The Captive Runaway
by Edward Mitchell 


INTRODUCTION 

Despite ERA's impact on the American nuclear family, financial security is 
still a foremost factor in marital happiness. In our materialistic age, it 
is tempting for a wife to judge her husband according to her father's 
accomplishments. If Daddy made $40,000 at age 45, then hubbie should gross 
double that at age 

This fallaciously ignorant judgment of one's mate has ripped apart more 
marriages than infidelity. Infidelity can be discreetly arranged, but vocal 
chastising can only be displayed as obdurate nagging, chiseling away at a 
husband's masculinity and sex drive. The husband's neglect is then the first 
link in a chain reaction often leading to divorce. 

The heroine of The Captive Runaway by Edward Mitchell presents a glaring 
example of this sociological truism. Combine the elements of a husband's 
intense dislike for his father-in-law savage sadism and masochism, and you 
have the makings of a sensual nightmare that became Sherrie Turner's 
reality. 

In the quiescent north country, behind the walls of a chalet, Sherrie is 
held captive in the murderous clutches of a madman and his lesbian 
accomplice who mastermind the disappearance of hapless runaways such as our 
heroine. How is she freed and who was the behind-the-scenes criminal who 
abetted in this treachery? 

Turn the page and find out. 

-The Publishers 

 CHAPTER ONE 

"I'm serious, Jack . . . either you haul yourself off that sofa and take out 
the garbage or I'll . . . I'll . . . Ungghh!" Sherrie balled up delicate 
fists so hard, red nail marks jabbed her palms. Glowering down at his 
handsome, unshaven face, she noted the reddened eyeballs. "You're drunk 
again . . . it's only four o'clock in the afternoon!" The auburn-haired 
housewife wailed in a soprano twang that made strange accompaniment to 
Howard Cossel's bass play-by-play. 

From the television set behind her, the Dallas 

Cowgirls theme song blasted from Texas stadium. 

"Eh, move over . . . you're blockin' my sight.. . " Jack's blurred vision 
focused on the half-naked Dallas Cheerleaders, flopping pompoms and 
shimmying hips in goose- bumping costumes of bosom bulging cowgirl vests and 
mini-skirts slunk to the hips, drawing a fine line of decency between thigh 
and pubis. "Move over . . . I wanna see the Cowgirls." 

Waving his wife aside, he wiggled his stockinged toes and let a lecherous 
grin mock his wife's domestic demands. 

"I will not leave you alone!" Sherrie snatched the beer can from his lazy 
clutch and shot him a murderous look. Behind the nipple-popping jersey, her 
melonous breasts heaved with unspent emotion and boiling frustration. Her 
rosy upper lip curled with disgust, showing off pearly teeth. Blood shot to 
her apple cheeks, highlighting a pair of Siamese-green cat eyes that glared 
with predatory intensity now. Hissing between clenched teeth, she slammed 
the beer can down on the end table with an eardrum bursting clatter that 
shook Jack's glazed eyes off a swaying pair of Dallas Cowgirl buttocks. 

Sherrie glowered down at her husband. "Just because Daddy fired you, that 
doesn't mean you can live like a pig in my house!" Look at this place . . . 
and to think Daddy paid the mortgage so we could have a roof over our heads 
. . . because you can't even take care of yourself!" Gesturing toward the 
heap of beer cans that had turned the living room into an aluminum recycling 
plant, she kicked an empty can and sent it flying against a potted plant. 
"Don't you care about me?" 

She bent over to stare him level in the eye; she shook him by the shoulders 
until she thought she heard a filling loosen. "Admit it, we never make love 
anymore!" 

Jack wiped his nose with the back of his hand, yawned and rolled over onto 
his side. Reaching for the beer can that wasn't there, he grumbled from 
liquor-lazed lips: "Don' be a nag, Sher . . . lemme watch TV." 

It was time to plunge the knife. "You wanna watch sexy cheerleaders, is that 
it, Mr. Jack Thompkins Turner?" In a flitter of movement, she yanked her 
t-shirt over her head and let shoulder-length auburn curls swirl about her 
creamy shoulders. They dipped down to the crisp white lace of her brassiere, 
cupping 34-D breasts that were puffed with strawberry tipped nipples, 
hardening with frustration. The creamy mounds swelled with angered 
frustration and a thousand other emotions her drunken husband had not helped 
vent. 

A whine of the zipper and she'd kicked off her snug levis. The line of her 
blue lace trimmed bikini panties hugged the soft bowl of her flawless belly, 
just below the jewel of her navel. Any healthy man would have fallen to his 
knees in adoration of such Gothic beauty, would have salivated over the 
artful tufts of strawberry fleece peeking around the elastic that was 
cupping her pouting mound of venus. 

Sherrie's alabaster flesh goose-bumped with frustration, her nipples 
hardened to bumblebees, and a tight congestion centered in the pit of her 
too long empty stomach. Never lifting her eyes from his unshaven face, she 
plucked two pillows from under his head and using them for pom poms did a 
cheerless cheer for the defeat of a withering marriage. Scissoring her legs, 
she jabbed the pillows at the air; it her breasts jiggled and thrust out 
exaggeratedly. "Jackie Turner's job took U dip "Sher, quit makin' an ass o' 
yourself. . . . " 

"Since then, he can't find his dick. . . . " A jump and dip. 

"Sher, I said cut it out.. . . ! "The jab at his manhood was not kindly 
taken. 

"Pricks and dicks, his wife screamed. . . . " 

When Jack didn't rouse to his defense, Sherrie jabbed a pillow at his face. 

"What must I do. . . . " (half splits, one to each side, pompoms snapping 
high above her head) ". . . to net his cream. . . . " 

"But Jackie boy.. . . " 

She didn't see it coming. 

It was a reflex action and Jack was no wife beater, but the insults, the 
nagging, the bitching of late. Christ, wasn't it bad enough that her asshole 
father had fired him a month before Christmas, without having to suffer the 
bitching at home? 

Sherrie's half naked body flew sideways; her long legs draped over the end 
table. With a whimper of pain, she righted herself, inspected her legs for 
bruises and glared at him. Hate and fear filled her green eyes and her jaw 
ached from his fierce blow. She knew she shouldn't have mocked his impotence 
and neglect, but she'd wanted to hurt him as he'd been hurting her with his 
drunkenness and salacious remarks about other women-when he couldn't even 
please his wife. 

Sure, his pride had attracted him to her at the onset, his one hundred 
percent masculinity. Daddy had warned her about such men; their tender egos 
and nasty tempers. Today marked the first instance of breaking rule number 
one: never hit your wife. She bit her lip and held her hand to her mouth, 
studying fearfully the reddened eyeballs glowering at her murderously. 
Slowly an inkling of that wicked glint lighting his eyeballs struck home . . 
. and she didn't like it. 

Jack stood in his stocking feet and beer-dribbled t-shirt, his muscular 
build foreboding. He balled his hands up into fists and pumped adrenalin 
into the baseball-sized lumps of his muscles. The voice whispered of 
contriteness. 

"Didn't mean to hit you. . . . " 

To an irate wife, a husband's apology is sometimes the worst offering. It 
cements his guilt and after having suffered his fist, he is twice proven 
wrong. Now Sherrie gloried in brandishing the upper hand. 

"Stay away from me, you, you beast! I could stand there half naked and you'd 
never kiss me . . . but, but one look at those cheap Dallas Cowgirls and 
you, you almost.. . . " She buried her head in her hands and sobbed, her 
creamy breasts heaving pathetically. 

"Ah shit. . . . " Jack mumbled to himself, interpreting her emotions as pure 
hatred. In his drunken state, he neglected to consider the unpredictability 
that marks female emotions: hate-filled screams echo loves' sweet cravings. 
In his blurred consciousness, the alabaster goose-bumped body rippled with 
pure disgust . . . and that kindled something cruel and implacable within 
him. 

His deep-set eyes narrowed to slits and a dull angry flush added fever to 
his alcohol reddened cheeks. So she thought he was a beast, huh? Thought he 
didn't have it in him to shove his bloated cock up her crying belly and make 
her uptight cunt cream for joy! 

"So you don't think I'm good enough to touch you, is that it? You forget it 
was your fucking sweet-assed daddy who fired my ass . . . the chicken-shit 
asshole. Just because I happened to find out how Daddy paid for this house 
and anything his baby girl wants, he gets her!" Infuriated beyond control, 
he grabbed his wife by the neck. "Is that the kind of man you respect . . . 
an old fart who belongs behind bars?" 

He shook her by the neck until her face turned red. Only then did he drop 
his hands. "For two years I've listened to you bitch about Daddy this, Daddy 
that. I got news for you, besides being a felon, your Daddy fucks the 
secretary! IS THAT WHAT YOU RESPECT IN A MAN?" 

Sherrie coughed and whimpered, burying her head in her palms. Tears refused 
to flow, damming up behind terrifying emotions. 

"I got news for you, Sherrie. I can be just as big an asshole as your ol' 
man." 

Sherrie's cats' eye marble eyes paled to a fearful, cold hue. "W-what are 
you talking about, Jack . . . ? Jack . . . no, I. . . . " The message 
glinted in his eye. 

"I mean I'm gonna fuck you like Daddy fucks your momma, little girl . . . 
cause that's what you've been crying for!" 

"No . . . don't touch me!" 

"What?" His upper lip curled; he wrapped his fingers in the curls at the 
nape of her neck and got a painful grip. 

"Oh, Jack . . . please, please don't say those things about Daddy. Ouch.. . 
that hurts!" Her voice died in a whimper. 

"It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it will when I shove my prick up your 
belly." 

"No!" 

Suddenly, his hand shot out again to cut her off. He jerked her roughly to 
her feet by his grip on her hair wrapped around his knuckles. "Get that bra 
off and let me see your tits!" 

"You're drunk, Jack!" she spat in a last attempt at defiance. 

"I SAID GET NAKED!" 

Shivering with fear of the stranger towering over her, the trembling 
housewife slipped her hands behind her slender back and unsnapped the hook 
of her brassiere. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked breasts to chill 
in the November air. Beside her Jack fell so strangely silent, it added to 
her fears. If he ranted and raved, she could defend herself, but the silent 
weapon of seething reticence was disarming. 

Reading the message in his blue eyes, she hooked her thumbs in her blue 
bikini panties and peeled them off over the rich swells of her hips, baring 
the pouting mound of Venus fringed with auburn curls that kissed the slender 
sensitivity of Sherrie's inner thighs. Out of the corner of one green eye, 
she caught the evil stare in his eye. Her nipples puckered. 

Sherrie shook her head while tears of rage streamed down her satiny apple 
cheeks. "No! I'm your wife," she pleaded futilely. "Don't treat me like a 
cheap tramp!" 

"Cunt!" Jack's free hand shot out to grab the milky swell of one heaving 
breast. Evilly, he rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, making 
her wince. 

"Stop, you're hurting me, Jack! JACK!" 

"You wanna be treated like a slut, I'll treat you like a slut!" Suddenly he 
threw her face down on the sofa, amidst a crinkle of yesterday's newspapers 
and the rattle of knocked over empty beer cans. She landed on her stomach, 
her dimpled buttocks tensed and naked to his gaze. He slapped her hard 
across those perfect half moons, grinning salaciously to himself before 
ripping off his own pants. 

"Aaauuurrrgggghhh . . . Jack, you're going crazy . . . please let me up." 
But one foot on the small of her back held her securely in place, giving his 
hands freedom to pump at the bloated girth of his penis. 

Sherrie could hear the lascivious grunts emanating from her husband's 
heaving chest as he pumped his penis with lustful vengeance. Lying pinned to 
the sofa with his stockinged foot holding her captive, she'd never felt more 
humiliated and worthless as a woman; she waited with trepidation for his 
next move. 

"Go ahead and rape me, you bastard!" she spat into the sofa. "Just get it 
over with!" Tears had dried, but her eyes still stung with emotion too 
hurtful to vent. Wide set green eyes were smudged with mascaraed clown-like 
circles, flanking a perky upturned nose, reddened with grief. 

"I can tell your cunts on fire for me, Sherrie . . . but that's too bad, 
because that ain't where you're gettin' it!" 

In one gruff gesture, he flipped her over and fell to his knees beside her, 
mashing his alcohol tasting lips to hers in a demanding, raping kiss. 
Sherrie struggled wildly, futilely hammering her fists against his chest . . 
. to no avail. "You don't think I'm man enough for you-I'll teach you!" 

He flung her back on the sofa, face down, this time. 

He'd been ripped to the core, his male ego shredded by her vile tongue, and 
now anger boiled white hot inside his drunken brain. Not since his 
father-in-law had caught him eavesdropping on a telephone conversation and 
been given the green light and a mouthful of abuse, had he been this angry. 

The lissome female body beneath him racked with sobs. She shuddered and 
convulsed, her heart clawing in her chest like a rutting animal trying to 
escape. She'd do anything to recant her tauntings of his masculinity . . . 
and all because of those insipid Dallas Cowgirls! Because of spite, she 
would be spited . . . but this would be more than mental torture, she 
intuited. Maybe if she tried to placate him, make a joke of it all . . . 
tell him Daddy was a fool. But it wan too late! She'd made her bed, and now 
she must lie in it! 

A rasp tore from her throat when she felt his cold, clawing hands mauling 
her body. He kneaded her flesh like bread dough, running his hands along the 
smooth curves of her waist, and dropping lower then to knead the rounded 
half-moons of her buttocks. Roughly, he pulled them apart as if they were a 
cold English muffin to cleave for toasting. She shivered as a cold finger 
buttered the crease with strands of his pre-cum. 

With Sherrie's moans of fear and pain singing in his ears, Jack experienced 
a flicker of sadistic glee that banished all tenderness that might creep 
into his cold heart. A deep ache gnawed at his loins; his cock felt hot to 
the touch . . . hot and hard and very potent! Between his knees, his 
testicles dragged like cement weights. And she accused him of having no sex 
drive! 

His brain flamed with lustful anger and white hot revenge. Lewdly, he ran 
his hand along the sleekness of her naked inner thigh, all the way to the 
fleecy forest of her wetly, shivering pussy, which once cried for need . . . 
now it cried for fear. 

Her body convulsed and she pulled back from the touch of his fingers 
tightening harder on her quivering cuntal flesh. "Shut your goddamned mouth 
and take your medicine . . . " She felt his evil words bathe her ear in foul 
smelling threats. 

like animals in heat, he climbed atop his wife's shuddering nudity and aimed 
the long hard pole of his cock between her thighs. Treacherously, he aimed 
it towards the target of her cringing ass cheeks. The mushroomed head was 
flushed purple with the blood of his vengeful desire, and he trailed it 
along the moist, secret crevice, sparking a chill of forbidden lust. 
Luridly, his middle finger encircled the crinkled hairless opening of his 
wife's virgin anus and his eyes bulged with perverted excitement as he 
stared at the tiny brown eye. 

Tentatively, he prodded at it, sensing the elasticity; he jabbed harder. 

Sherrie screamed at the indecency of it. "Jack . . . no, that's not right . 
. . please put it in th-the other place," she stammered and begged, hating 
to use four letter words even now. That was a private place he was toying 
with, running his fingers around, testing for an experiment she cared not be 
victim of. 

Her pleading incited him-the carrot before the horse's nose. With a grunt, 
he rammed his middle finger into the elastic eye of her anus . . . right up 
to the palm of his hand. 

"Aauarrrggggg yghhhhhh innm nwnngggggggg.. . hooooo!" 

Jack chuckled to himself as he screwed harder into the dark hole, tight and 
warm and ridged. It closed like a surgeon's glove around his raping finger. 
To dislodge the painful intruder, Sherrie wriggled her impaled buttocks, but 
her frantic movements only let him bore deeper into her forbidden depths. 
The humiliated wife's cheeks scorched with shame. He's gone insane . . . he 
might kill me! This wasn't Jack, not her tender, protective Jack. Oh, things 
haven't been all his fault, she reasoned tardily. Daddy can be an awful bear 
at times . . . 

Christ, what a tight little asshole. Funny I never tried it out before, Jack 
chuckled to himself in salacious glee as he began to withdraw his raping 
finger from her sucking anal depths. 

His cock was a veritable cudgel now, pounding heavily, the veiny surface 
purpled with blood. Little stabs of licentious pleasure pricked at his 
naked, febrile fantasies. He wanted to humiliate his wife the best way a man 
can a woman . . . make her realize a man's cock was made for more than 
pissing. 

Sherrie's fevered body cringed into the sofa, the pain in her rectum fiery. 
Sodomy was a sick, heinous crime left over from the medieval days . . . 
something one inflicted upon hapless animals, not one's wife! 

Don't think, just try to hang onto sanity, she told herself. Yet this was 
unforgivable. Never could she think of Jack as her protective life mate, the 
man who'd sworn to stay by her through thick and thin. 

And the finger raping her anus was anything but thin! 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Sherrie's blood red nails clawed at the tweed sofa, wadding up the rough 
fabric in the palms of her sweating hands. His hands crawled over her 
trembling buttocks, pulling them apart with a cruel, mauling force. But it 
was his evil, drunken snickering as he slaved to brutalize her body that 
hurt worst of all-a deep pain in her heart. 

Jack smiled sadistically, his lips drawn taut across strong, gnashing teeth. 
"Hold on, honey . . . I've been waiting two fuckin' weeks for this!" 

The blood surging in Sherrie's veins turned to ice. Wasn't it humiliating 
enough to have one's husband riding your back like a humping dog, prodding 
at the most private, sensitive part of a human's body? 

"Ahhhhhggghhh.. . ! " Her auburn head rose from the sofa pillow like a dying 
man gasping for his last breath. The naked, warmly seeping tip of Jack's 
spongy cock head had nudged at the door of her bowels. She felt his hand 
slip determinedly between her thighs to guide the cudgel at the shivering 
hole. 

Jack licked his dry lips as he positioned his swollen cock at the tiny, 
elastic pucker of his wife's anus. A perverse excitement bordering on 
hysteria rippled through his strong body as he craned his neck to watch the 
ultimate intrusion. How the hell do homos manage things, he wondered 
drunkenly. Am much bigger than the tip of my little finger! But trusting 
nature's miraculous ways, he tossed aside useless speculation and gathered 
his strength. 

"Never saw your asshole before Sherrie," he hissed, bathing her naked back 
in foul liquor breath. 

Sherrie reared up like a cobra. "No, god no, Jack.. . you're crazy . . . 
please. . . ! " 

Jack snickered nonchalantly. He flexed his strong loins and thrust his hips 
in an exploratory jab that brought renewed mewls of agony from his 
whimpering, prostrate wife. 

"No, Jack . . . please think about what you're doing.. . ! " 

"I ain't thinkin' . . . my cock's thinkin'. . . " 

Sherrie tried to roll over onto her back. "Please, we'll make love like we 
always do . . . okay, honey?" she cajoled coldly. 

One strong hand pinned her shoulder to the sofa. Jack's eyes nearly popped 
out of his head with sadistic pleasure as he tightened his savage grip on 
his wife's hips and reared back. He thrust into her with all his pent-up 
anger. 

"AAAUUURRGGGHHH . . . NNNNOOOOO!" Sherrie's scream cut through a hail of 
spectator cheers as Chicago scored a touchdown. 

Jack raised his head momentarily to see the scoreboard flash a fresh 
statistic. "Here's one for Chicago," he grunted through the cries of 
blinding pain ricocheting around his wife's anus. 

Desperately, Sherrie struggled to roll her pelvis downward and free of the 
beastial attack, but he had her pinned. Reduced to a slavish victim of her 
husband's sodomy, even Daddy couldn't save her this time! Piteously she 
sobbed into the rough sofa, feeling the friction chafe her cheek, reddened 
and dampened with tears of rage. He thrust into her, gouging into the tender 
ring of her sphincter muscle. A pain like nothing she'd ever believed human, 
tore through her shuddering body. She'd heard that pain could make a person 
faint, and she prayed for that blessing now . . . anything to stop the 
teeth-gnashing gouging into her nether region. 

The breath snorted from Jack's nostrils, his face flushed from the unnatural 
exertions. Christ, could he ever drill into her tight virginal asshole? like 
a rampaging bull, he charged forward and rammed through the fleshy 
barricade. The mushroomed head of his penis bored into the clinging opening, 
hanging there like a sausage from the meat grinder. 

"YOU'RE GOING TO KILL ME . . . YOU'RE 

SPLITTING ME IN HALF . . . JACK!" She groaned and mumbled and clawed her 
nails into the sofa as she felt her rectum being cleaved by the penetration 
of Jack's lust-engorged cock. 

