a deep 
breath for courage and started to speak. 

"Eddie, I want to tell you something, and I'm not sure you're going to like 
this. I know how you feel about . . . black people and militants and all 
that, but.. . " In a voice that grew stronger as she spoke, the young 
chestnut haired bride told him about her father beating her mother in the 
bedroom and the fears it had instilled in her against sex. 

"When I was kidnapped, I was drugged. When I woke up, this vile man was down 
on his hands and knees, his face up between my legs. I was tied up. . . I 
couldn't do anything about it." 

"Stop . . . Carrie. Forget about it," he said, looking away as if hearing 
about a black man's rape of his wife might hurt him more than her. 

"Please listen . . . and then if you want an annulment, I'll give you one." 

"Carrie . . . you don't have to . . . " The professor elided over the words, 
but Carrie broke in. 

"Be quiet, please . . . " she whispered, smiling to take the sting out of 
her words. 

"I felt this man's tongue licking me down there. Then he put his long hard 
penis up inside my vagina. I came, Eddie! I climaxed three or four times. 
Then he made me . . . made me . . . suck his thing . . . and he came in my 
mouth. I came with him. Then he took me anally and the two others . . . one 
made me suck him while the other took me in the vagina. . . and I begged 
them for more. And you must believe me; despite what the doctor says the 
morphine didn't take away all the pain . . . but it did give me pleasure." 

Carrie saw the ashen expression on her husband's face. "I'm sorry." She 
sighed. "I've been wondering how to tell you." Her voice became high and 
strained. "Do you know how I managed to stay alive during that? I mean from 
going completely berserk?" 

Dr. Tarrington lowered his head and bit his lip. 

"Because , darling, when that tongue was licking me down there, making me 
come, I pretended it was you. When I.. . sucked his thing, it was you." She 
closed her eyes and stared down at the bedspread. "Now you know what a wacky 
wife you have." 

At first Tarrington couldn't believe his ears, but instinctively he knew she 
had nothing to gain by lying to him. These were things they probably would 
have done together if nature had been permitted to take its course. But how 
could he explain it to her? Obviously, she felt ashamed and beyond 
redemption. Gradually, he became aware of the dull throb behind his 
gabardine zipper as his long thick penis stirred into eager life. You're 
forgiven, Carrie, he thought. 

Gently the professor reached out and took her chin in his hand, forcing her 
tear stained face toward him. The answer was clear. "What you're saying, my 
dear, is that you've discovered you like sex." 

Too miserable to look at him, she nodded and said, "A lot." 

"Well, most girls do you know." He grinned and clutched the swelling bulge 
in his trousers. "I've never had any complaints, Carrie, and I doubt you'll 
complain either." 

Carrie heard him, saw his hand squeezing his genitals and realized that she 
had known all along that Edward Tarrington was one of the most virile men 
she'd even seen in her life. . . which was exactly why she'd married him. 

Instinctively, she felt her breasts tingling, her vagina moistening in 
anticipation and she realized she wanted him very badly right then. 

"Eddie..." Do you think they'd care if we locked the door for a little 
while?" 


THE END