"You wouldn't nag to your Daddy! You take his shit . . . I didn't hear no 
complaints from you when he fired me and made me look like the asshole of 
the year," he gasped between clenched teeth as he tried to jab more of his 
vengeance hardened cock into the warm, rubbery depths of her anus. 

He still wondered how homosexuals did it without killing each other and, 
contenting himself with the knowledge that he was succeeding in hurting his 
wife, he grinned evilly to himself. This would pay her back for questioning 
his honesty. He just wished he was drilling it into his father-in-law's 
criminal ass! 

Sherrie feared she could never use that part of her body again. A searing 
pain fired her loins and she imagined that tiny hole torn and bleeding. 
Physical pain, she discovered, was nothing compared to the emotional anguish 
paralyzing her mind. Shame and degradation clouded her senses. How could she 
possibly have the family over for Thanksgiving dinner, and she'd so planned 
to use the holiday to cement relations between son-in-law and father-in-law! 

The man she'd loved was acting like some kind of perverted animal and 
deliberately killing the love between them. Yes, that's what hurt most-the 
conscious intention. The white hot prod poling up her anus was no excusable 
mistake! 

"Get off of me," she wailed, her screams mingling with the cheerful yelps as 
Chicago scored another touchdown. She moaned aloud, tears streaming down her 
pink cheeks to dampen the sofa that buffeted blows to her head each time 
Jack thrust into her from behind. 

Intoxicated by her whelps of self pity, he hammered inch by scorching inch 
into his crying wife's anus, until he'd managed to finagle the sausage-like 
tube right up to his bloated testicles. The bruised inner flesh gave way to 
his demanding cock, the way his wife always gave in to her father. Guess 
that proves he's an asshole. Jack guffawed inwardly. 

He grunted and puffed as his sperm heavy testicles slapped against the 
satiny cheeks of her helplessly impaled buttocks. 'There," he rasped, "that 
one's for Daddy!" 

Oh, how could he be so disrespectful after all her father had done for them! 
Paying the down payment on this house, giving Jack a job to set him up in 
the car dealership . . . and this is the thanks he gets! None of that 
mattered now . . . it would never matter again. 

Resistance only frustrated her womanly powerlessness, and realizing nothing 
would stop this heinous attack, she gritted her teeth to endure the 
mortification he was heaping upon her. 

Rhythmically, Jack held his lust-inflated cock inside his wife, then pulled 
it free, feeling victoriously excited by the sight of his wife's anus 
accommodating the demanding girth of his cock. First time she's given in for 
a while, he snickered to himself, watching the tender pink flesh pull in and 
pull out with each sawing stroke. She'll find out who's boss. He'd read 
somewhere that once your wife let you take her in the ass, you had the upper 
hand for life. 

Armed with that superiority, he began to withdraw his long, hard cock, 
easing it slowly out of the dry passage while fresh moans of pain from his 
defenseless wife sang in his ears. With the lust-bloated naked tip of his 
cock peeking inside the sphincter ring, he rammed forward. To his amazement 
a pearl of inner secretions eased the chafing rhythm as he began to fuck in 
and out of her savagely impaled anus with devilish delight. 

God, why did I make fun of him? I should have known he'd go crazy when I 
brought up Daddy's name! 

He battered against her buttocks until they pinkened with friction and 
forced her legs so far apart she felt like a Thanksgiving turkey about to be 
devoured. The only way to be free of him was to make him cum, a shimmer of 
rationale dictated out of nowhere. 

"Fuck me in the ass," she forced herself to say. "Cum in my ass!" The words 
stuck in her throat like bad meat-but it worked. "Split me open with your 
fat cock!" 

Was this his wife spitting out filth? In the end it didn't matter. Jack felt 
anger and passion and lust focus in one vortex of power. His eyeballs roamed 
in his head, and a strange singing wailed in his ears. He reared back giving 
himself room to slap his wife a few stinging blows on her buttocks. "Move 
that ass . . . you whore!" He pounded and hammered into her in a fierce 
battle of cock against anus. 

It shot-high and deep! 

The hot sticky fluid, once nectar to her loving, married vagina, shot high 
into the forbidden depths of her anus. She felt his penis jerk and erupt in 
a scalding geyser in the raw, seared depths of her helplessly flooded 
rectum. It felt like fire as the salty liquid Beeped into the torn membranes 
of her ravaged backside and bathed her bowels in lust. The final insult 
closed the curtain of marriage and she clenched shut her eyes and wept. The 
sickening reality could never be erased, never amended. 

And yet he pumped into her with labored, grunting breathing as he pumped a 
pint of his lust into her forever defiled rectum. To forgive this animal 
riding her back like a humping dog was unthinkable. Then, with a sigh of 
relief, she realized his raping penis had stilled and was slipping down the 
cum-slickened channel of her rectum. 

Outside the window, autumn leaves chased in whirling circles over the frost 
bitten ground. The cheerful cries of football fans and the winning side, and 
weeping of losers had given way to the seven o'clock national news on 
television. 

Sherrie raised her head leadenly from the sofa pillow, little wads of tweed 
released from her palms as she levered up. A rectangular light flooded the 
room, splashing over her naked body. Only when she felt the heavy weight 
pinning her to the sofa, did the sourness of reality return. Jack's snores 
rattled hideously in her ears, echoing the gloom that filled her heart. 

Wiggling out from under his body so as not to awaken the sleeping monster, 
she slipped to the bathroom down the hallway and flicked on the light only 
when she'd locked the door after her. The monster . . . what twist of the 
mind had caused him to act so brutally? The thought caused elephantine tears 
to squeeze out of her wide set eyes. She didn't know the man . . . never 
wanted to again. 

Despite the pain in her rectum, her mind felt purged, emptied of emotion. 
Walking from the living room to the bathroom didn't hurt as badly as she'd 
feared and encouraged, she bent over the tub and turned on the faucet. The 
stretched movement caused a dull ache to stab up the ravaged tube of her 
bowels. She sucked in her breath, tears blinding her, and decided against 
taking a bath; a quick wash with the cloth would do. 

One glance in the bathroom mirror set the tears flowing anew. Was that 
really Sherrie Turner . . . or the ghost of the person she once was. Mascara 
had smudged to clown-like circles under her wide eyes and black rivers of 
makeup dribbled down her swollen cheek. One turn to the side revealed black 
bruises where Jack had grabbed her around the neck. Lips, red and swollen, 
refused to smile. 

Numbly she grabbed the nearest washcloth-the white one with HIS embroidered 
in brown-and turned on the cold water faucet. She rubbed the moistened cloth 
over her face, under her eyes and dabbed at the welts on her neck. The anal 
assault left her feeling dirty and the cold washcloth found its way to the 
swollen pussy mound. For a moment she held it there, expecting to sop up the 
blood. The coolness soothed the fiery pain somewhat. 

Wincing, she lifted one foot to rest on the toilet seat and, bending her 
head, examined herself. No blood. That surprised her. She considered a visit 
to the hospital emergency room, but the thought of her father hearing of 
this travesty was unthinkable. I'm a big girl.. . I have to handle this 
alone. 

Convinced that Jack's raping fingers must have torn something, she used her 
fingers to separate the swollen lips of her pussy. The cooling washcloth 
mentholated her genitals, dulling the horror and awakening something within 
Sherrie's mind, despite her bruised body, wished to plunge forever into the 
depths of sub consciousness. 

Jack's anal attack had a strangely thrilling effect-lingering and 
diabolical. With doctor-like skill, her lingers probed gently the swollen 
petals. Gently rubbing motions, much like a mother stroking a crying baby's 
back, eased the discomfort. In fact, it anesthetized the pain. She stroked 
the lips in slow circles, using the pad of her forefinger. The friction 
relieved the itchy feeling, so she increased the movements so as to not 
ignore the oily marble of her clitoris. Her knees started to tremble and 
buckle, and her pelvis started grinding like the Dallas Cowgirls' in the 
heat of a cheer. The nipples of her swollen breasts tightened into little 
studs. Sherrie shivered and goose-bumped. 

Why couldn't Jack have made love to me there? It's been so long and I needed 
it sooo badly! Oh, it feels good.. .I.. .I can't stop! She sucked in her 
breath and threw back her head. Splatters of light flickered before her 
fluttering eyelids. I'm going to cum . . . oh, Jesus. She cupped the 
tingling mound of her pussy with the softness of her palm and rubbed, 
wanting to delay her orgasm as long as sense would allow. 

She moved her buttocks in a rocking motion, tilting her pelvis to meet the 
thrust of her two middle fingers sliding wetly up into the heart of her 
womb. It burst 

. . . a dam of sweet smelling love juice. A wailing hiss spat through 
clenched teeth; head thrown back, eyes flickering blindly, mouth gaping 
open, she stroked in and out of her crying womb while tears flooded her 
cheeks. Faster and faster until the beautiful pain of orgasm left her 
crumpled and goose-bumped on the bathroom rug. A sucking wet noise filled 
the room, save for the dripping faucet, as she pulled her sticky fingers 
free. 

Then guilt set in. Thoughts fled to her husband's terrorizing assault, and 
now this self-inflicted humiliation. Sherrie's doe-like eyes flicked about 
the room. Claustrophobia set in. She had to get out of this house, away from 
everything! 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Sherrie raked the hairbrush over her scalp in biting drags, dabbed clean the 
black circles under her eyes and made herself as respectable as a sodomized 
wife can. Unsteady flickers lighted the living room off the hallway; a 
comedy series droned on, peppered with dubbed laughter. 

Sherrie's sickened heart felt as if she'd never laugh again as stealthily 
she crept along the wall opening onto the bedroom, slipped inside and 
flicked on the light switch. Her eyes fell to the bed where she and 

Jack had shared many a loving night, and beneath her breath she cursed and 
vowed to kill memory. 

Hastily she slipped into wool slacks, turtleneck sweater and knee-high 
boots. Outside the bedroom window the lonely wind howled threateningly. From 
the closet she yanked out an overnight case initialed with ST in gold 
letters and stuffed extra panties, a nightgown and toiletries inside. 

Money. . . Rummaging through her pocketbook, she counted thirty-four dollars 
and eighty-two cents. Sherrie's shoulders drooped with added chagrin. That 
was hardly enough to start a new life. A light bulb flashed in her brain; 
she snapped her fingers and dashed for the bureau drawer where travelers 
checks from last summer's Hawaii vacation had been tucked away for an 
emergency. Emergency . . . she snickered bitterly to herself . . . more like 
life and death! It seemed a pathetic accumulation of necessities that filled 
her overnight bag. Just goes to show how little of life is material, she 
thought philosophically, clamping her pearly teeth over a trembling lower 
lip. 

Feeling like a thief in her own house, she slunk down the hallway past the 
living room where Jack's rumbling snore chorused with dubbed laughter from a 
Saturday night comedy series. A shivering feeling rippled along her spine. 
Had she ever known that man lying naked on the sofa? Sherrie's eyes fixed on 
the flaccid tube of his penis and the wronged wife declared then and there 
that never again would she allow a man to defile her. Sensual pleasure would 
never be hers again. Never! 

With a final whimper of submission to fate's cruel blow, she slunk into the 
garage off the kitchen and tossing her paltry possessions into the front 
seat, backed out and away from Jack Turner. 

The situation was so ridiculously horrible, she couldn't cry. Hysteria 
choked in her throat. Where am I going to got Flickers of Little Orphan 
Annie comic strips rippled through her mind's eye. How uncanny that 
childhood entertainment should develop into adult tragedy. 

Be practical, she reprimanded herself, and quit feeling sorry for yourself. 
Leave the car at the airport and fly to Milwaukee, maybe? No, flights were 
too expensive. 

A cold November drizzle ten degrees from snowflakes misted the dusky night 
as the Datsun nosed toward the freeway entrance, the driver with no 
destination in mind. Through the haze, the headlights splashed upon a 
billboard which read: "Go Greyhound And Lea re the Driving To Us." Sherrie's 
shoulders heaved with relief. Yes, she could leave the car in the lot and 
using her maiden name on the ticket, Jack would never find her! 

The bus depot's setting created a colorless montage of dreary, graffiti 
splattered walls and drearier faces queued up in the ticket lines. An air of 
depression shivered through Sherrie; she pulled up the collar of her coat 
and gripped the handle of her night case tighter. 

God, I need a drink. I'm freezing! A strange physical sensation gripped her; 
an unexplainable kinetic energy, driving in force yet unsettled in nature. 
She needed to think and sort out her life. 

Down the hallway, a neon sign splashed the pink message: "Dew Drop Inn." The 
fluorescent hallway lights faded into a dim parlor heavy with stale 
cigarette smoke. The leggy auburn paused at the door to survey the bar where 
two off-duty bus drivers sat shooting craps for drinks, while the television 
set rattled unheeded above the mirrored bar. 

Beneath their gray uniform hats, two heads turned in her direction, grins 
leering her way. Her hands clasped at the throat of her collar. A small 
table with an unlit candle sat in the corner of the room and that's where 
Sherrie headed. She ordered a shot of brandy and was sipping it slowly when 
her eyes fell upon a newspaper on the adjacent table. 

Hastily she folded back the Want Ad section and perused the possibilities 
for Sherrie Turner's new life. The choice was to stay in Chicago and get an 
apartment someplace on the east side, or leave the state. As soon an Daddy 
hears I've left Jack, he'll have the police looking for me! 

An ad struck her eye. "Needed: Hostesses and waitresses for high-class 
Northern Wisconsin game hunting resort. Weekly pay plus board and tips," an 
address and phone number followed. 

Sherrie's rosy lips bubbled with relief and something close to a smile broke 
over her pale face. The warming brandy had lightened her spirits, and the 
hope of something decent happening to her quickened her step to the ticket 
line. 

A pimply faced ticket salesman leered through the iron bars of the ticket 
booth onto the sophisticated features of the auburn-haired woman who, for 
some godforsaken reason, had requested a one-way ticket to a dot on the map. 
"That'll be sixty-two dollars and fifty nine cents. Miss." His eyes fell on 
the sparkle dotting her left hand. 

I'll pawn my wedding ring as soon as I reach Wisconsin. Wonder if Daddy paid 
for that, too! I've got to get this job . . . I just have to! She tore the 
ring off her finger and stuffed it in her slacks' pocket. 

Sherrie pressed her nose to the cold bus window and blinked into the misty 
night; the warm exhalations clouded the window and she wiped it clean with 
gloved fingertips for one last glance at Chicago. 

Exhausted, she stretched her long legs under the bus seat ahead of her, 
rolled her head to the side and prepared for the long journey to Wisconsin. 
Six hours the ticket man had said. The hiss of air brakes and drone of 
acceleration as the Greyhound Bus pulled out into the freeway, lulled 
Sherrie into a more secure state of being. With Chicago and a rapist husband 
behind her, a new lifestyle ahead, the weary woman cradled herself in the 
warmth of her cashmere coat and slumbered. 

Time and distance can play clever games with the human mind. The sensation 
of moving forward, of traveling into a time warp, shot Sherrie to instant 
alertness. Two green eyes snapped open into the dusty dawn light, thick and 
hazy with snowflakes clinging possessively to towering green pines so high 
she had to crane her neck to see the statuesque tops pointing to a depth 
less heaven. 

A weary sigh broke from her chest. Her muscles had cramped in the immobility 
of sleep; her stomach, long deprived of nourishment, growled in complaint. 
Along with awakening, crept fear. She felt hurtled into the unknown, into a 
vast space called future for which she was ill prepared. Yet anything was 
better than suffering the disgrace of Jack's ignoble behavior! 

Even these dull, small towns, she asked herself, clamping pearly teeth over 
a trembling lower lip, chapped from self-abuse and cheerless November skies. 
A handful of passengers rode north through the small towns which seemed to 
draw a direct correlation between distance due north and population. 

As the bus driver pulled off to a small cafe at an unmarked intersection, 
Sherrie grasped the small bag containing her pittance of possessions, and 
hustled to the front of the bus. 

The bus driver turned a cheerful face to her. He pushed back the bill of his 
cap and nodded. "How ya doin', lady? Get some rest?" 

Sherrie was in no mood for talking. Nor did she care for the inquisitive 
eyes raking over her leggy lean body. "Where are we?" She squinted at the 
paint-chipped cafe whose sign depicted a cup of steaming coffee and a 
cheeseburger whose California touch had faded with inclimacy to a formless 
flap of green lettuce and an anemic pink tomato. 

"Your stop lady. Say, you got relatives in Hurly?" 

"Y-yes, I do. . . . " Sherrie's green eyes took in the three hundred and 
sixty degree circumference of nothing but trees, and asked in a small voice: 
"Where's the town?" 

"Hope ya got somebody to pick ya up, miss. Hurly's oh. . . . " and here he 
scratched his five o'clock shadow,". . . 'bout five miles up the road. I 
suggest you call somebody from the cafe. Harvey's are nice folks and you 
look like you could use a cup of coffee." 

The cafe smelled richly of freshly perked coffee and bakery donuts staring 
at Sherrie through a plastic eased cover. Counter service was the only 
choice. 

A gray-haired man, with a grumpy set to his square chin and a tattooed arrow 
with "Sharon" printed across a broken heart, wiped his hands on an 
egg-stained apron and glowered down at his new customer. "Can I help ya, 
miss?" 

"A cup of coffee . . . and that donut. . . the one with the cherries in the 
middle." 

Out of the corner of his eye, shadowed by caterpillar eyebrows that knit and 
brushed together as he squinted at the stranger seated delicately at his 
counter, the cafe owner drew some tight conclusions. 

No local, this one, dressed in a city coat instead of the usual down jacket 
that puffed women all up like they had no shape underneath. The hairstyle, 
too, echoed of city, and the perfume wafting over the sweet cherry filled 
donut he slapped onto the plate. 

"You got relatives here?" he queried, splashing steaming coffee into the cup 
at Sherrie's elbow. 

"Y-yes," she forced a smile and measured out a teaspoon of sugar into her 
coffee which she stirred with nervous flicks of the wrist. 

It was then he caught the gold watch studded with diamonds draped about her 
delicate wrist. "What's their name. . . . ? " 

"Who. . . . ? " 

"Your relatives. . . . "He cocked his head, turning his better ear to catch 
the silvery peal of Sherrie's tiny voice. 

"Oh, ah, Jefferson . . . Jack Jefferson." A corner of her pretty rose bud 
lip curled with a confidence she didn't feel. Sherrie had never been good at 
lying. 

"Hum . . . never heard of the guy. Been living here all my life, too. . . . 
" He turned his back to Sherrie then and broke a few eggs into a frying pan 
to make his own breakfast. 

Over the divider stacked high with heavy platters and coffee cups minus 
matching saucers, he eyed the sophisticated citification that marked Sherrie 
Turner as one beautiful woman. The gleam to her auburn hair shimmering with 
henna highlights under the glaring naked light bulb, the high cheekbones and 
aristocratic set to the chin. Even the way she sipped her coffee. Most folks 
in that part of the country braced their elbows on the counter top and 
slurped away . . . not this one. 

Timidly, Sherrie nibbled at her donut and finished her coffee while the cafe 
owner drenched hashed browns with ketchup and slurped eggs over very easy 
from a fork. Calculating the bill at one dollar, she left that plus 
fifty-cents and reached for the want ad clipping from her coin purse. 

"Excuse me, please . . . could you tell me if you've heard of this place?" 
she asked with a gaiety she didn't feel. 

The cafe owner grabbed the newspaper clipping and pouffed out his lips, eyes 
crawling back and forth from the clipping to Sherrie's. He wiped the egg 
from his mouth with the back of his hand. "You headed for the Cracker box, 
miss?" 

Sherrie smiled and nodded her head enthusiastically. Her enthusiasm faded, 
and the coffee gurgled in the pit of her stomach, bad company to Sherrie 
filled donuts when he muttered: 

"Hmmmmph . . . just what Hurly needs. Another whore to slut up the town!" 

Sherrie gulped and stared incredulously into the man's unshaven face. 

"Don't count on nobody givin' ya a ride up there, Miss. And don't count on 
comin' back to my cafe . . . cause I don't serve whores here." He braced his 
hands on the counter top and hissed the words down into her face. This 
stranger might have been his sister twenty years ago, he thought sadly, 
pushing aside sad memories. 

As the door tinkled shut behind her, she heard him say: "It's up the road 
quarter of a mile." 

The snow crunched under Sherrie's high heeled boots like strong jaws 
munching down peanuts as with a cold numbed hand clutching at the collar of 
her cashmere coat and the other clamped white-knuckled to the overnight 
case, she headed down the road, puzzling over the cafe owner's rancorous 
attitude. 

The newspaper ad was legitimate, and any, what choice had she now but to 
investigate? Was all of northern Wisconsin like this, she wondered icily, 
trying to forget the ache of exhaustion that weakened her from the tension 
taut sinews in her swan-like neck cramped from the long bus ride-down to her 
tiny toes. Oh, for a warm meal and a soft bed and hot bath, thought the 
estranged wife, approaching a fork in the two land road. 

Through the low hanging bows of a snow-laden pine tree, she squinted at a 
curl of chimney smoke bluing the crisp morning air. Sherrie's step 
quickened. At last-warmth! A little sigh of relief tore from her throat as a 
sign reading "The Crackerbox" came into view. Freshly painted, it sported a 
ripe-bodied female huntress dressed in silly red long-legged underwear and, 
with one elbow rested on the butt end of a gun, she crooked a finger at the 
viewer. "Come Hunt With Me," it read. 

The impression reminded Sherrie of the corny New Year calendars Mom and Pop 
grocery stores give out at Christmas. Hardly salacious or serious, was it? 

Down the road a few yards, Sherrie caught sight of the Crackerbox. A 
respectable establishment, she quickly assessed, raking her eyes delightedly 
over the Swiss Chalet building painted in deep red with white trim about the 
balcony and windows. 

Facing her fate, Sherrie struggled over the ice-slickened sidewalk and clung 
tightly to the banister as she climbed the slippery steps to the porch and 
raised her knuckles to announce herself. 

On the second knock a door cracked open, and the butterflies in Sherrie's 
stomach began to stampede.. . up to her swan-like throat. 

The cafe owner's insults echoed in her ears. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

The Chicago skies turned thick with forecasts come true. White powdery 
flakes danced from darkened skies, skipping freely to earth in celebration 
of the first covering of the frost-bitten ground. Porch lights flicked on 
from house to house. Children whooped with joy, and some burned a log or two 
and snuggled up with lovers in expectation of a love-filled winter. 

One man did not. 

Jack Turner rolled over on the cold sofa and yanked the afghan to cover his 
chilled body. A dull throb above his right temple warned him precaution 
against one climactic hangover must be taken. 

Wearily, he rose to his feet and padded nakedly toward the bathroom. Strange 
none of the lights were on in the house; Sherrie was a great one for running 
up the electrical bill. 

Throwing down a couple of ten grain aspirin, he nudged his curly head 
between the basin and faucet and choked down the bitter tablets with a lap 
of the tongue. He raked his fingers through the mop of brown curls and 
closing the medicine cabinet, stared at himself in the mirror for an 
uncomfortable moment. Craning his neck, he examined the worry lines etched 
recently from the gouges of ill luck. Jack scratched his genitals, belched a 
bubble of beer and flicked off the light. 

No emotions, no thoughts littered his mind. He felt nothing, remembered 
nothing. Negation: the best defense against self-denigration. It worked for 
a while. 

A strange sense of foreboding struck him the instant his fingers touched the 
light switch; the threatening sensation of intrusion upon one's private 
domain made his heart quicken. 

His eyes flashed about the bedroom, his psyche searching for the missing 
element. The bureau drawer had been carelessly left open with half its 
contents draped over the edge. So, too, the closet doors, yanked open wide 
to the end where Sherrie stored the luggage. 

The luggage! 

"Oh, shit. . . " He groaned and dashed toward the kitchen. 

The cement step leading to the garage was freezing under his bare feet, but 
Jack didn't feel it. He flicked on the light. No car. 

Jack collapsed on the closest kitchen chair to collect his thoughts. A vague 
memory of fighting with his wife sluiced through the clouds of his mind . . 
. and some ugliness. 

"Oh, Christ!" he mumbled, slapping himself on the forehead. I raped her in 
the ass! My own wife. 

Ah, hell, he reasoned, shooing away guilt and a thousand other negatives he 
hadn't the mental stamina to deal with. 

Sherrie doesn't have the strength to go it on her own, he rationalized, 
slipping between the cold, empty sheets and reaching toward the lamp switch. 
She's probably bawling on her fucking father's shoulder about what an 
asshole she married. Wait until she learns the truth about her daddy dear, 
she'll find out who she should have trusted! 

"Come in before you let in all the cold." 

Sherrie heard the voice before she saw the woman it belonged to. The woman 
who greeted her at the door of the Crackerbox was hardly properly attired 
for a Sunday morning in God's country. Blood-red fingertips thrust shut the 
door behind the shivering stranger who, turning defensively at the 
finalizing bang, swung around to stare into dark, liquid eyes. A rakish, 
accusative glance took in the classic elegance of Sherrie Turner. 

Hennaed hair the color of burnished autumn leaves was pulled back severely 
from a heart-shaped face. A coal black satin gown draped her mature buxom 
body; a tie belt accentuated the rich swell of her hips and waist. Thick 
smears of cherry red lipstick drew tight lines about her taut lips and 
something diabolical, almost mystical, sparked in her depthless eyes. 

"I didn't hear your car drive up," she queried under arched eyebrows. "What 
can I help you with?" She stood firmly in front of Sherrie, as if 
deliberately blocking off views of the rustically decorated rooms beyond. 

A cheek burning warmth from the stone fireplace visible over the black 
shimmer of the other's shoulder, should have warned Sherrie, and yet a 
biting chill centered at the nape of her neck lingered. 

"I . . . I took the bus," answered Sherrie in a small voice. 

Eyebrows on the powdered, roughed face arched higher. 'The bus. . . ? " 

"Yes, from Chicago. . . that's where I saw your ad in the newspaper." 
Sherrie shrugged her shoulders, forcing a relaxed pose. "You do still have 
work available, I hope?" Beneath her heaving breasts, Sherrie's heart 
pattered anxiously. "Gosh. . . " and here green eyes rolled over the A-frame 
beamed ceiling. "This looks like a great place to work . . . I love the 
quiet of the countryside after living in Chicago." 

A warm hand slipped into Sherrie's cold one. "We always have work for the 
right people, my dear." Myra noted the travel weary lines about the wide 
green eyes; instantly her own fell to the stranger's hand to look for the 
ominous sparkle that too often brought trouble. 

"Have you eaten. . . ? " She paused, bit the fleshiness of her painted 
bottom lip, and cracked a rouged grin. "How rude of me, my name is Myra and 
I help Mr. Southworth take care of the establishment. He'll be along shortly 
to interview you, but until then . . . how about resting in a private room 
for a bit. A hot bath maybe, and breakfast?" She spread her ring-laden hands 
expensively, spreading the placket of her satin wrap-around gown. Sherrie's 
eyes could not help but settle on the Grand Canyon cleavage inches away. 

"That would be lovely. I am a bit tired." 

"Good. I'll have Anna send you up breakfast on a tray . . . and please, take 
a hot bath to ward away a chill. These northern woods can be terribly 
unfriendly if one's prone to pneumonia." 

Sherrie sensed a cryptic message behind the tone of voice, but travel weary, 
famished and anxious to rest alone in a bed, she tripped after the 
blossoming hips swaggering up the steps. Myra's ring-heavy hand slipped 
along the banister until, at the landing which opened onto an L-shaped 
hallway, she plucked a key chain from the wall. 

"Your room will be at the end of the hall," she announced with a finality 
that startled Sherrie. 

What about the interview. . . ? And where were the guests? 

The key slipped easily into the lock and with a quick twist, the door 
creaked open. The empty smell of dampness stung Sherrie's nostrils and the 
room wore the abandoned appearance of a never-used wedding dress: a dismal, 
depressive aura of disappointment. 

"I hope you will be comfortable here." Myra clasped her hands in a 
sacrilegious prayer-like pose and swung the key chain from her little 
finger. Her depthless eyes studied intently the expression of the other's 
placid features. "Anna will bring up your breakfast shortly. 

Drink the tea, it will be good for you. We don't want you getting ill first 
thing, now do we?" 

Wearily, Sherrie set her overnight case on the bed and thanking the woman 
for her kindness, collapsed on the bed for a moment and stared up at the 
ceiling. Many miles and many hours had separated her from Jack Turner. She 
cared not to think about that and contented herself with counting the 
cobwebs on the A-frame beams overhead. Then, with a groaning sigh, she 
pulled herself off the bed and prepared a warm, sudsy bath. 

Not until she lay supine in the bathtub with suds lapping at her dimpled 
chin, did Sherrie's thoughts make a quick U-turn for Chicago. And it hurt. 

A flood of tears squeezed out of the corners of her tired eyes. A stabbing 
pain jabbed at her heart, pain not for herself, but for her father. Imagine 
how he'll feel when he finds out I've run away from Jack. . . . Dimpled chin 
trembled, creating sad little waves in the water. Jack's always tried to pit 
me against my fit her, always tried to belittle Daddy's generosity. . . just 
because he feels inferior to father. That's it, he's insecure about money, 
about his job, about his masculinity which is why he. . . 

Abruptly, Sherrie shot upward in the tub, the melonous swells of her breasts 
floating like water balloons. Cocking her head to the side, she preened her 
ears for a strange noise emanating from the other side of the wall. A shrill 
cry like that of a hungry baby . . . or a woman crying? Occasional yelps 
peppered the hapless chorus of unhappiness. Now who could that be-and why 
were they crying? 

Crawling noiselessly out of the bathtub, Sherrie wrapped herself in a long 
white towel and pressed her ear to the wall. Was her brain playing games 
with her weary senses, or was there a second voice? By the time Anna knocked 
on the door, she was standing in a puddle of soapy water. 

Hardly decent, was it, to answer the door in a towel? Frantically, Sherrie 
fumbled through her overnight case in search of a robe to cover her creamy 
nudity. Fruitless. Padding barefoot to the door, she apologized through the 
wooden plank: 

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but I don't have a robe to put on. Give me 
time to crawl under the covers, okay?" 

A grumbled affirmative sounded through the door and by the time Sherrie had 
dashed for the bed and yanked the chilling sheet up to her dimpled chin, 
shivering with cold, the door opened onto a peasant-looking woman with 
graying hair pulled back into a tight pug. A lifeless pallor, ghost-like and 
indicative of weariness with life, stared her in the face. 

"H-hello. I'm sorry to greet you like this," giggled the naked woman 
nervously, filling the uncomfortable silence. ". . .I forgot to bring a 
robe. Stupid of me." 

A corner of Anna's taut mouth twitched. Low heeled shoes scuffed across the 
worn carpet to the bedstand; Sherrie noticed the limp in the woman's walk. 
Without a glance at the shivering, dimpled nudity offering gummy thanks for 
the flap jacks, bacon, eggs and tea, the veritable image of gloom turned on 
her heel, closed the door and locked it. 

Locked it! 

The tea cup rattled in Sherrie's hand. Her eyes flew to the door. Gulping 
down the mouthful of tea, she dashed nakedly for the door and rattled the 
knob. Locked! Now why would anybody want to lock her inside? There had to be 
another key. There has to! Of course. Her heart stilled. In the dresser.. . 

She darted to the single dresser sitting flush to the wall. Trembling hands 
rattled open each warped, empty drawer and nervous fingers explored the 
dusty depths for the metallic feel to freedom. With a yelp of desperation, 
Sherrie's fist flew to her mouth. 

No key! 

Heart thundering in her chest, she threw herself in bed and cupping the 
warming teacup in shaking palms, forced herself to sip the herbal 
concoction. At least I won't get sick if I drink this bitter stuff, she 
rationalized. 

Outside the window the howling winds whipped white powder accumulating on 
the frozen earth. Sherrie's fluttering eyelids rested mesmerically on the 
flurry of whiteness until numbness crept from the fingertips curled about 
the warm tea cup, down to the polished pink of her toes. With a languid 
sigh, she set the cup on the untouched tray and curled under the covers and 
fell into shadeless depths of sleep. 

A languid sigh bubbled from Sherrie's lax, drug-numbed lips, as slowly a fog 
shrouded her mind, allowing wisps of memory to shine through. She was at 
home in Chicago, snuggled up in bed on a cold November eve. Outside the wind 
howled; she snuggled deeper into the bed and rolled the luscious curves of 
her naked body over onto her back. One lithe leg pulled up, opening the 
forested vee of her loins. 

Almost imperceptibly, the doorknob turned and, safely slipping the key back 
into her pocket, Myra stole stealthily into the chilling room at the end of 
the hall. The morning sun, blotted out by sheets of snow, struggled to burst 
through the window. A pale, timeless light gave the room neither shadow nor 
sunshine. 

Myra's eyes fastened on the dimpled face, child-like lying in the four 
poster bed. What dollish features, she has. What porcelain perfection! 
Swirls of auburn hair spilled over the pillow slip. Apple cheeks dotted the 
alabaster cream of Sherrie's skin. Rosy lips had parted laxly, submissively. 

Myra felt a tight congestion in the pit of her stomach. Fighting down the 
temptation to investigate further the luscious creaminess of drugged female 
flesh, she tiptoed over the worn carpet and snatched up Sherries handbag. 
Deft fingers examined every slip of paper: driver's license, credit cards, 
address book. Satisfied, she stuck the contents back into the alligator 
handbag and sifted through the contents of Sherrie Turner's overnight case. 
Besides an extra pair of panties, scented delicately and a lacey brassiere, 
nothing of incriminating importance was stuck in the zipped flaps. 

Last year a policewoman decoy had tried to play cute and, like this doll, 
had answered the ad in the paper. After a cup of Anna's special 'Sleepy Time 
Tea', the little bitch, as Myra recalled vividly now, tried to take 
photographs. Ah, but they'd found the camera-but the police department never 
found Barbara Collins! 

A tight smirk creased Myra's mature features. Satisfied with her 
investigation, she straightened, thrust back her shoulders and drew a deep 
breath. 

Fingertips delicately plucked the blanket's corner and slowly, pulling it 
back, unveiled the perfection that was Sherrie Turner. 

Ahhh. . . ! Myra's struggled to control herself from devouring the luscious 
feast. Her eyes lingered on the milky mounds of naked breasts, their puffy 
nipples peeking out from the still damp towel immodestly wrapped about her 
belly. A soft belly, bowled and cratered with the dimple of her navel, 
winked salaciously up at Myra. She licked her lips as her eyes traveled 
southward to the fleeced nest of Sherrie's juicy cunt. 

AHHHH. . . ! Myra could not stifle a sigh of pleasure. Hovering over her 
prey, the older women bent her head and fastened her soft lips to one puffy 
nipple. Gently, babyishly, as only a woman can san, she sucked the 
strawberry tip to hardness, laving the succulent, milky flesh with the 
underside of her tongue. 

"Ummm. . . . " Sherrie stirred in her drugged sleep and humming deep within 
her swan-like throat, moved her arm up over her head and arched her back. 
The melonous mound of female flesh mashed against the voracious mouth. Jack 
. . . Jack is sucking my breast. . . "Yes, yes, baby. . . " she muttered and 
rolled her head to the side in a spray of henna waves that swirled over her 
apple cheeks. The length of her curly eyelashes fluttered like butterfly 
wings, and for a frightened moment, Myra released her lesbian sucking, 
awaiting deepened sleep to overcome her victim. 

And it did. . . 

Sherrie's sleek body heaved with deep slumber. 

Myra unpeeled the damp towel from the luscious curves and positioned her 
head above the sweet-smelling forest of Sherrie's naked loins. For a long 
moment, the woman studied the swollen folds, her nostrils wafting with the 
aphrodisiac scent of another female's genitals. Blood-red fingertips, 
trembling with incipient joy, parted the pink petals of Sherrie's pussy. 

"Unnngghhh. . . ! " Sherrie sucked in her breath. It felt cold down between 
her thighs . . . cold and hot at the same time. Her heart pounded in her 
bosomy chest and languidly, her slender thighs fell apart of their own 
volition. She arched her back, tilting her pelvis. 

Ah, yon sweet beauty, Myra cogitated wickedly. You are a precious jewel! The 
perfume of Sherrie's pussy filled her with lust. How she longed to fasten 
her sucking lips to Sherrie's pussy and drink the nectar of her womb . . . 
but not yet.. . no not yet. I will have my turn with you , my sweet . . . 
don't you worry. 

The congestion in the empty pit of Myra's belly cried for fulfillment and, 
hissing between clenched teeth, she silently fell to her knees beside the 
sleeping form. With her nose and lips a tongue's reach lay away from 
Sherrie's nubby clitoris, Myra slipped her free hand under the hem of her 
black satin gown to the hairy patch of her seeping naked loins and thrust 
two fingers into the warm fissure. With slow, sluicing noises, she fingered 
herself, cupping the pouting mound of her pussy with the heel of her hand. 
With rubbing motions, she stroked the oily nub of her clitoris until gorged 
with blood, she fucked her fingers higher and deeper up into her cunt. 
Faster, faster.. . 

She closed her eyes and fought back moans of delight. Languidly opening her 
eyes again, she drew a deep breath, filling her senses with captive female 
flesh and envisioned the blood-red tips of her fingers dripping and oozing 
with sticky cuntal juices. Her womb cried for relief . . . and soon it came. 

I'LL torrents. Myra rocked on her haunches, fucking her fingers like a man's 
cock into her belly while the delicious feast of slumbering female flesh 
slept on. 

In her hazy state of consciousness, Sherrie experienced only a vague 
disappointment. Jack's face faded into mistiness and the coldness between 
her thighs warmed. 

The key turned in the latch, a click as ominous as the cock of a gun. 
Somewhere in Sherrie's mind it registered, for she woke with a start and 
bolted for the door. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

"I'm telling you, Southworth, there was no diamond on her finger. And she 
did take the bus; I found a ticket stub stamped Chicago." Myra drew 
feverishly on an ironically slender cigarette. The milky swells clad 
immodestly in black satin shone from each tight inhalation. "I say we keep 
her. She's lovely, a piece of excellence." Myra kissed her fingers in an 
expansive gesture. 

She winked conspiratorially at the nimble-minded man who, despite a certain 
lethargy in physical appearance, was very thorough in his business. "She's 
just right for you." 

All five feet eight inches of Southworth, local business entrepreneur grew 
with the luscious details to follow. "I've never seen a lovelier creature in 
these hick woods," continued Myra sardonically. "In Germany the women are 
delectable . . . here they're cows." 

"And this one's udders?" grunted Southworth, stroking a square, naked chin 
with a hand that had corruptively dipped into the pocket of every successful 
businessman in the county . . . and helped pad a few in points south. 

Together he and Myra, with out of state backing, operated a prostitute ring 
in an intricately woven, well-plotted fashion that spread its crooked 
fingers throughout the northern vacation land where wealthy Chicago 
businessmen ventured for weeks of bought pleasure. Politicians, corporate 
executives-people who had the money to throw away on vice and the need for 
secrecy. A tight, powerful ring of local politicians with state influence 
shrouded him from nosey local inquisitives who knew better than to open 
their mouths. The rest of the quiet community didn't care; they stayed 
cautiously astray. 

"We need another girl for the Hunters Point Inn," Myra reminded him tersely. 
"The last one seems to have made a mess of her future." 

South worth's eyes snapped upward. "Nothing too messy, I hope. . . . " 

"It washed down the drain easily enough . . . blood always does." Myra 
pulled easily on her cigarette. "Hamilton took care of the body . . . but 
that leaves us one girl short. Now are you ready to test our little 

Chicago dumpling?" She shivered her shoulders, showing off a creamy cleavage 
and licked her lips. "I've tasted her-she's sublime!" 

Southworth pulled a deep breath. "You judge them best, Myra." Deep-set, 
piggish eyees rolled up to study Myra's snappy dark ones. He trusted this 
woman; they thought a-like. She was the daughter of a wealthy lumberman, and 
he, the son of a state senator. Together their tight-fisted control allowed 
for no mistakes. Anna was proof of that. 

"Tomorrow morning we put her on the machine and test her." 

By Monday morning, Chicago's snow flurries had thickened to drifting winds. 
The elation after a season's first snowfall, like the exploding climax of 
sensual bliss, fades quickly. A glum mood sets in, hovering like pregnant, 
stormy skies. So it was with Jack Turner. 

Indecision boxed him in. Slumped on the living room sofa with elbows braced 
on his knees, hands supporting his head, he struggled to piece his life 
together. Right now he had enough evidence to put his father-in-law's ugly 
face behind bars. "Sherrie.. . " He muttered her name aloud, no more than a 
whisper. "Shit!" One foot shot out to kick the television set in the face. 

Jack jumped to his feet, startled by his violent behavior. To confess to 
Kurt Bailey that his daughter had run away, probably to the nearest 
courthouse to seek divorce, was utterly castrating. 

Yet, ironically, he must prove to Sherrie what a lousy scum of the earth 
bastard her Daddy was, in order to earn her respect. Jack raked strong 
fingers through brown tousled curls, two days uncombed. Daddy this, Daddy 
that . . . if she only knew how Daddy dear paid for their house and the 
cheap bevy of women he hid from his family, she'd whistle another tune. 

He started for the kitchen to snatch a beer from the refrigerator, but 
caught himself in time. No . . . he'd been substituting the bottle for balls 
too long. Decisively, he turned on his heel and grabbed the telephone, 
strangling it in a clammy fist and wishing it were Kurt Bailey's neck. The 
dial groaned metallically from the iron pull of his fingers. 

"I want to speak to Bailey." 

A cold blast of air shivered over Sherrie's supine naked flesh. Struggling 
up on a weak elbow, her puffy eyes focused on Myra's tight-lipped face 
glowering down at her from the doorway. 

"Well, my sweet, I hope you had a good night's sleep." 

"Wh-I . . . " Sherrie's head flew around in a desperate search for 
remembrance. Where was she? What was she doing laying naked on the floor? In 
a flood of hysteria, the damned walls burst. 

like a cat, she sprang to her feet. The goose-bumped curves of her luscious 
nudity attacked the grinning vixen blocking the door. 

"Why did you lock me in?" she cried. "What do you want with met" Swirls of 
auburn hair fell about her creamy shoulders, sweeping over the swells of her 
breasts heaving with terror and trepidation. Liquidy chartreuse eyes blurred 
with tears, her chin trembled and long polished nails dug into the palms of 
her balled up fists. 

The other remained seductively calm, a crooked grin creasing her face. 
"Don't you worry, my sweet. Climb back into bed and Anna will bring you more 
tea." 

"I don't want any tea! I want to get out of here!" yelled Sherrie, her 
screams filling the empty hallways. With adrenalized force, she charged the 
large woman blocking the door, but Myra caught the lithe arms in the 
strength of her fists and held her captive immobile. 

"Behave yourself," she spat between clenched teeth. "I'm warning you! Make 
it easy on yourself." 

With a force that surprised Sherrie, the older woman pinned the naked girl's 
arms behind her back and shoved her face down on the bed. Sherrie landed in 
a heap of crying, goose-bumped, quivering flesh. "Oh, dear God, let me out 
of here. . . . ! " she sobbed into the cold sheets. 

If only she could think straight! Why, why had they locked her in? Why had 
she come here? Jack, da m n you . . . I hope you die for this! She sobbed 
the harder, recalling the obscenities the man she'd loved had heaped upon 
her . . . and now this. It was his fault she'd come here. Why hadn't she 
stayed at her father's house, instead of running away like a teenager? 

Slowly, the sobs softened to painful moans of terror-stricken despair and 
trapped, without the will or strength to move, Sherrie fell into a dreamless 
sleep. 

She neither heard the voices whispering about the room, nor felt the hands 
mauling at her body. But when she awoke, fresh nightmares hardened into 
razored reality. 

A sickening sensation weighted Anna's heart. With the burden of her limping 
foot slowing her, she ascended the stairs in time to see Southworth and his 
evilly grinning lesbian accomplice, dragging the sheet wrapped body of the 
new arrival to the locked 'chamber' next door. Anna stiffened. All too well 
she knew the meaning, could hear the screams and cries echoing in the dulled 
recesses of her mind. 

I low could it happen, she wondered, heading toward the bathroom with her 
mop and pail, that human beings could contrive to hurt others, hold others 
captive against their will? Worst still, the thought gnawed at her heart 
that she, by virtue of being in their wicked surrounds, was accomplice to 
the crimes perpetrated within the walls of the chalet. With gnarled fingers, 
she unlocked the bathroom door and set down the pail weighted with cleaning 
utensils. The metal handle clanged against the side of the pail. She winced 
and stroked a strand of graying hair that had escaped her pug, back behind 
her ear. 

The first scream echoed in a muffled cry from the chamber. That might have 
been herself years back. Emotionlessly, she powdered the sink with cleanser. 

Sherrie awoke with a start. Reality broke through fuzzed consciousness at 
the feel of something tight constricting her body. She tried to stretch, but 
she couldn't move. The thorazine had dulled her vision, but the faces 
leering down at her were hellishly crisp and terrifying. 

One wild sweep of the eye took in the windowless walls strewn with 
paraphernalia she could not name. A shiver rippled up and down her naked 
spine. She was strapped on her back in some kind of chair! Straining her 
neck, a scream died in her throat. To her right a man she'd never seen 
before-short, bald headed, with piggish eyes and bulbous nose-was slaving 
over a machine, turning knobs and buttons. 

Their eyes met. "Ah ha, glad to see you woke up," he said with obvious lack 
of sincerity. 

Sherrie wriggled and stretched. White hot terror tore through her 
goose-bumped frame, as she listened to the demon beside her talking to 
himself, swearing over the uncooperative machine. 

A click and a whirr buzzed in Sherrie's ears and she felt her head rising. A 
cushiony support on the back of her head was bending her neck so that she 
could see every inch of her naked body-strapped! Dear God, what did these 
maniacs want with her? 

She was captive in a chair, black straps, flecked with raisin dots of-dried 
blood! "NooooooooH Her scream died, rattled unspent from her captive body as 
Myra's hand stung across her burning cheek. 

Black straps crisscrossed over her body, with two foam rubber cups 
supporting her bare buttocks. Another single strap tightened about her tiny 
waist and her slender legs were trapped in some special supports at thigh 
and calf. Her lithe arms were stretched out in a crucifix-like position and 
held tight in soft foam guttered, strapped and buckled at the wrists. 

The shock of finding herself naked was nothing compared to the gut wrenching 
fear. The walls held her focus; walls decorated with whips and shackles, 
belts and chains-things one used on animals for training! Terrified, she 
turned her head. To the far right sat a table, a gurney much like those used 
in hospitals, except this one was splattered with dried blood. Buckles 
attached to heavy leather straps hung lifelessly from where arms and legs 
had been tied down. 

What were these maniacs going to do to her? "Oh, God, let me out of here!" 
she wailed in a tight voice that might have shattered glass. 

"Hush . . . be quiet!" warned Myra, holding up a threatening hand. "We don't 
want to hurt you. . . "Her eyes were glazed with madness. "We give all our 
pretty girls a taste of bliss before we set you to work," she explained 
simply, as if reciting a recipe to a neighbor. 

That cold precision frightened Sherrie, more than the threat of slaps and 
blood. Myra's fingers worked at the straps, tightening them at Sherrie's 
thighs and calves until she let out a yelp of pain. The captive's green eyes 
shot up to glare into her tormentor's face, hoping to find a thread of 
decency in the cold-hearted woman who'd lured her into this heinous trap. 
Myra licked her lips seductively and, bending her head, leaned over to kiss 
her captive on the forehead. The perfumey softness of Myra's milky breasts 
mashed against Sherrie's face, nearly suffocating her. 

She flinched, shivering from the feel of another woman's indecent closeness. 
Myra read her captive's disgust and taunted: "Do not be so frightened of a 
woman . . . " And here she cocked an arched brow. "I've already tasted you, 
my sweet." Her lipstick smeared lips twitched like swollen flanges about to 
orgasm. Sherrie's stomach knotted and for a moment she thought she might be 
sick! 

Then her mouth went dry and her eyes ripped from the devouring glare of her 
captors to stare into space. Two liquidy green eyes squeezed shut, and hot 
pearly tears dribbled down her burning cheeks. "Don't . . . please . . . " 
she whimpered in a tiny voice. She jolted then from the coldness of the cups 
positioned over the strawberry-hued nipples. 

Maybe humoring them would help. Maybe this was all a practical joke. 

A hysterical giggle tore from her lungs. "What is all this about? You're 
teasing me, aren't you? You're like Jack, always teasing me.. . . " 

Southworth turned to her and arched an eyebrow. Piggish eyes boring into her 
pleadingly blinking ones, he remained tight-lipped as he wildly turned 
knobs. 

Sherrie wiggled a painted toenail, the only part of her body not strapped 
down. "Come on, let's quit playing games . . . it's cold in here." 

Southworth didn't reply and Sherrie hadn't the strength of emotion to look 
at the buxom female whose perfume made her dizzy with fear. Perhaps the 
female in her found it easier to cope with man. Hadn't she always managed to 
get her way with Daddy above her mother? Yes, better she concentrate on the 
bald headed creature to her right. 

Southworth didn't reply. His expressionless face, mask-like, glared coolly 
at her. Women had responded to his tortures as many things-but never as a 
joke. Then a thin, cold smile spread over his tight lips and his right hand 
found the working combination. A switch buzzed on, sending a tingling 
sensation and a jerking snapping through her breasts. 

"Wh-what.. . oh God . . . ! " she cried in alarm. 

With a snicker of lust, Southworth tripped another switch and the pulsating 
cups settled down to a slow squeezing and tugging rhythm. A strange warmth 
centered in her nipples, making them grow into puckery diamond chips. In a 
deep corner of her libido, something flicked a switch of pleasure her 
conscious mind could not accept. 

Southworth folded his arms over his burly chest and stepped back cocking his 
bald head to take in all of his fresh captive's shivering, goose-bumped, 
naked form. He spoke to Myra as if Sherrie were not there: 

"How much do you think she can take? Five, ten minutes . . . ? " His voice 
was cold as a knife's blade. 

Myra, wrapping her red fingertips in Sherrie's auburn waves, pursed her lips 
and gave her wrist a tug. "My sweet darling would willingly die of 
pleasure!" 

Die . . . the word sizzled in Sherrie's mind. "Please . . . no. . . let me 
up.. . " Auburn hair flailing from side to side, the screams tore from 
Sherrie's fear tightened throat. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

"Save your breath, Sherrie. You'll be saying please plenty in the next hour 
or so.. . " 

He spoke for the first time, and Sherrie had to roll her tear-wetted eyes to 
see his face. Southworth had opened his mouth in a wicked, glinting grin . . 
. unusual for a man who seldom smiled. 

"You will beg, you will plead, but Myra and I have discovered there is a 
certain kind of animal-female animal-who will die for pleasure . . . either 
giving it or receiving. Pain and pleasure ride a fine line, as you will soon 
discover. Unfortunately, we've lost many girls because of their sensual 
greed, no matter how thoroughly we've trained them." 

Shock cut through terror. These people were insane! Sherrie struggled to 
free herself of the straps, but managed only to get wrist burns from the 
biting leather straps. "I'm not an animal! I'm a human being, and I don't 
know what training you're talking about . . . and I will not beg!" 

Southworth smiled sardonically. He enjoyed feisty women, because in a sense, 
they were more difficult to break. He was a master at breaking women. 

"I'll scream until somebody hears me!" Sherrie didn't recognize her own 
babyish wail. 

A churlish grin spread Southworth's lips. "Scream . . . scream your bloody 
head off. Nobody can hear you in these woods, and no one would come to your 
rescue. Anyway, Myra and I like screaming.. . " 

Sherrie felt her heart batter at her chest. Why had she come to this 
horrible place? Why had false pride prevented her from seeking solace from 
her father? Damn you, Jack.. . I hope they find my dead body and suffer you 
the agony of claiming it! 

The captive wet her lips with the tip of her parched tongue. 'This is sick.. 
. " Her head was postured at an angle giving her a birds' eye view of her 
melonous breasts with the suction cups disgustingly clamped over her 
hardened nipples. The gentle tingling and babyish sucking motion of the 
soft, warm cups was strangely soothing . . . and, in different 
circumstances, exciting. "Please," tears squeezed out in burning droplets. 

Myra's hissing breathing, and Southworth's deep inhalations could be heard 
above the buzzing sound. 

Eyes squeezed shut, Sherrie broke her vow to silence again. "What are you 
going to do with me?" Fear and the first hint of forbidden sensual 
excitation crept in unwelcomed. The soft, warm core of something sweet, hot, 
and undeniable was bubbling deep in her womb-not un-like the strangely 
arousing masochistic desire when Jack had taken her anally and afterwards 
she had-No, she couldn't think filthy thoughts . . . not with the cups 
rubbing over her hardened nipples the way Jack used to roll them between his 
fingers. One was pleasure one was pain, mingling in strange sensations of 
time and place and memory. 

"You will learn, Sherrie," began Myra as if reading her captive's thoughts, 
"that every female is part animal." Her voice was hard and decisive as a 
whack of a cleaver. "Give it to her, Southworth!" 

Sherrie's green eyes popped to the side to see her male tormentor press 
another button, staring off a click and buzz and then a hum of well-oiled 
machinery. The chair moved slowly, tilting her backwards this time, so that 
her legs slid apart slowly . . . stretching out wider, wider, wider until. . 
. 

A painful whimper tore from Sherrie's lungs. She felt as if she were being 
twirled and whirled in outer space! Drawn backwards, her buttocks rose 
obscenely and her thighs were pulled so wide apart that muscle cramps 
started to set in. 

Helplessly strapped, she lay staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering how 
many other women before he had suffered this torture. Where were they? Dead? 
Buried under the drifting snow? 

Now the gentle, insistent sucking charged with a tingling electric impulse, 
intensified. The perfidious grin on Myra's powdered face told her the 
torture had just begun. Right she was. 

Reaching over her prize, the elder woman turned knobs until mirrors appeared 
from below the chair angled at the heart of Sherrie's vagina. "Give her 
hell," she grunted at Southworth. 

Another button pressed and this time Sherrie's naked buttocks split wider 
apart, until aghast, she glanced down to see the swollen lips of her vagina 
swelling with blood of arousal! 

A cold, clammy feel like that of a snake crawling along her spine rippled 
through the terrorized captive. The horror of her obscene posture was 
humiliating, but the sight of her own wicked arousal was soulfully damning! 
She blinked back hot tears as the vision of her disapproving father hovered 
above. "Nnnooo-oo. . . ! " she shrilled, straining against the straps. 

"Our sweetheart is feeling the first tingle of pleasure," mewled Myra. "I 
could tell from those green eves she was half cat-in heat!" 

Sherrie clenched shut her fluttering eyelids and thrashed her auburn curls 
from left to right. Beads of perspiration sheened the milky mounds of her 
breasts and her teeth clenched in horror against the naked truth. 

Her green eyes stole a glance down into the mirrors, steamed from the heat 
of her cuntal arousal. Her traitorous pussy lips had swollen into reddened 
petals of shame and guilt. 

Kurt Baily was in no mood for interruptions. A snow plow driver with a few 
warming brandies under the belt, had smashed into the rear end of his new 
Lincoln this morning. Irritation number two: nobody bought cars in the dead 
of winter. He slumped, ruminating over these grievances of fate, and drummed 
his fingers on the polished desk top. Good thing, (here a smirk grew over 
his mustached face), he had written his own insurance policy against 
inflation. 

Outside the plate-glass window, a sheet of powder whitened the Auto Fair 
parking lot, making his lineup of '80 Caddies and Lincolns look like frosted 
tinker toys. The red sale signs had cracked in the storm and flew from 
skinny poles in shredded red ribbons. 

Now the telephone call from his son-in-law. 

"Tell the bastard to pick up his unemployment check at the welfare office," 
he grumbled at his secretary over the intercom. 

"He says it's urgent," came the mewling voice. "S-something about his wife.. 
. ? " 

"Sherrie?" Kurt stiffened. He loved his daughter. The only good thing his 
wife ever gave him. 

A clicking sound, a pause, and Jack's voice crackled over the snow laden 
wires. 

"Listen, you dumb shit, if you beat my daughter, I'll see you in court!" 

"Cut the crap, Bailey," bawled Jack so loud Bailey held the phone a 
respectable distance from his ear drum. "Sherrie's gone-left. Where the hell 
is she?" 

Kurt Bailey hadn't wormed his way up the ladder of corruption without tact. 
He used it now, knowing what Turner knew. "If there's anything I can do-" he 
said in a tempered voice. 

"Listen, Bailey, you help me find my wife, or I'm going to the cops. You 
catch my drift?" 

Bailey stiffened, nostrils flaring with rage. "So you win this round, Turner 
. . . but don't push me. I can have you more than fired." 

The Swiss chalet sat pristinely in the pine forest. Drifting snows crawled 
up the blood red walls in silent fingers, stretching to reach the room where 
screams died. 

Southworth went mad. He turned switches and pressed buttons, experimenting 
with his victim. The idea of machinery fascinated him, the concept of a 
handful of inanimate nuts and bolts doing to a human what another human 
failed to do . . . finding their libidinous weakness. 

And so it was with Sherrie as the sucking and tingling of the foam cups 
intensified to the point of pain. Along with it came pleasure, ebbing and 
flowing in rhythm. Pleasure coming from all directions. Sherrie whimpered, 
feeling dew drops of perspiration trickle between the milky mounds of her 
breasts. Against her will, her hips began to undulate and the lips of her 
pussy gushed with blood and separated like the petals of a blossoming rose. 
The glistening red slit of her vagina opened acceptingly. Beneath, the 
softly rounded cheeks of her buttocks bunched and spread as if a baker's 
kneading hands were working at soft bread dough. She cried then, a wail 
dying in her throat at the sight of her tiny puckered anus so recently 
ravaged, working like a sucking mouth. 

Her breath caught in her throat as a stainless steel shaft rose like a 
snake's head between her legs. Beside her, Southworth was wildly screwing 
something inJ,o place; he fastened a plastic surgical hose to it. 

"Ah, Southworth," she heard Myra gleam beside her. "You are such a genius. 
We'll find out if this one is oral, anal or vaginal. It's my bet she's the 
oral type." 

"Find out soon enough," grunted Southworth, stepping back. "I'd rather find 
out the bitch was anal. There is a rare breed." Standing in front of his 
captive's strapped down body, he hardly regarded her nude sensuality. 
Precise as a scientist and with an expression to match, he smirked up at 
Myra. "I'm sure you would rather she were oral. You haven't really had one 
to please you for a while." 

Myra's soft hands reached up to cup her breasts. A ludicrously salacious 
grin separated her lips. "No, you're right. If things get any more arid, 
you'll have to put me in the machine!" 

Sherrie listened to their salacious banter, one green eye kept warily peeled 
on what appeared to be a red tongue, horrifyingly obscene. Southworth 
flicked another switch and by some magical means the tongue filled, 
ballooning and bloating. Click, whirr . . . the tongue slipped forward, 
tilting, lapping toward her cunt. 

"Ahhhhhh!" Sherrie defied her oath once more, as she felt the warm, moist 
touch of the plastic tongue. "Noooo!" she pleaded as the rubbery head 
touched, then pressed against her moistened vaginal lips. In rotating 
circles, the tongue worked at the swollen flanges, spreading them with 
vengeful ease. 

She couldn't see him, but she could sense his presence. To her left, Myra's 
shallow breathing and the rustle of satin told her the woman was 
masturbating furiously. She might have concentrated on that horror, but the 
mirror emplanted in front of her face, and the wicked, bloated tongue began 
to vibrate in teasing circles, back and forth as it slid up and down the 
petals of her pussy in lubricated ease. Gently it spread her lips and dipped 
into the moistened warmth of her cunt; then it retreated, smearing the 
insides of her thighs with her own sex juices. Tantalizingly, it wormed its 
way down between her softly trembling buttocks to nudge at the brown button 
of her anus. 

Sherrie stiffened and forced back her head, arching her back to ward off the 
ticklish sensation. It was gone then, heading north for the oily hub of her 
clitoris where it stopped and paid ticklish homage in a swirling caress. 

Sherrie's face contorted teeth clenched, head thrown back. Pearls of 
perspiration beaded her forehead. "Nooooooo!" Maddening sweet, more gentle 
than her own husband's touch! Dear God, when would this torture end? Had 
anyone ever died of too much pleasure? 

Those thoughts lifted as the chair suddenly tilted, raising her hips far 
above her head and spreading her legs wider still. Between them, working 
assiduously at the heart of her being, the tongue plunged down, spreading 
her seething cunt wide enough for the bloated digit to thrust in and out. 
Sherrie screamed out her rage. 

She sucked in her breath hissingly, as the chair rocked back and forth. Her 
buttocks were trapped in the twin cups, swaying back and forth as the 
mechanical tongue fucked in and out, back and forth, vibrating. Eyes tightly 
clenched, her hips did a dance of their own, as the tongue dashed down to 
lick and probe at the brown eye of her anus. The captive's thoughts fled to 
Jack, deepening the humiliation. Fear and desire melded into one long groan. 

Beside her, Myra's hands cupped her own breasts, while one ringed hand 
yanked at the hem of her dress, allowing her fingers to stroke the hairy 
nest of her cunt. "Ohhh, that tongue . . . to have that tongue licking me, 
sucking me . . . sucking me . . . sucking me.. . " she mewled, watching the 
naked captive's fear slowly melt into pleasure-which later would know pain. 
"Y-you see. . . Southworth," Myra struggled in a breathy voice, "She is oral 
. . . she would love to suck cock and cunt. . . w-would fit s-so well at 
Hunter's.. . " Her voice died in a groan of obscene pleasure, as bonding her 
knees and supporting herself with one hand braced against Sherrie's chair, 
she stroked and rubbed and mewled and cried with joy. 

Sherrie's eyes popped open; but not from Myra's obscene gyrations. The 
tongue had stopped, retracted. "W-what. . . please . . . let me . . . gooo!" 

"Never." Southworth was coming to life now. "You liked that too much." He 
glanced over at Myra. "We know she's oral. . . but we haven't tried the 
rest." Then down at the squirming, wiggling captive whose wide green eyes 
stared up into his dark beady ones with pleading intensity. "Don't worry . . 
. you'll have plenty of pleasure." 

His eyes swept over the walls decorated with whips and chains and straps and 
objects Sherrie had never seen before. Then down at his captive. "We can 
offer you any pleasure you want here." 

Sherrie shivered. Every nerve in her naked body cried for pleasure . . . 
anything to stop this ticklish sensation charging through her 
libido-controlled body. From the tips of her auburn curls, to the polished 
pink toenails curling under, Sherrie's captive body was a mass of jingling 
ganglia, fiery with the need for relief that could come in only one way 
orgasm. The thought shuddered through her body that she could want pleasure 
from these despicable creatures! 

A click and a whirr and her head tilted back, so far back she was staring at 
the ceiling, as if in a dentist's chair. The rustle of Myra's satin dress 
chorused another sound-this time the metallic whine of a zipper. Sherrie's 
head flew to the side and she gasped aloud as his hands unzipped his pants 
and hauled out the pathetic, wormian tube of his flaccid penis. 

"Suck it until I cum in your mouth," he said with neither passion or malice. 
"I want to see what you can do with your mouth!" 

Sherrie spat at him: "Never!" 

"You're saying no to me?" he snarled. 

Sherrie's head flew to the side; a red welt streaked across her cheek bone. 

"Okay," hissed Southworth. Keeping an eye on his victim, he turned a knob 
and her head righted so that her eyes leveled on the damning mirrors, 
steamed with hot cuntal secretions. 

Beside her Southworth worked with scientific precision, unscrewing the 
bloated tongue and replacing it with a dildo of elephantine proportions. 
"There, is that big enough for you?" he snickered sardonically. 

Dear God! A sob tore from Sherrie's fear constricted throat. It had to have 
been at least a foot long and five inches in girth. Crystals of dried cuntal 
juices flaked from the tip. A bubble of nausea welled in her stomach. 
Hysterically, she squirmed in the chair, judging his intent-correctly! 

"Nnnnoooo . . . ! " That hunk of plastic would rip her to shreds. It would 
kill her! Not even a female cow could take a cock like that! Mouth going 
bone dry, she watched terrified as the mushroom headed cock with other 
women's dried juices and streaks of blood, whirred toward her vagina at a 
militaristic pace. She closed her eyes, feeling the cold plastic rub at the 
door of her tender pussy. 

It crashed forward with shark speed, spreading the tender lips of her pussy, 
spreading them in a wide and tight oval around the mushroom head. Without 
caress or love, it plundered into her, raping her, spreading the lips wide 
mercilessly. It then slipped in with an ease she wouldn't have expected . . 
. because of her own anal secretions! Elastically, her lips spread wider, 
wider still.. . until a shriek of pure agony pierced the moans of Myra's 
fingered pleasure. 

With the sound of a cork popping, the cock head slid between the swollen 
lips of her cunt; her pussy stretched taut and white. Mercifully, it 
retreated; she felt her buttocks and hips being ripped from their cups and, 
one glance in the mirror reflected her vaginal lips rolling out, giving up 
the massive head reluctantly! 

Sherrie's body rippled with pain . . . worse than losing virginity on her 
marriage bed. Stars flickered before her eyes and Myra's lewd grunts echoed 
as if from a point far out in space. 

"I would judge her depth at eight inches," 

Southworth reported to an unhearing Myra, who, sluicing her fingers in and 
out of her seething cunt, was hell-bent for an orgasm. "But just to make 
sure. . . . " 

"Noooonoooo . . . please!" wailed Sherrie, watching the plastic cock prepare 
for a second attack. It plowed into her, drilled and gored, then slowly then 
slowly withdrew. "Oh, God, stop that thinggggg!" she begged. ' With a wicked 
snicker, Southworth screwed up the depth and tempo control and the tingling 
and sucking on her nipples too. Sherrie's body rippled with electrified 
sensations, centering wickedly in the heart of her raped womb. The devilish 
fingers of pleasure drummed at fear, corroding her will to fight the hellish 
sensations. 

The dildo went berserk, crashing into her pussy like a gladiator charging 
his foe. It banged against her tender cervix. Sherrie yelped. Flickers of 
light danced before her flickering eyelids, and blinking her fear widened 
eyes, she saw the giant cock glistening with moist sex juices from her 
traitorous cunt! It pulled free with an obscene sucking sound, peeling her 
vaginal lips out to roll them back in. A second attack rolled the ends of 
her pubic hair into the nest of her vagina! Each ramming lunge knocked the 
breath from Sherrie's burning lungs. 

With strength and resistance eating away, Sherrie's hips fought the straps 
and moved in tempo to the dildo goring in and out of her vagina. Damn you, 
Jack . . . Her chartreuse eyes rolled back in her head, and curly eyelashes 
fluttered deliriously. Why did yon treat me so shamelessly! This is your 
fault. . . ! 

Armed with defiance and stripped of pride, the captive gritted her teeth and 
caught the moan of submission about to bubble from her laxly parted lips. 
The tip of her pink tongue wetted the cracked line of her fear-dried lips as 
the great cock plundered home. Her captive body tensed, muscles fighting to 
capture the elusive orgasm that would forever shatter pride and defense. She 
didn't want to think, only feel that animalish thing fucking into her crying 
womb. 

A sob tore from her throat and tears smarted in her wet eyes. Southworth 
turned the knob to high and the surrogate penis pinned her tighter against 
the straps. 

"Aaaaggghhhhh!" She felt herself slip into a state of mindless animal lust. 

"Tell me, sweetheart," Myra whispered hotly in her ear. "Did you ever feel 
anything so sweet in your life?" Lewdly, the older woman smeared the sticky 
juices of her own orgasm over the captive's lips. 'There's nothing," she 
hissed, "like the cum of a woman tingling on your tongue." 

Dear Lord! Jack.. . help me.. . Daddy, please! Yet the humiliation of being 
strapped in the chair with a lesbian smearing her wicked juices tauntingly 
over her lips were reminders of the debasement of her marriage. She was 
alone in the world. Alone. Nothing to live for . . . except for the burning 
need of relief! 

Every inch of her goose-bumped body twitched and jerked and trembled as the 
rapacious plastic penis thundered violently into the shamefully swollen, 
seeping hole of her womb. 

Damn you, Jack . . . you wouldn't have me . . . you wouldn't please me . . . 
! To cum . . . to cum . . . 

It exploded within her. She pulled against her straps like a racehorse 
biting at the reins. Fingers, ten cold fingers, numbed as every drop of 
blood within her lithe, naked body drained to the lips of her cunt to swell. 
She felt it burst within her . . . a pain jabbed at her spongy cervix. 
Wetness dribbled between her thighs, while stars sprinkled in heavens above. 
Then all went black. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Anna pressed her ear to the night cold door. Sobs seeped through the plank 
as if they were being torn from her own heart. Abruptly, her cautious eyes 
swept down the shadowed streak of the hallway. Steam hissing from the 
radiator added a lonely dimension to the night's soliloquy. 

She had witnessed them carry the fainted body out of the chamber and dump 
the naked, abused flesh onto the bed where she lay now, whimpering into her 
pillow. A seething hatred pounded in Anna's chest. 

Defiantly, she stiffened. The ugliness of the chamber's torture could rip 
apart a woman's soul, forever tainting it. Anna knew; she'd been there. 

Outside the chalet the winds slashed against frosted window panes and the 
German Shepherd, starved for the raw meat he was fed daily, howled at the 
thumbnail moon slivered with storm clouds. 

Eight o'clock. Southworth and Myra would be in the dining room filling their 
licentious gullets and sipping brandy. Time to take action, time to avenge a 
lost soul. 

Dragging her limping foot, she scuffed down the hallway to the landing to 
find the ring of keys hidden behind a picture frame with its placid country 
scene of stoic pine encircled lake and heady sunshine. With eyes peeled on 
the stairway for approaching shadows and ears preened for the creak of 
footsteps, she cradled the heavy metallic ring in her palm and stole down 
the hallway. 

Pausing at her room next to the bathroom where the captive girls were 
escorted four times a day, she scribbled a note on a pad, tore it off, 
quartered it and slipped it into her pocket. 

Work gnarled hands turned the knob to Sherrie's room. The key slipped easily 
into the latch. 

The sobbing had stilled. A fugitive beam of moonlight splashed across the 
alabaster features of Sherrie's porcelain face. A red welt swelled on her 
left cheekbone; the auburn curls matted to her fevered forehead. 

Drawing a deep breath and shooting a cautious glance over her shoulder, the 
maid pried open the sleeping woman's tense fingers and slipped the note into 
the warm palm. She closed the fingers and scuffed out the door,. . . but not 
before she'd shaken the robe shoulders to alertness. 

Sherrie felt the presence, even in deep sleep. Ahh . . . ! " A scream died 
in her throat as a cold hand clamped over her gaping mouth. 

"Shhhh . . . no . . . you must go . . . turn!" 

"Wh-what? I . . . " Sherrie tried to shake herself alert. The intruder had 
to have been a nightmare vision. Struggling up to one elbow, she blinked her 
puffy eyes. 

Who was she? Where was she? Terrified, her eye fled over the room. This was 
not Chicago . . . this was not her bed . . . and where was Jack? 

The dull throbbing between her satiny thighs re leased the gates of memory. 
The ugliness of the chamber flooded back in sickening waves. A tiny 
trembling hand reached up to touch the reddened welt 

Whiteness, like a flitting butterfly, fluttered from her hand. Puzzled, she 
grasped at it and unfolded the handwritten note. A long white hospital robe 
dragged over the floor as she darted in bare feet to the window and squinted 
in the moonlight to read: 

"You must leave here immediately. Leave tonight Your door is unlocked. Go to 
the cafe at the corner and ask for Harvey. He will help you." 

Fear clawed at her delicate throat. Who left the message? Someone had stolen 
into her room while she was asleep. Who? Why? Was this another trick to 
abuse her? 

With a cry of alarm, her cold, bare feet fled across the scratchy carpet to 
the door. Apprehensively, he delicate hands closed over the cold knob and 
turned, was open. 

Indecision tore at her heart. What awaited her on the other side? Where were 
her tormentors? 

Rummaging in the darkness, she found her wool slacks. Someone had folded 
them neatly and tucked them into her night case. Lifting her aching arms, 
she winced and pulled her sweater over the tingling mounds of her breasts. 
The nubby wool scratched at her chafed nipples, reddened and swollen from 
the diabolical machine's tauntings. Every muscle in her legs and back ached 
from being strapped and pulled taut. With a grunt of discomfort, she reached 
for her hoots under the bed. 

Indecision was melting fast. Whoever these maniacs pre, she had to get away 
before they murdered her with their diabolical mechanical contraptions! 

The frantic captive fled to the window and pressed her perky nose against 
the frosted glass. Her warm breath steamed the pane, the cooling touch 
soothing to her bruised cheek. A trembling hand shaded her eyes against the 
moonlight's eerie glow. "A blanket of white . . . " she muttered to herself, 
staring at the pristine purity of endless snow. The snowflakes fluttered 
freely in windblown wisps. 

To be free . . . again. Feeling strangely alienated from the world, free 
will frozen somewhere within her tortured soul, she struggled out of fear's 
grasp. Watching the snowflakes play and dance in the still night air stilled 
the clawing terror. To survive was her only hope. Freezing to death in the 
drifting snow, she decided, could be no worse than suffering the tortures of 
the stout maniac and his lesbian accomplice! She shivered, but not from the 
cold. 

Tiptoeing, boots in hand, she crept toward the door and peered into the 
hallway's eerie shadows. Only the radiator hissed. Flinging a swirl of 
auburn curls over her shoulder, teeth clamped over the chafed line of her 
rosy lips, Sherrie stole down the hallway. The walls seemed to pulsate, 
breathe with threats. Step by step . . . so far so good. Stair by stair. 

Then her foot froze in mid-air. She sucked in her breath, melonous breasts 
rising in gut wrenching terror. The step had creaked beneath the weight of 
her lissome body. Eyes bugged wildly, she waited. 

Anna pressed her body against the cold hallway wall, watching the captive 
make her getaway. Go now . . . hit re faith . . . you must . . . the door is 
open . . . " Still Sherrie halted. The older woman pressed her bony weight 
against the wall, clenched her eyes shut and concentrated: "Go . . . THE 
DOOR IS OPEN' 

Auburn curls swung in mid-air. Sherrie's green eyes shot up over the landing 
toward the hallway. A force, a strangely goading force, was pushing her out 
the door. 

Her hand froze on the banister. One step more, another . . . another . . . 
another. Now she stood at the foot of the stairway, adrenalin pounding in 
her ears. Ten feet away a wooden plank stood between nightmares and freedom. 
Wildly she glanced around. A smoldering fire was dying in the hearth, the 
deer's head hanging above it grinning lecherously at her. 

Frantically, her trembling hands grasped the cold metal knob and twisted. 
She grimaced, winced, blood singing in her ears. It turned. Slowly, she 
opened it, stepped into the frozen night. She ran until exhausted, 
collapsing in the snow. 

From the upstairs window, a dark shadow watched her escape. Then, stealing 
down the hallway, paused to pluck something from the carpet, and 
disappeared. 

Chicago's police station can be a most entertaining nightspot, if one 
possesses a sadistic sense of humor. 

Jack Turner came to that decision as he slumped in a straight backed wooden 
chair, torturing the Styrofoam coffee cup whose contents gurgled in his 
stomach. To his right, a handcuffed, toothless Cuban refugee sat muttering 
damning epitaphs about American freedom; and to his left, a weeping mother 
blew her nose and fingered a photograph of her runaway daughter. 

Jack drew a depressive breath and bracing his elbows on his knees, shot to 
his feet the second a paunch-bellied policeman called his name and beckoned 
him with a crooked finger to the desk at the far back. The officer was in 
charge of missing persons . . . his desk littered with everything from 
Woolworth photo booth pictures to mug shots and hand drawn sketches, 
attested to that. 

A form was thrust in Jack's face. Jack glowered at it. "I don't want to fill 
out any forms, Goddam it. I want to find my wife!" 

The policeman belched enchilada breath and cupping his hand to his mouth, 
grumbled apathetically at the distraught young husband. "Look. . . "He 
shuffled a deck of written reports before Jack's unblinking eyes.". . . we 
need a report. One hundred and fifty-two people are reported missing in 
Chicago every day . . . I don't know your wife," he mocked leaning on his 
elbows, fat fingers entwined and shaking jowled cheeks. He leaned back in 
his creaking chair and pushed back the bill of his hat. 

Humanity . . . was a mess, he recanted, on second thought. It was too easy 
to become a hard ass in this occupation. His heart softened. "Alright, let's 
have a description . . . maybe we have a coroner's report. . . . " 

Coroner's report! Jack's eyes bugged wildly; he craved a drink. Sherrie . . 
. dead? Suicide? Would she dare? No, not Sherrie. She couldn't take an 
aspirin without throwing up! 

"Listen . . . " Jack's voice tingled with conspiracy. He leaned over the 
policeman's desk and braced his elbow on the stack of reports. "You help me 
find my wife, and I'll help you put a criminal behind bars." 

The officer's upper lip curled in amusement. "Dillinger died in a shootout 
in Wisconsin, and Capone died of syphilis. We don't need no help," he 
belched. 

"What about Kurt Bailey? You got anything on him?" 

The officer rolled his eyes at the ceiling and scratched his neck. "Jesus, 
kid, let's be realistic." He spread his hands expressively. "This city is 
crawling with vice.. . " He poked his finger at a photograph of a three 
year-old girl who's bruised, bloodied body had been found in a closet by an 
inquisitive neighbor. "Kids are being murdered by their parents, men are 
shooting their wives, wives are knifing their husbands . . . ! " He surveyed 
the wild eyed man as being one more kook wasting his time. "Evidence.. . " 
Another poke at the incriminating photograph. "Evidence.. . . " 

Jack scraped back his chair, slammed his hand on the desk and jumped to his 
feet. "You want evidence?" He drew in a breath that added three inches to 
his height. "I'll swear I'll get that sonofabitch locked behind bars . . . 
and then I'll get my wife back. You understand? You get one and you lose 
one, that's the way life works." 

Jack's jaws were so tight, a crowbar couldn't have wedged them open as he 
threw himself behind the wheel of his rented car, revved the motor and 
skidded out of the parking space of the police department parking lot. A 
scuffle between paddy wagon police and a handcuffed black man erupted, but 
his attention couldn't be rattled. 

I am going to find Sherrie and she's going to understand for once and for 
all what an asshole tier father is. She'll find out he fired me for what I 
knew, not for being a goddamned lousy used car salesman! 

Tires spinning and burning, he slid down the ice slickened street toward his 
house, screeched to a halt before 1897 Garfield, and ran into his garage. 

Grabbing tools from his workbench like a frugal housewife at a department 
store sale, he loaded up his arms and threw himself back behind the wheel. 
Paying no heed to traffic cops, stop signs, or precarious pedestrians, he 
sped toward the Auto Fair. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Drifting snow blew over Sherrie's collapsed body, but she felt no cold. For 
a stricken moment, she lay panting and weeping. Forcing herself to her feet, 
she stood statuesque under the thumbnail moon. In a state of near shock, she 
put one foot in front of the other before realizing she still clutched her 
boots in her hands. I lustily, shi' slipped into them and ran into the 
night. 

The snows had abated, leaving a crisp layer of ice that crunched under the 
high heels of her boots. She ran until her lungs burned from icy inhalations 
and only then, at the fork of the road, did she stop to peek through the 
snow-laden boughs at the blood-red Swiss chalet. Above her the Crackerbox 
sign with the blonde in red hunter's underwear crooked a mocking finger at 
her. "Come Hunt With Me. . . " 

"Hunt for flesh and blood," Sherrie muttered and pressed onward. To the cafe 
. . . the note. . . Harvey, whoever he was. 

One foot in front of the other, she ran, slipping, tumbling into the snow 
drifts. She pulled herself up and wind milling her arms for balance, plunged 
on. Behind her, the munching sound of tires on fresh snow stung her ears, it 
was them . . . coming for her! 

Paralyzed with fear, terrorized they might be after her, she jumped headlong 
into the ditch and waited for the splash of red brake lights to pass. 

The next quarter of a mile might have been ten thousand. Darkness shrouded 
her, playing tricks on her sight and senses. Her mouth went bone dry, teeth 
chattering, though a heat suffused her shivering body. Then her legs 
stiffened, knees refused to bend. She stopped, grabbed her stomach, heaving 
for breath. 

I hare to keep moving . . . or I'LL die . . . I have to. . . 

The temptation to lie in the snow and give way to sleep nearly overwhelmed 
her. Squinting through strands of hair beaded in icy fingers to her 
forehead, she caught sight of the white building. The cafe! Eyes shot wildly 
over her shoulder. Nothing moved in the night. She was almost there. The 
cafe sign with its steaming cup of coffee, barely visible in the sparse 
moonlight, warmed her senses. Freedom. . . home.. . Chicago. 

She stole around the corner to the small apartment where Harvey, whoever 
that was, must live. Frozen knuckles rose to hammer on the frosted glass. 

Movement behind her sent her head flying. A scream died in her throat. 

The door jimmied open so easily Jack swore the crafty old bastard was 
probably on the other side of it waiting to trap him. That suspicion proved 
false, Jack snickered to himself and fell to his hands and knees. He slipped 
his screwdriver back into his Levi's pocket and crawled hand over knee with 
the flashlight tight in his gloved fist. 

Outside the white lumps of the Auto Fair parking lot with its unsold four 
million dollar inventory, the traffic had nearly stopped. Road reports 
warned travelers to stay home. For once in his life, Jack blessed the cursed 
snow. 

Crawling past Bailey's mahogany desk with its swivel chair, Jack levered up 
onto the cushion and rested his elbows. Fleeting curiosity made him wonder 
how many times Bailey's plump assed little secretary had knelt on her knees 
in this very spot, sucking off the old fart. Reaching down, he felt knee 
spots in the carpet. Bustard. . . . 

It was an arm's reach away; the metallic shape shining from the reflection 
of the parking lots' pole lights. When he'd first started work as underling 
used car salesman, Jack had surreptitiously watched his father-in-law 
playing with the safe. The man appeared to have a fascination for turning 
the combination, and the numbers were imprinted in Jack's brain. No money 
was kept inside the box; checks and cash were taken to the bank religiously, 
Bailey saw to that. 

With sure fingers, fired with adrenalized revenge, Jack screwed to the right 
once, stopping at 18, to the left twice pausing at 0, back to 18 . . . and 
slip, His throat went dry as the heavy metal door creaked open. Flashlight 
clamped in his teeth, he used both leather gloved hands and rifled through 
the stocks and bonds and accumulation of business papers. At last, at the 
bottom, he found the accordion pleated brown file that he'd caught Bailey 
stuffing papers into day after day when he was alone in his office. He 
slipped these into his coat pocket and muttered to himself: 

"Now you got your evidence, officer. . . " 

Sherrie's scream sliced the crisp night air. Her tiny fist few to her mouth. 

A snarling German shepherd had trapped her to the wall! Its white fangs, 
dripped with saliva under a murderously rippled upper lip. Its sleek, 
sinewy, dark body was preened to spring: legs rigid, ears pinned back, eyes 
glaring into its victim's fear-dilated pupils. A death threat rumbled from 
deep in its throat. 

Above Sherrie's left shoulder, a light flicked on in the cafe apartment. The 
shadow of a man pressing his nose to the window reflected on the frozen 
ground. 

Oh, please . . . she prayed, daring not to speak, call the police. . . Help 
meeee! She tried to scream, but it died in her throat. 

Fear killed hopes and part of Sherrie Turner as Harvey, pressing his nose to 
the glass, recognized the terrifying killer beast from the Crackerbox 
pinning a runaway to his wall. He wanted no part of that action. 

like his ignorant, bullheaded sister, this one deserved to die a dirty 
prostitute. Probably the name city butch who came looking for the place a 
couple of days ago, he thought to himself. 

With a gruff snicker, Harvey flicked off the light switch and crawled back 
into bed. He heard the voices a minute later . . . a woman screaming in pain 
and the commanding bellow of an irate man. With his head buried under the 
pillow to muffle the violence, he prayed Southworth would not suspect him of 
abetting one of his runaways. This hick town might be dull, but he wasn't 
ready to become a statistic. 

He punched at his pillow, folded it over and tried to relax into sleep; yet 
the lingering image of his lovely black-haired sister barely turned eighteen 
stuck in his mind. A young girl packing her suitcase and running away from a 
drunken, abusive stepfather . . . only to become involved with a man far 
more volatile, haunted him 'til morn. By then the screams and pleadings for 
help had died in the snow. Maybe by morning, he thought glumly, he'd find a 
half eaten female carcass on his delivery doorstep. 

He hoped not-for his sake. 

Home in Chicago in her warm bed, sleeping late into the morning. . . what 
joy! Sherrie decided to roll over onto her side and cuddle her arms under 
her pillow, and lay like two spoons next to her sleeping husband. 

"Mmmmm.. . " She lifted her arm. It refused to move. Again she pulled. 

"Don't hurt yourself," a raspy female voice warned. "You'll need your 
strength for later." 

Myra stared down at her rope-tied victim for a long assiduous moment. "Wake 
up, baby, and see what Myra has for you!" 

The voice steamed of violence, awakening the captured escapee with a start. 
Sherrie's fear reached the point of tears as she gawked breathlessly up at 
her tormentor's firm legs and thighs and naked, heavy breasts, the 
glistening milky mounds goose-bumped with excitation. Sherrie had never seen 
a naked woman from this angle before. The older woman's thickly furred pussy 
was a sniff away; she could see the cuntal lips moist and pink and pouting 
for attention. 

A low moan sounded from the other side of the wall. Myra cocked her head in 
that direction. "That's your friend Anna.. . in the chamber. That's the 
reward she gets for letting my precious go. Ah, but our dog has a nose for 
cunt just as I do. I'll bet my sweet was surprised to wake up in her bed." 

Sherrie wanted to die. So it was Anna who'd let her go. Why? Why had she 
risked the horrors of the chamber to help a stranger go free? But those 
questions were hardly meaningful in the face of Myra's naked nudity hovering 
over her. A quiver of mutinous curiosity shivered in Sherrie's brain; an 
inkling of Myra's hedonistic demands crept into the numbed recesses of her 
libido. 

"No, please.. . no, I won't.. . I swear.. . you can kill me, but I won't. . 
. " Sherrie shook her head violently, struggling to flip onto her back. 
Wiggling like a stuck worm, her tied ankles and wrists, still chafed from 
the chamber chair, ached numbly. She thrashed her head at what seemed to her 
the ultimate perversion. Being forced into having sex with a rapist husband 
and a mechanical chair was mortifying enough, but being forced into sucking 
and licking another woman's genitals was enough to make her sick. 

Chills of repulsion crawled up the captive's spine. This perverted creature 
would not stop until she'd had her fill of another woman's flesh. That was 
sick and ugly.. . 

The breath hissed from her lungs. The buxomy woman crawled upon the bed, and 
with one foot on either side of Sherrie's naked rib cage, straddled her 
victim. The fleshiness of Myra's buttocks flattened on Sherrie's breasts and 
the nearness of the woman's steaming genitals a tongue's lap away, made her 
turn her head in disgust. 

"Come on angel baby, eat Myra's pussy . . . in nice little laps . . . 
pretend you're a mother cat and Myra's cunt is your pussy. Clean it baby," 
she cajoled in a silvery voice which, in other circumstances, might have 
been intoxicating. Sherrie refused to flutter an eyelid. "I might let you go 
if you're good to Myra.. . " 

The straining young captive frozen when Myra slid her creamy nakedness 
forward until her black-fuzzed pussy hovered a few threatening inches over 
Sherrie's fear-gaping mouth. For a few tantalizing moments, Myra's steaming 
cunt wafted over Sherrie's wide pink lips and the alarmed girl eyed the 
fleshy thighs above her with shivering dread, defiantly pressing her lips 
together. She steeled her resistance by telling herself if she allowed 
herself to feel a crumb of eagerness in this degrading perversion, as she 
had on the machine, she would be forever tainted and plunged to Myra's 
animal level of morality. She might be forced to commit his sinful act, but 
she couldn't be forced into enjoying it. 

And yet Sherrie could not fight a finger-wagging undercurrent of curiosity 
in her adrenalin-powered body as she gazed up at Myra's swollen pussy lips, 
the wet flanges opening like a fish's mouth at feeding as they lowered inch 
by quarter inch toward the target of Sherrie's helpless mouth. 

In that terrifying infinitesimal fraction in time, it didn't seem possible 
to the runaway wife that the obscenities assaulting her could be real. A few 
days ago she had been a normal housewife, picking up beer cans after her 
husband and nagging about the overflowing garbage can. As the fearful wife 
strained nakedly at her bonds, the stunning reality of her defenselessness 
struck her with the force of an H bomb. 

The sun streaking through the balcony window splashed golden shadows over 
the creamy mounds of Myra's ripe flesh. Her ripely curved ass cheeks hovered 
like a Greek statuette, and the woman's passion soaked pussy slit, a nose 
length away, filled her nostrils with the heady scent of naked lust. She 
swore if she could see straight through to this woman's soul, it would be 
hellish black. 

"Ahhhhh!" Myra's squirming hot cunt rested on Sherrie's pouting lips and the 
startling contact of wet, burning cuntal flesh against her parched lips was 
like a kiss of lust that left the shivering woman dazed and gasping for 
breath. She tightened the line of her lips, resisting, sobbing at her utter 
humiliation, aware that the dark-haired woman had wetted the pad of her 
finger and was rubbing salaciously at the puckered ring of her anus. 

"Suck my cunt, precious!" hissed Myra angrily above her, grinding her raw 
pussy flesh savagely over Sherrie's resisting, soft lips. 

"Never!" 

"I said suck my cunt, precious," the threat rang in Sherrie's ears, "or Anna 
is going to die in the chair. That would hardly be showing appreciation, now 
wouldn't it?" 

Indeed, the low moans of agony had sharpened to razored shrieks on the other 
side of the wall. Something about good Samaritans flitted through Sherrie's 
miasmaed mind as tentatively, she wormed her tongue into the slippery depths 
of her tormentor's hot, swollen vagina. Self disgust crawled over her body 
like baby snakes as she lapped at the older woman's perfumed flesh, 
struggling against the strangely bizarre excitation rising in the pit of her 
empty belly as Myra's vaginal juices seeped into her dry mouth like sweet 
fire. 

Sherrie feared she had reached Myra's sewer level of morality when the older 
woman grunted out her pleasure and scraped the kinky pubic curls foresting 
her dripping pussy back and forth over the horrified girl's mouth, as though 
that were a male stalk of meaty flesh between her thighs instead of her 
victim's reluctantly flicking tongue! 

Sherrie Turner. . . if yon let yourself. . . like yon did in the chair.. . 
oh, no, something about these people gets to me. . . What magic did she 
possess, this pre-menopausal bitch, wondered Sherrie, thinking thoughts 
she'd never dared until happening into these people's clutches. The 
infectious excitation goose-bumping Myra's naked body, combined with the 
soft, babyish rubbing of her puckered anus, spurred Sherrie onto soaring 
heights of consciousness as the heady perfume of her rapist's hotly clasping 
cunt began to smother her face like a forbidden aphrodisiac. In a feverish 
moment, the trapped wife realized with crimson shame that she, too, had 
joined the chorus of moans and groans. Three women, caught in a web of 
blind-faced lust and shame, screaming out their masochistic yearnings. 

The warmly seeping cuntal flesh piqued her taste buds in a febrile kiss of 
passion, heightened by the milky trickle oozing into her gaping mouth. 
What's happening to me? thought Sherrie, hell-bent for hysteria as Myra's 
probing finger worked ravenously at her sore but sensitive anal ring. I'm 
having sex with another woman and thinking jealously of the tortured woman 
next door who's getting the lapping tongue and want cock ramming up her 
belly. I want to be in the chamber chair, I want this woman's oozing juices. 
I'm sick! 

Sherrie's mind reeled in desperate shame and utter confusion while her 
vulnerable body shuddered with chilling spasms of newly awakened desire. 
Desperately, she crushed her nostrils to Myra's pussy curls and lapped her 
tongue in churning circles into the woman's quivering cuntal hole, her 
velvety pink tongue snaking up into the milky slit, her mouth craving more 
of the sweet nectar seeping onto her coated lips and into her mouth. 

Grunting sounds rumbling from her swan-like throat, Sherrie tugged at the 
thick ropes binding her wrists and ankles only to free her hands so she 
could squeeze Myra's voluptuously tanned buttocks and cram the bewitching 
woman's swollen pussy flesh more tightly to her hungry mouth, aware that of 
the chorus of obscene grunts and groans, hers were the loudest.-Beads of 
perspiration dotted her satiny forehead, her breasts, her stomach in a thin 
layer of dampness; and as she thrashed against the woman's probing finger, 
she felt a ruthless new hunger growing deep inside her body. 

Her succulent lips encircled the oily nub of Myra's blood-swollen clitoris, 
sucking the lust inflamed button and wriggling her nose with ecstasy against 
Myra's scented cuntal fur. Mind and body split in that second of lustful 
greed, so that she watched objectively her rope-tied body squirming, 
listened to the febrile moans of sucking. And the ache in the pit of her 
belly grew like mushrooms on a rainy morn. 

"Oh, my sweet precious angel," rasped Myra appreciatively, her liquid eyes 
rolling around in her head. "I.. . I knew you were oral. . . and Southworth 
wants to send you to Comstock Inn wh-where they do n-nothing but ass 
fucking.. . no.. . not for m-my precious angel mouth.. . . " Myra ground her 
soft, creamy hips in rising frenzy over Sherrie's puckered, milk-coated 
lips. "Ohhh . . . you suck like a baby . . . I'm . . . going to cummm . . . 
ohhhh! Eat me, Sherrie. EAT ME! Oh, Christ," she hissed. "Your mouth is . . 
. un-nggghhhaaaa . . . so hot.. . so wild . . . suck harder, angel, lap it. 
. .unnnnngg gghhhhhh! AGGGGG HH-HHHHHH!" 

Her chiseled features contorted with lustful bliss, as Myra dug the fingers 
of her right hand into her milky breasts and tweaked the nipples into 
diamond chips. With her finger, she probed the sphincter muscle of her 
captives' anus, never hurting, only taunting deliciously. Her exploding cunt 
locked in spasmic joy to the captive's savagely licking tongue. The 
black-haired lesbian's head lolled languidly, her intense eyes burning into 
Sherrie's chartreuse ones. The captive's long eyelashes fluttered like 
butterfly wings over high, flushed cheeks while she obediently lapped and 
sucked at the older woman's juices with babyish sucking of her puckered 
lips. 

"Sweet baby, angel.. . oh your mouth!" Myra sang in a silvery peal of 
appreciation. Only a lesbian-virgin could give her this kind of 
spine-tingling orgasm, only an adorable young victim who'd unknowingly 
appeared at the Crackerbox door in need of work and a place to stay. 

Now the hissing woman ground her quivering pussy flesh in wild, convulsive 
circles around Sherrie's deep fucking tongue, wishing she had a man's cock 
to shove between the sleek, satiny thighs clamped around her hand and 
fingers drubbing at the door of Sherrie's nether parts. Bending her head, 
she sank her teeth into Sherrie's soft, sweating palm as the smoldering 
climax fired in her loins. It erupted in violent surges and raced from the 
tips of her curled under toes to her bee-stung nipples, tearing a lustful 
groan from her throat. 

Her heart beating in her chest, Sherrie darted her tongue into Myra's 
seeping vagina and licked with frenzied hunger the copious juices flooding 
into her mouth. The hot pungent moisture sparked a feverish desire in 
Sherrie's cum soaked mouth. She couldn't get enough of it, no matter how she 
nibbled and sucked and swallowed and licked. The torrents of Myra's raging 
orgasm rippled through her roped down body in electric bolts of naked bliss, 
and something so sweetly forbidden and wickedly wonderful about the 
commanding older woman's milky thighs thrashing against her face and soaking 
her cheeks with sweet pussy juice made the girl coo with guilt and lust. 

Ohhh . . . Ahhhh . . . Next door Anna's grunts and moans of long denied 
pleasure hotly approaching the line of pure pain, echoed Sherrie's 
masochistic chorus. 

Stabs of liquid fire from Myra's hot tongue searing through Sherrie's thrill 
racked anus made her shudder. Oh, to cum . . . to cum and put an end to the 
hellish, ticklish itch festering in her untouched pussy! Why wouldn't Myra 
venture her finger up a quarter of an inch and plunge her raping digit into 
the steaming depths of her burning cunt and offer her fulfillment? Grunting 
against the ropes, the helpless captive yearned to grasp her rapist's hand 
and plunge her fingers deep into the seething hole of her cunt. 

Panicked with lust, Myra's hotly gushing cunt shuddered more softly against 
her victim's cum soaked mouth, and a few moments later Myra sighed with 
relief before prying her thighs free of the sobbing captive's cum-glistening 
face and rolling over onto the mattress beside Sherrie. 

"You eat me so beautifully," mewled Myra, stroking her victim's face with 
the finger that had just probed into Sherrie's tender anus. "I haven't been 
eaten out like that for years." Her honeyed praise did nothing to quell the 
tickle in the pit of Sherrie's womb . . . or for her ailing self respect. 

"Just think, my precious, you and I could spend a lifetime together licking 
and sucking each other, making love . . . and no one will ever know. 

"Never" spat Sherrie. So what if she'd succumbed to the chamber's mechanical 
contraptions and watched her own pussy lips swell, watched the cum trickle 
down her thighs from the raping dildo. So what if she'd nearly drowned in 
another woman's sexual juices. She still had her pride, a little bit of 
Bailey in her, even if the Turner had no backbone. Yes, she decided 
instantly. It was the Turner that had succumbed to indecency . . . not the 
Bailey. 

Staring into Myra's wildly glinted eyes, she knew that even if she promised 
this woman a lifetime of lesbian joy, Myra would not untie her. 

"You're sick," sobbed Sherrie in a raspy voice. "You'll never break me. . . 
not you or that ugly man or your stupid machine. You can torture my body, 
you filthy sex maniac . . . but never, never will you taint my soul!" 
Scalding tears of hysteria tumbled down her bruised cheeks. 

"Oh, am I?" the sultry brunette's lips puckered into a tight smirk; she 
inspected her blood-red fingertips "Deep inside that puritanical soul, 
you're one hot cunt . . . one of the hottest who's walked through our door. 
You're afraid of your own sexuality, angel mouth . . . but once you get over 
that fear there would be no stopping you." 

Sherrie's gasp caught in mid-breath. She clamped her teeth over 
cum-encrusted lips. As demoralized and humiliated as she'd been in the past 
few days, she had cum from the buzzing whirr of mechanical sex toys, and 
swallowed a woman's cum. The pressure of a finger on her soft flesh shot 
electrical charges through her nerve-racked, bruised body, Centering in the 
empty pit of her womb. 

Of all the pain and fear she'd suffered at the hands of the diabolical pair, 
none was greater than the fear that Myra's judgment was correct. Why didn't 
they just kill her . . . and stop forcing her to face the depthless wonders 
of Sherrie Turner's repressed sensuality? 

"Excuse me, darling, I have to go unplug the machine before our traitorous 
Anna bleeds to death." The naked woman lifted from the bed. 

In the chamber, Anna's strapped down naked body was sheened with 
perspiration. Myra sucked in her breath as she opened the door, surprised 
perhaps, that her maid's firm, modelesque body had lost none of its 
lusciousness in these years of captivity. 

Black strands of hair wisped about her high cheekbones, dappled with 
satiation. The firm mounds of her breasts rose and fell with deep 
inhalations. A strange tilt to her full upper lip hinted at something 
diabolical and unspoken. 

Myra read the cryptic message. "You've lost none of your animal instincts 
over the years, Anna." 

Anna's dark eyes fell shamefully. In the steamed mirrors, the swollen 
blood-fed folds of her cuntal lips attested to that animal urge. Could it be 
she had freed the captive because secretly she craved the masochistic 
perversions of the chamber? The thought cut through to her soul. Had these 
years of abstinence driven her to self destruction? 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Kurt Bailey's mood curdled. His upper lip twitched under the hairy line of 
his moustache. Armpits dampened. On hands and knees, he rummaged through the 
papers deep in the corner of his safe. The brown packet was missing! 

"Sonofabitch!" he growled, jumping to his feet and hanging shut the heavy 
safe door with a swift kick. He threw himself into his chair, buried his 
head in his hands, and made a quick decision. 

A second later steely fingers punched out a telephone number he'd sworn he'd 
never resort to using. "Meet me in the McDonalds parking lot," he instructed 
conspiratorially. "And bring your buddy. I'll have the cash on me." 

Bailey's trembling hand replaced the receiver. Bailey had never believed in 
God, but he prayed to him now. If his pansy-assed son-in-law had been making 
idle threats about playing detective, Sherrie would be damned irate about 
being a widow at age twenty-five. 

I hope the stupid shit has life insurance. Sherrie . . . wish she'd quit 
being dramatic and get her ass home before she gets mine in a wringer! 

Locking the door, he went to the safe and counted out the bills which he 
stuffed in his suit pocket. He draped his overcoat over his arm and stomped 
past his secretary. 

"I'm going out for lunch," he called over his shoulder, feeling none of the 
titillating charge which was his which was his appetizer when his eyes fell 
on her tight buttocks and swelling hips. A bubble of acid indigestion 
curdled in his stomach. 

Mavis blinked butterfly eyelashes at her employer and studiously filed her 
berry red nails, pooching out rosy red lips. A deep sigh swelled her bosom 
as she eyed her employer pulling out of the parking lot. She couldn't think 
of the word to describe his moody actions, but Kurt hadn't been his normal 
self lately. 

"Oh well," she sighed relentingly, and flicked on the small screened 
television set at the corner of her desk to watch the afternoon soap operas. 

Jack fingered the pile of official looking papers and neatly replaced them 
into the accordion pleated brown envelope. 

He could taste revenge. His movements were sure, even and methodical, his 
brain honed and keen. He felt like Sam Spade in chapter twelve. Last night's 
adrenalin flow had simmered down to cool alertness-almost like being high. 

The day burst with yellow sunlight, blinding on the white crusty snow 
crunching under his boots. The tires gripped the snow slickened pavement as 
he headed down the neighborhood street lined with lofty elm and oak trees. 
He was ruminating over the wisdom of choosing to live in an older section of 
town and Sherrie's remarks about it being a great place to raise kids. . . 
when the first bullet cracked his back window. 

"Jesus Christ!" Jack stomped on the accelerator and tore through the 
intersection. His rearview mirror reflected the pock-marked face of a man 
he'd never seen. A wide brimmed hat shadowed his forehead, gloved hands 
worked the wheel tightly . . . beside him sat his twin aiming a .38 at the 
back of his head. 

"What the fuck . . . ? " Wild-eyed, Jack broke all safety rules. His car 
swung abruptly into a tight left without signaling. The Datsun flew into a 
spin and banged into the rear end of a parked Volkswagen. 

A housewife who'd been unloading groceries from the back seat, pulled her 
head out. "You . . . you bastard! Come back here and pay for this!" The 
grocery bag fell from her arms into the snow drift. She craned her neck to 
read the icy license plate and shook her arm militantly. 

Jack could see her mouth working, from the rear-view mirror. "Sorry lady," 
he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow and keeping his eyes peeled on 
the rearview mirror for the silver Lincoln Continental. The sparkly grill 
nosed around the corner, gaining on him again. "Oh, shit!" 

A bullet sang through the air, hit the dashboard and sent the tachometer 
dial into a wind milling spin. Jack stomped on the accelerator, and skidded 
sideways down the street toward the main intersection clogged with noon hour 
traffic. Muttering something to himself about there being safety in numbers, 
he put himself into a Sam Spade frame of mind . . . all the way to the 
police station. 

"Our little precious looks nice and rested, don't you think'. '" Myra's 
liquidy eyes lifted to Southworth's stoic face. "So relaxed and cuddly." 
Myra laid a soft palm on Southworth's square shoulder; her voice sang with 
silvery cajolance. "I say we keep her here . . . we really don't need 
another 

Southworth's piggish eyes stopped Myra in mid-sentence. In a wintery voice, 
he gruffed: "I make the decisions, and you forget she's not been tested." 
Tested for endurance was the key to Southworth's enterprise. When a client 
wanted a woman who reveled in oral sex . . . she'd damn well better do it to 
his satisfaction! 

The naked captive lay cringing into the bed. Some kind soul had untied her 
chafed ankles and wrists and applied lotion to the reddened welts. That same 
kind person, she recalled in horror, had raped her orally. A shiver of 
terror snaked up Sherrie's spine as she lifted her green eyes to 
Southworth's penetrating orbs. 

A twitch at the corner of his mouth and his lips went taut. Wordlessly, he 
gripped the blanket in his hand and tore it off Sherrie's cringing nude 
body. His eyes began to roam over the smooth, ripe curves of her shivering 
flesh, a sadistic smile playing on his lips now. Against her will, Sherrie 
Turner experienced a tiny thrill of excitement. 

"Nice breasts," he muttered. "About a 34 C, I'd say . . . firm . . . " He 
had reached over to pinch her nipples into hard peaks of tingling sensation, 
making them pucker into rosebuds. "She's very responsive." 

Sherrie could feel her traitorous body coming alive under a man's 
fingertips, throbbing and burning with growing excitement. First the 
machine, then Myra's attack on me . . . and now him! Oh, Daddy . . . please 
come get me. Please . . . The thought that she was more afraid of her own 
responses and the shame that would follow, than the physical attack rattled 
through her clouded brain. 

Sherrie's mind blocked out the voice, concentrating on the actions. She 
failed to notice as anger mixed with lust as he tweaked her nipple again. 
"Does that feel good?" he asked clinically. 

A tiny groan escaped her throat as she felt the lingering need for a man's 
potent stalk of flesh grinding into her belly. Myra's delicate fingering of 
her anus and the wild eroticism of female genitals joining female mouth, had 
left her one sizzling hunk of flesh. 

"Answer me, cunt!" he shouted, twisting both nipples as if they were nobs to 
his machine. 

Jagged spears of pain shot from Sherrie's diamond chipped peaks as he 
twisted and pulled brutally at her reddened nipples and, wrenched from her 
dreamy arousal, she fought frantically to free herself from his painful 
grip. A rush of adrenalin flooded her veins and she managed to leap from the 
bed and throw herself toward the door. But he caught her in mid-leap before 
her hand caught the door knob. His hands clamped over her arm, slamming her 
back down on the mattress. She lay there quivering, naked, defiled. 

Don't try that again," he warned in a knife-blade voice. 

Grabbing the sheet from the bed, he bit through the hem, then ripped it to 
ribbons. Testing its strength between his clenched fists, he smiled in 
satisfaction and glared down at Sherrie. Without looking at Myra, he said, 
"You better get outta here. Your precious cunt isn't gonna look so relaxed 
after I'm done testing her!" 

Myra's hands flew to her mouth. "No, Southworth . . . please don't hurt 
her-she's.. . " 

"Ah!" She felt it before she saw it coming. 

Sherrie's eyes saucered as she watched Southworth hit his lesbian accomplice 
square in the eye. Whimpering, Myra shuffled blindly toward the door and 
closed it behind her. The captive whimpered, too, as Southworth turned to 
her. 

"You try to escape one more time, and I'll lose my temper," growled 
Southworth. 

Sherrie's eyes widened in horror as she realized his intent. 

"N . . . no . . . I won't.. . I swear I won't!" All too well, she remembered 
Anna's fate. 

Southworth's mouth twitched. "Damn right, you won't," he muttered, brutally 
grabbing one of her chafed, tender wrists and holding it to the bedpost. 

With efficient, doctor-like movements, he knotted the strip of cloth around 
her wrist, then wound the ends around the bedpost, drawing her arms tight as 
bow strings. Barely enough slack to let her blood circulate . . . no chance 
of pulling free. He repeated the procedure on the other wrist while she lay 
staring up at him with doe-like eyes, her face impassive, her eyes glinting. 

"One day you'll be caught.. . " she spat up at him with slitted eyes. "You 
can't keep destroying women like this!" 

"Don't make assumptions," he warned in a chiseled voice. 

Sherrie's throat went so dry her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, 
as she watched the short man turn his back and hook his thumbs in his 
unzipped pants. He pulled them down over stout, hirsute buttocks, down to 
his knees and over his ankles. Instinctively, she wriggled, trying to loosen 
the bonds, but to no avail. Before he turned his back, she abandoned her 
struggle. 

Jack had never struck her-except for that one time-and the thought of this 
sadistic man whacking her made her shudder. Tied to a bed made her feel 
degraded, humiliated. She was at the mercy of this maniac who hated women 
and was bent on destroying them. Oh God! She had to cooperate to stay alive! 
Fleetingly, she wondered how Jack would feel if he knew she was about to be 
raped. 

But her thoughts screeched to a halt as Southworth turned around, stark 
naked, kneeling down on the bed. His long purple-veined cock was stiffening, 
a pearl of pre-cum oozing from the single eye. Just the sight of it started 
the fevered churning between her legs. With Jack, warm in their bed, the 
sight of his erect penis had been a sunny promise of joy. No bondage could 
not negate that association. The idea of having a man's hard penis boring 
into her belly made her shiver with anticipation and, in spite of herself, a 
half grin crossed her face. The devil in the angel was calling mutiny! 

Yes, he would shove his penis into her . . . certainly he couldn't kill her 
with his cock . . . then the horrible itching between her satiny thighs 
would end and the devil's pitchforks would rest. 

She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his body lowering onto the bed 
beside her, the anticipation of his fingers touching her lesbian-arousing 
body, his lips bruising hers, weakening her fears. 

To her shock, she felt him lifting he head and one eye popped open to see 
him gathering up the pillows. He wadded them up and yanking Sherrie's head 
up from the bed, wedged them between and slammed her head back down, her 
chin nearly tickling her chest. Her wide green eyes stared at the crater of 
his navel, surrounded by pale hair. Craning her neck, she stared at his 
cruel face. That twitch in the mouth again. 

Aside from his one instance of perversion, Jack had been good in bed. But 
this position was new to her. "Wh-what are you going to do?" she asked in a 
tremulous voice, puzzled by this strange arrangement. 

"It's called fellatio," he answered simply. "Sucking cock. . . " 

A whimper tore from Sherrie's throat. Never had she lowered herself to 
putting her mouth around Jack's penis. The idea nauseated her. Aside from 
his rancid opinion of her father, her unwillingness to defile her mouth was 
the biggest cur of their marriage. Now her tormentor was about to cleave 
through that privacy, just as Myra had with her salacious tauntings and oral 
rape. Sherrie gulped-dryly. 

Oh Dear God! her mind bellowed. Why couldn't lie use her body in the normal 
way! In terrified disbelief, she watched him lift a hairy leg over her naked 
torso and position his stout buttocks above her breasts, his knees snug into 
her armpits, his throbbing, seeping cock dangling ominously before her eyes. 

"N-no. . . please.. . not that," she whined, her lower lip trembling in 
horror, knowing that to beg would only spark his violent temper. "I-I can't 
do . . . that!" 

In answer, his upper lip curled. He shook his blood-heavy cock before her 
eyes, making a dribble of pre-cum splatter onto her cleavage. "Kiss it. . . 
put your mouth on it." 

Sherrie shut her eyes. The debasement couldn't continue. It couldn't! The 
machine, Myra, now this! When she refused, rolling her head from side to 
side to avoid touching the hot flesh with her tender lips, he grabbed her 
cruelly by the shoulder, digging into her soft, naked flesh until she cried 
out in pain. He grabbed a handful of auburn hair and yanked until her eyes 
watered from the agony. 

"Oow! That hurts . . . stop!" she whimpered weakly, brokenly. 

"Do as I say.. . " 

Slowly, she parted her rosy lips, trembling from tight and jagged pain. 

"Put your lips around the head of my cock," he said clinically, his piggish 
eyes alight with fiery flickers of lust. "Suck it!" 

Fear and mortification joined hands, but Sherrie obediently closed her 
succulent lips tentatively around the blunt, shiny head of his rubbery 
staff. Jack had never forced her into this disgusting, filthy act. She had 
expected to be sick to her stomach from the taste of it, but to her shock, 
it didn't taste as bad as it looked. She tasted the bittersweet pungency of 
a clear, sticky liquid oozing from the tiny slit at the end. Given the 
choice of being beaten or put in the chair, this was the lesser torture, 
less humiliating-because she was being forced. 

His knees tightened snugly under her arm pits with that first swath of her 
tongue, and Sherrie felt a gush of blood flood her cheeks as she felt his 
meaty stalk grow another rubbery inch. In a dark corner of her libido, she 
felt an unmistakable tickle of titillation at the spicy, pungent taste of 
the warm, male semen on her palate. 

If she pleased him with her mouth, would he please her with his cock 
drubbing into her crying belly? Spurred on by the thought, she 
experimentally twirled her tiny tongue over the thick, purplish head. A low 
moan of something akin to pleasure rumbled from Southworth's throat. That, 
Sherrie noted dimly, was the first expression she'd witnessed. 

"Now lick it," he hissed, panting slightly from the obscene sight of seeing 
his cock stuffed between the parted rosy lips of a faceless woman. Women 
were all faceless to Southworth, and mindless. Only their bodies, their 
bitchy cunts, were of value . . . even those wore out. like Anna's. 

"Keep your eyes open so you can see what you're doing," he instructed. 

Her eyes popped open to stare mesmerically at the long-purple veined hunk of 
male flesh drubbing between her soft lips. It jerked and leapt before her 
nose, settling there like an annoying fly. 

"I said lick it, Sherrie. I'm not going to tell you again!" 

He jerked it again, but Sherrie could only stare at it. So hard, she 
marveled, that the skin stretched tautly over its surface, shining like a 
polished opal. The thick veins bulged and pulsed against the shiny skin. 
Below, two pendulous balls in their softly swaying sacs, swollen and heavy 
with sperm boiling within, slapped against her dimpled chin. Hesitantly, the 
captive ran her tongue down its hot rubbery length, feeling the blood pulse 
like wriggling worms against her tongue. Daintily, she licked it all the 
way, swabbing the wet pinkness over its hairy base, then along the worming 
underside. The sensation was strangely exciting. 

The sensation didn't linger in her tongue. As she slaved over her captor, 
Sherrie try as she might to blot it out, felt a perverse pleasure growing in 
the pit of her stomach at the thought of being used this way. That made it 
all right and moral, didn't it? Being stripped of choice, she decided 
subconsciously, had its merits. Could she correct the ugliness of being 
strapped to a bed and forced into performing fellatio on her tormentor? Deep 
in her smooth muscled belly, she could feel that churning, burning heat, 
sizzling in the center of her womanhood. It rippled to the diamond chips of 
her milky breasts and down to the tips of her curled under toes. 

Above her, Southworth trembled from the delicate exquisiteness of her warm, 
wet tongue slaving over his cock that dangled and rubbed over her lovely 
features. 

"Make your mouth vacuum my cum right out of my halls!" he hissed. 

Sherrie's green eyes snapped up at him, her feathery eyelashes fluttering 
over appled cheekbones, the glint in them wildly acquiescing. Obediently, 
she trailed her warm pink tongue back over the rubbery shaft and ovaled her 
rosy lips softly and slipped them gently over the naked head of his 
mushroomed cock. Southworth groaned from deep in his chest and flicked his 
strong hips forward, sliding the full girth of his lust-bloated flesh into 
the wet cavern of her mouth and down the length of her velvety tongue to 
bang against the back of her brutalized throat. 

She couldn't breathe! Panic flooded her mind as she gagged, eyes watering. 
Yet she sucked, vacuuming the seed from his testicles. She slipped her 
tongue up and down the erect pole of hot male flesh, nibbling softly at the 
base with her pearly front teeth. 

That did it! 

Southworth threw back his head and gasped out long repressed pleasure. 
Something akin to a smile creased his taut lips. Slowly, he began to rock 
his hips back and forth, fucking into her ovaled mouth as if it were just 
another cunt to brutalize and defile. His captive struggled to suck and 
lick, but it was impossible without a lungful of breath to keep her going. 
She could barely catch a lungful of air before he'd rammed his hardness down 
her throat, scraping over her tonsils. 

Being tied down and forced to do filthy things with one's mouth, was far 
more terrifying than the electronic wonder in the chamber. Sherrie endured 
the torture minute by minute, refusing to look at the total picture of her 
helplessness for fear it might over-amp her senses and then she would start 
screaming-and Southworth would invent a new torture to silence her. 

Better to concentrate on the hot cudgel ramming into her mouth, banging into 
her tonsils with each thrust, than to scream. In a strange masochistic way, 
it thrilled her to know she had no choice. She couldn't move her head, 
pinned as it was between his musky-smelling genitals and the headboard. No 
choice, no guilt. She had to suck on this pulsating, meaty cudgel or God 
knows he might make her into a juicy meal for the German Shepherd who'd 
almost tore out her throat! 

Southworth's critical eye shot downwards to study the ovaled, glossy lips 
stretched tightly around the meaty base of his cock. Seldom did oral sex 
satisfy his lustful cravings; voyeurism tinged with sadism had been his 
sexual release. Masturbating to a woman's shrill scream of fear and desire 
made him cum. But this sweet mouthed female had a magical effect on him! 

She worked her jaws together, feeling the blood swell in his penis, making 
it jerk inside her mouth. He could see tiny ridges of tender pink flesh as 
he pulled back from the babyishly sucking lips that slipped back inside as 
he slid his penis forward again. A chuckle gurgled cruelly in his throat as 
he watched the forest of pubic hair scrape against the sides of her mouth 
creating a little moustache while his sperm laden testicles slapped an 
obscene tattoo against her dimpled chin. 

Definitely oral . . . he thought, knowing Myra had tested their precious 
captive. The vision of Myra's plump, mature body straddling the rope-tied 
captive's soft breasts while she mashed her steaming cunt against the 
dimpled face, made him ripple with lust. Now those delicate lips that had 
once tasted lesbian love, were wrapped around his pounding prick! 
Southworth's hips rolled in a rhythm of lust, as he sawed away, back and 
forth . . . in and out.. . never quite drawing it all the way out . . . 
leaving the seeping, naked tip in the warm cavern of her mouth . . . then 
boring into her throat on the hip flex. Her eyes, liquid green pools, 
watered. Sherrie's cheeks flushed with tears as she gagged on his potency. 

"Ahhhhh!" Southworth clenched his teeth and threw back his head. The paunchy 
belly disappeared as he sucked in his breath making his abdominal muscles 
stiffen. "Suck! HARDER!" he yelped, locking his hands around the back of his 
captive's bobbing head, drawing it over his rigidity until he couldn't see 
even a quarter-inch of his stiffened muscle. He gnashed his teeth, 
determined to drown her in pools of sticky cum. His balls erupted then; 
Sherrie's throat constricted and relaxed, as a pint of scalding semen shot 
down her throat. She swallowed in gulps.. . again and again and again. 

Sherrie's pink cheeks turned crimson as they expanded and hollowed in a 
valiant attempt to keep from drowning. He didn't let go of her hair until 
she'd sucked away every last drop of his wiggling, hot sperm. Finally, 
Southworth grunted out the last dreg of pleasure and his cock deflated like 
a pricked balloon. The sticky, flaccid tube withered in her mouth and fell 
limply from her parted lips. The stout body of her rapist collapsed in a 
heap of exhaustion beside her on the bed. 

Sherrie clenched her eyes shut, hating the sound of his labored breathing. 
He lay with his head on her arm; this was the first time he'd touched her, 
she realized. 

The feel of his warm, sweaty male flesh against her goose bumped flesh 
started the devils dancing in the pit of her belly. Her vagina cried for 
attention . . . and once more the tauntings had satisfied her rapist. She 
struggled against her bonds; she chewed at her lip and whimpered, dying for 
someone to put out the fire in her loins. 

They're done this to me . . . I can't help it if I-Oh, Lord, help me! 
Through the rationalizations and bloated excuses, Sherrie's conscience shook 
a guilty finger. The face of her father loomed God-like in a corner of 
undammed morality. What would her father think if he saw his precious 
daughter tied by a rapist whose sperm glistened on her lips . . . a 
tormentor whose sperm she wanted deep in her belly! 

She squirmed. Her wrists ached dully from the bonds that held her captive on 
the bed, fingers numbing from blood starvation. She turned her pathetically 
flushed face to stare him in his bird-like eyes. A shiny thread of his sperm 
dribbled from one corner of her twitching mouth as she spat at him. 

"You won't get away with this. . . " she hissed through clenched teeth, 
hating him for depriving her of well earned pleasure. 

In answer, he chortled lewdly and then she bolted, straining at her bonds. 
His middle finger was rubbing the swollen nub of her clitoris in maddening 
circles, sending a bolt of electricity to shock her system beyond endurance. 
A cruel grin broke his stoicism. Turning his head toward the door, he called 
to Myra. 

Slowly the door opened and enviously, she glared at l lie naked 
heterosexuals. Myra stiffened, awaiting Southworth's command. 

"I think our precious is ready for Hunters Point Inn. Gel ready to move 
her." 

Myra's forehead smoothed with mingled jealousy and disappointment. 

Cringing into the mattress, Sherrie closed her eyes on reality. An ominous 
feeling that her torture had just begun rippled through her goose-bumped 
body. She felt the weight lift from the bed and heard a door slam shut. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

"What do you mean, you didn't get him?" growled Bailey, balling up his fists 
in a murderous rage. "I didn't pay you three grand to take a joy ride in my 
Lincoln, you assholes!" 

Patterson and Carlile shifted their weight simultaneously and exchanged 
glances. 

"We hit his car twice . . . but we lost him in traffic," shrugged Carlile. 

"So where the fuck is he now? He's supposed to be in the bottom of Lake 
Michigan!" Bailey's eyes snapped toward the panoramic gray choppy waters of 
Lake Michigan from his exclusive condominium window. 

Patterson hooked a finger in his collar and gulped. "Headed for the police 
station . . . " 

Bailey threw himself in the nearest chair and held his head in his sweaty 
hands. "I've got to get those papers.. . . ! " He slammed his balled up fist 
into the palm of his hand and chewed his bottom lip. The blood was draining 
from his face; a slight tremor made his hands shake. 

The hit men looked at each other and shrugged. 

A red curtain of anger blinded Bailey. "Fucking son of a whore!" he spat. 
Whether he was damning Jack Turner or himself, was a point of conjecture. 
That he's sorely underestimated his son-in-law's perspicacity and depth of 
revenge was slamming home like the lock of a prison cell door. "I never 
thought the chicken shit had the balls. . . . " 

The thermometer read 14 degrees, but Jack Turner was sweating when he 
skidded into the police station, threw himself through the bullet proof 
doors and elbowed his way past the dispatcher, heading straight for Officer 
Pearson who sat chomping down a Big Mac at his desk. 

Out of breath and flushed, Jack slapped the brown envelope on the officer's 
desk. "There's the evidence you wanted," he challenged, breathing hard. 
"There's somebody out there trying to kill me . . . and God knows what's 
happened to my wife!" 

Officer Pearson pushed back the shiny bill of his hat and stared into Jack's 
reddened eyeballs. Jowls rippling, he chomped on his burger and gulped it 
down dryly. With one eye on Jack, he pulled the string on the envelope and 
squinting, flipped through a pile of death certificates. "Hmmm . . . " he 
muttered, pooching out bread-crumbed lips. 

"Bailey's in cahoots with the coroner up there. It takes seven years to 
declare someone legally dead, doesn't it?" Jack jabbed a finger at the 1973 
date on the first coroner report. "That was delivered by private messenger 
yesterday." 

Pearson scratched his chin; his eyes shot upwards. The names Barbara 
Collins, Janet Crwaford, Dottie Jackson rang a bell. He shook his head. "A 
handful of phony death certificates isn't evidence," decided the officer. 
"We need testimony.. . . " 

Jack sat down and stared the officer in the eye. "Where do you want to 
start? I've got names, dates.. . you name it." 

Pearson's thoughts were elsewhere. His eyes fell to the photograph of a 
lovely bloodied young redhead. Across the top of the photograph was stamped 
a number. Curiosity piqued, he flipped through the death certificates and 
matched up the name Barbara Collins. He scratched his chin. Something didn't 
jibe. 

The officer sucked in his breath and regarded the distraught husband with a 
fresh opinion. "Your wife is Sherrie Turner, right?" 

Jack blinked and stiffened. His body turned all sinew and tendon. 

"You're shaking, kid." Pearson changed the subject. 

"Somebody took a couple of pot shots at me, that's what's the matter!" 

Pearson lay a comforting hand on Jack's shoulder. 

"Before we get into that, I have some news about your wife." The other 
gulped. 

"We found her car." Pearson watched the husband. "It was parked in the 
Greyhound Bus Depot. It appears she took a bus north to Wisconsin to a 
little town up there. We're familiar with the town . . . been trying to 
crack a case up there for years. Two Grand Jury Investigations pooped out." 
The officer shook his jowls. 

"You think my wife's been . . . . ? " Jack's eyes fell to the pile of death 
certificates. "I'm going up there. I don't care if those bastards put a 
bullet through my brain, but I'm going to find my wife and bring her home!" 
he bellowed. 

Pearson lay a restraining hand on Jack's arm. "This is no Dashiell Hammet 
novel. This is the real world where people get bloody if they stick their 
noses in other people's business." 

Jack's cheeks crimsoned. "What the hell you doin' about it?" he whined. 
"Where's my wife?" 

He knew now he had to take matters into his own hands. 

The black limousine nosed down the snow plowed narrow road, heading for 
Hunters Point Inn. The sun burst in a Mediterranean blue sky, painting a 
pristine picture of hot and cold temperatures and colors. One gloomy object 
blurred the crisp focus. 

Wedged between a locked door and Southworth's body, Sherrie cowered in the 
back seat, her mood stormy with depression. Her wide green eyes blinked 
under spidery eyelashes as the driver made a tight right turn into the 
lodge's parking lot. Sherrie shivered and pulled up the collar of her coat, 
holding it tight to her chin. What new hell awaited her? What perverted 
tortures would abuse her bruised and ravaged body? 

Hunters Point Inn wore the cloak of moneyed sophistication. No Volkswagens 
or Datsuns cheapened this parking lot! Mercedes, Alfa Romeos, Porsches 
glinted under blinding sunlight. Her attention shot to the stone fronted 
lodge with fresh red trim dripping with pine boughs and Christmas tree 
lights winking at the sun. 

The limousine drew to a halt and Sherrie's heart clawed at her throat. 
Fleetingly, the temptation to run for it flickered with hope . . but 
futilely. Southworth, in a deceptively gentlemanly fashion, slipped his arm 
through hers and together their heels clicked on the wet cement toward the 
front door. His nearness nauseated her, sickening her with remembrances of 
sordid excesses. A heavy congestion in the pit of her belly was all too 
real! 

A fresh faced blonde with honey hair swirling about her shoulders, opened 
the door. The piney scent of Christmas mingled with Christmas carols and 
heady giggles of women and good humored men sung in the air. Sherrie's eyes 
swept over the high beamed ceiling with boughs of mistletoe and pine. The 
irony of Christmas cheer percolated in Sherrie's veins. A bolt of 
homesickness thumped in her heart to thicken depression. 

"Welcome! I'm Jill," grinned the young woman shifting her weight in the 
vee-necked evening gown that clung to her svelte curves and mounds with the 
tenacity of wet jersey. The strawberry tips of her nipples poked through the 
satiny fabric as if trying to bore holes in the fabric that rippled over the 
pouting mound of her Venus. 

When Sherrie hedged, Southworth poked a finger in her back, steely as the 
nose of a .38 magnum. One last desperate glance over her shoulder and the 
captive consented, stepping into the merriment of her new prison. The door 
clicked shut behind her. 

Southworth dropped his clutch on Sherrie's arm and drew Jill over for 
whispered conversation behind the captive's cringing back. Hastily Jill 
ushered her up the curling staircase laden with loops of pine boughs and 
crisp red ribbons, down a hallway eerily reminiscent, and into a room. 

Sherrie's fear widened eyes flashed over the sunlit room. Two single beds, 
two dressers, carpeted floor, fireplace. A private bath and dressing room 
made an L-shape to the spacious, finely furbished room. 

"Make yourself comfortable," encouraged Jill cheerfully through succulent 
red lips. "I have to get back downstairs . . . you know how Southworth is," 
she shrugged and slunk toward the door in a rustle of satin. "Take a nap if 
you like and rest up," she suggested in a voice that hinted at foul play. 
"The maid will be in to help you dress later." 

The door clicked shut and Sherrie threw herself on the bed and cried salty 
tears. Weakened beyond the will to fight, she fell into a dreamless sleep. 
Lifelessly, she lay on the bed, the afternoon sun sojourning west to splash 
a yellow streak of sunlight over her immobile body. 

When the sun had traveled, moving its streak to the foot of the bed, a knock 
on the door made Sherrie's eyes flash open. Leaping to her feet, she 
struggled for a moment to put together the puzzle of entrapment. Southworth, 
the limousine . . . it was coming back to her now. Stroking a wave of hair 
back from her cheek, she opened the door and peered into the eyes of a young 
woman. 

"May I come in and take your measurements?" Olga asked, shouldering her way 
past Sherrie. 

"Measurements . . . but?" A tremulous hand wiped the sheen from her 
forehead. 

"Don't give me any trouble, missy," snapped the matronly woman. "Now strip 
off that coat and let's see how big your breasts are." 

Deciphering the impatient glint in the other's eye, Sherrie hastily shed her 
coat and tossed it on the bed. As tape measure slipped around the milky 
mounds of her breasts and pulled tight. 

"Hmmm . . . 34D I'd say." Her hand shot out to cup one melonous circle and 
Sherrie bolted. The buxom woman winked at the captive and turned on her heel 
and departed. 

Sherrie threw herself on the bed and whimpered pathetically. She could smell 
something in the air and it didn't smell like Christmas! 

Another knock on the door. Olga poked her way into Sherrie's private 
quarters and ordered the fearful and confused young woman to shower and wash 
her hair. When the dripping captive, cringing in the terry cloth robe she'd 
found by the tub, obediently sat at the dresser as instructed, Olga began 
fussing over her with ceremonious meticulosity. She set her hair in long, 
swirling waves, and applied make up to her flawless skin, highlighting her 
high cheek bones with peach rouge. False eyelashes flickered over her 
cheekbones, giving her a mystical beauty. Sherrie studied herself in the 
mirror, not at all unpleased . . . until Olga slapped her on the back and 
ordered her to get up and step into the dress. 

She sucked in her breath as Olga tugged at the zipper. If it felt tight, it 
looked tighter. Lifting her eyes to the full length mirror, Sherrie let out 
a gasp. Days of emotional and physical stress had shed five pounds, and the 
profile that stared back at her would have made a criminal out of her 
father! 

The dress clung to her curvy flesh possessively. The red lame, garish as a 
Christmas tree bulb, caught the sunlight and blinked off the protruding 
mounds of her heavy breasts. It tugged at her waist, pulling it to a mere 
twenty-three inches, then loosened its grasp to swell over her slender hips 
and thighs. A slit opened to the sleek curve of her thigh, grazing the 
elastic band of her lacey bikini panties. 

"I.. . I can't wear this!" she whined. Instantly intuition screamed her 
fate. "No! Nooo!" She would be fed to the dogs, dressed like this . . . the 
dogs whooping drunkenly around the Christmas tree downstairs! 

Olga caught her by the arm and swung her around. "Chipper up your attitude, 
missy. There's no way out of here. You make a fool of yourself downstairs 
and you won't live to see Christmas!" 

Sherrie's jaw fell slack. 

A shadow darkened the doorway. "Wow, you look sexy as hell!" whistled Jill 
drunkenly, slinking in three inch high heel shoes to the withering captive. 
Reaching for Sherrie's sweaty palm, she laced her fingers in an intimate 
gesture and gave the captive a kinetic tug. "They're waiting for us . . . " 
She shivered her naked shoulders. "Oh, you'll have so much fun here, 
Sherrie. After you get used to it . . . And here Sherrie's eyes popped wide. 
". . . life at Hunters is like one long party! All the drugs and drink you 
want . . . free clothes . . . and men . . . rich men!" 

Add it up and you get whore, thought Sherrie. 

"Hurry up!" 

Fingers entwined, Sherrie tripped after her luscious bodied mentor. Her 
three-inch high heels wobbled treacherously as the twosome descended the 
curling staircase to the living room seething with obscene laughter and the 
clink of glasses. 

Sensing her roommate's apprehension, Jill whispered hotly: "Don't worry, 
honey. You and I'll be together, okay?" 

A pair of warm lips kissed Sherrie's cheek and she stiffened. November 21 
would be a night she would never forget; that soothingly warm kiss promised 
her that! 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Sherrie balked as Jill goaded her through the doorway into a large room off 
the hallway. Behind her, the din of randy laughter and tinny, off key 
singing, echoed off the walls to pound in her ears. Sherrie's fear dilated 
pupils focused on one object: Southworth's placid face as he sat with a 
drink in hand talking to a well dressed man. One step into the room and the 
numbers multiplied. 

The mirror-walled room opened onto a mahogany bar sparkling with crystal 
decanters filled with amber liquors. It all painted a moral picture-until 
her eyes fell on the round bed set on a stage. Around it sat soft, cushiony 
chairs for the voyeurs who would watch her. 

"Come on," encouraged Jill lightheartedly. "Let's have a drink." 

Sherrie tripped after her mentor and plopped herself down at the bar. Behind 
her she could feel the eyes, hungry predatory eyes, boring into her naked 
back. Sherrie shuddered and grabbed for the glass from Jill's proffered 
hand. A trickle of the amber liquid dribbled down her dimpled chin as she 
gulped it dry. 

"Hey, take it easy, honey," warned Jill. "And don't look so nervous . . . 
you'll piss off Southworth!" Tremorously, Jill shot Southworth a placating 
grin. She could see the displeasure in his piercing eyeballs and through 
clenched teeth she hissed at Sherrie to turn around and smile. 

"Oh, oh," Jill sucked in her breath. "He's coming over here!" 

Sherrie stiffened with fear, grabbed for the decanter and poured herself 
another drink. She'd swallowed half of the burning liquid by the time 
Southworth was breathing down her back. 

His voice cut like a knife. "You girls don't look as if you're having a very 
good time. . . and these men have paid a lot of money to see happy women. 
Now swing around, Sherrie, and uncross your legs and let the men see your 
cunt! I won't tell you again." 

Southworth, the perfidious tormentor, was chipping away her defenses. 
Coughing from the rest of the scotch puddling her gullet, she swung around 
reading the murderous message in Southworth's eyes as he settled between two 
unctuously dressed men whose expensive cologne stung her nostrils. The 
scotch began working at her emotions, blurring fear and hate . . yes, and a 
bubble of lustful anticipation. 

"Smile," pleaded Jill settling beside the inebriated captive and slinging 
one lithe leg over the other. "Pull up your skirt or we're done!" 

Knowing she'd never see another Christmas if she didn't obey his salacious 
commands, Sherrie threw self respect to the wind and rode the winds for 
survival. Dizzily, she swung around on the bar stool and exposed a naked 
sweep of thigh and buttocks. Staring at Southworth under fluttery eyelashes, 
she uncrossed her legs and showed the blue vee of her panties snug over the 
pouting vaginal mound. 

The balding man next to Southworth, the one with the sparkling pinky ring, 
whispered to the perpetrator of Sherrie's gloom and then rose to his feet. 
Sherrie gulped as he came towards her, his eyes wide with lust. 

Roy Jepsen's flinty eyes raked over the provocative vision of auburn-haired 
beauty. A long red curl had fallen over her naked shoulder, teasing at the 
cleavage that rippled as she reached nervously for her drink. Something 
about the innocence of her unmeasured movements fascinated him, hinted at an 
acceptance of pleasure. 

Abruptly the lights dimmed and someone closed the door, muffling the 
laughter and bastardized Christmas carols beyond. Soft red lights circling 
the platform of the circular bed flooded the room with a sensual aura of 
anticipation. Sherrie's throat constricted and fear clawed at her heart as 
she felt Roy's hands guiding her by the shoulder. 

"I guess they're ready to start," remarked Jill offhandedly, grabbing a 
decanter of scotch and tripping along behind Roy and his pathetically 
terrorized toy for the evening. 

Sherrie's ankles wobbled and Jill slunk an arm around her waist to steady 
her. "You'll get off . . . the angel dust always helps." 

Angel dust sounded like a Christmas cookie, but judging from the bitter 
experience of the past few days, she knew Southworth had no sweet tortures! 

Jill answered her silent inquiry. "Yeah, it's a drug . . . kinda puts you 
out so you don't have to think." 

"I.. . I don't want any, Jill. . . please don't let him make me-" Sherrie 
shook her auburn head and tumbled into a soft, cushiony chair, drunk on 
scotch and fear. She felt a chafing twist at her right wrist, and pried open 
her drunken eyes to stare into Southworth's blazing eyes. 

"Sure you want it . . . now be polite and accept what's given you, damn it!" 
he hissed. 

She did . . . and went numb. Her lissome body tingled, cutting through the 
alcohol haze. Nothing felt real, not the men sitting oogling at her delicate 
curves and swells, not even the flush-faced woman staring back at her from 
the mirrored walls. Slowly, her hand rose to touch her cheek. Yes, she 
thought drifting into a drugged haze, this is my flesh. 

A warm hand touched her neck and craning her neck, Sherrie stared into 
Jill's wide blue eyes. "Come on, honey . . . Southworth wants us to start." 

The semi-circle of men sucked in their breath collectively at the hour-glass 
figure clad in a half-cup strapless brassiere, garter belt hugging her 
voluptuously rounded thighs, and fishnet stockings. She stood nearly naked, 
her fluff of blonde fleece tufting below the line of her garter belt. 
Sherrie sucked in her breath, too. When had Jill stripped-and before all 
these men! 

Southworth's unspoken command slashed through the haze of drugged 
inebriation and slowly, Sherrie rose to her feet, instinctively knowing what 
was demanded of her. 

"Come on, honey . . . I'll make it good for you," whispered Jill, slipping 
behind the captive and helping pull down the zipper to get the dress off her 
shoulders. Her nimble hands slipped down to cup her breasts while the tip of 
her tongue licked at the goose-bumped back of Sherrie's neck to send chills 
rippling down her spine. 

The first thunderbolts of disgust passed. Dear God, he wants me to make love 
to a woman.. . in front of all these men! Would the torture ever end? 
Thinking was a big chore with Jill's hand working over her body, sliding 
down her smoothly rippling belly to let her fingers tease the lips of 
Sherrie's pussy under her lacey bikini panties; 

"Let yourself feel," whispered Jill in gusts of warm breath. 

Then a shudder rippled through Sherrie's body when one of Jill's hands 
slipped behind her and unfastened the clasp of her lacey brassiere. Her 
mind, clouded with angel dust, slowed her reflexes and her brassiere 
fluttered to the carpet. Jill's hands were everywhere, caressing and 
touching her, arousing her, nipping at her nipples, gliding over her satiny 
buttocks and whispering over her steaming pussy, arousing her in a way Jack 
never had. 

Jill swung her captive around so they stood facing each other, Jill a scant 
three inches taller, so that when she licked her tongue over Sherrie's 
trembling lips, the tip slipped under the cleft of her upper lip, teasing 
feverishly. Sherrie closed her eyes against the lesbian gesture and 
shivered, feeling Jill's fingers pull at the slender band of her panties, 
rolling them over her sleek hips and naked thighs. Then she stiffened for 
the feel of fingertips caressing her vagina venturing through the fleecy 
nest for the bud of her clitoris and flicking at it with a soft fingertip. 

Hot sexuality, thick and sweet as warm cream, rushed through Sherrie's 
feverishly aroused body and her mind drifted off to erotic paradise as 
Jill's tongue teased over her succulent lips and her fingers played on her 
thumping clitoris. Despite the horror of being made captive to these 
unctuous voyeurs, her body began to move in rhythm to Jill's expert touches. 
Again Southworth had discovered the core of her animal sensuality and was 
playing on her weakness. 

Dear God, when had Jill stripped off her panties? Dully, she had a vague 
remembrance of feeling a rush of cold air on her genitals. She stood with 
legs spread, letting Jill's hand caress her cunt.. . so moist and hot and 
twitching. 

Mindlessly, Sherrie's tongue slipped out between her rosy lips and the two 
of them stood licking, not kissing, as Sherrie's sweaty hands swept behind 
Jill to undo her brassiere. From their sidelines, the men muttered and 
grunted approval. She could feel their presence. The room swam in a sexual 
heat that mingled with the pungent sweetness of the drug-laced cigarettes as 
the two naked women stood nipple to nipple, naked except for Jill's black 
garter belt and stockings and high heels. The mirrored walls reflected their 
sparring tongues loving with lesbian joy, while Jill reached out and slid a 
snaky finger all the way up Sherrie's seeping cunt! 

Sherrie's hands flew up to caress her lesbian captor's swollen breasts, to 
tease her nipples into bumblebee erections, arousing her with a feline 
knowledge of what Myra had taught her she would appreciate. 

Roy was going crazy! He humped in his chair, his penis pumping in one hand, 
a drink in the other. He sat with his piercing eyes flinting over the two 
women while his Chicago friends watched the two women and unzipped their 
tailor made pants to stroke their bulging cocks poking out of initialed silk 
shorts. Roy stroked his cock softly then, fearing he might ejaculate 
prematurely. He wanted to savor the pleasure of watching women make each 
other cum. 

He watched the women going wild, stroking each other like cats in heat, 
fluttering over naked flesh. The one with the auburn hair was his choice; he 
couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Her magnificent high-breasted body 
fascinated him, the tiny waist and full thighs as she stood now with her 
legs slightly bent and spread apart, her pelvis thrust out while the 
blonde-haired prostitute slid two fingers in and out of her swollen cunt. 
Roy's eyes riveted on the sweet nest of Sherrie's cunt, flowering with wet 
passion! 

Southworth sat smugly in his chair, feeling the excitement and sexual 
tension in the room mount electrically as the two naked women stood face to 
face, their tongues licking, sucking, slurping at the other's creamy flesh. 
He watched Jill's free hand rise to her breast and take one of Sherrie's 
teasing hands to slowly guide it down over her smooth stomach, through the 
nest of her pubic curls to the heat of her womb. 

Sherrie shed resistance as Jill guided her hand down until her fingers 
touched the softly curling pubic hair. Of their own volition, her fingers 
ventured, touching, feeling, reveling in the soft, moist beauty of another 
woman's cunt. She let the tip of her middle finger slide between the other's 
puffy cuntal lips and threw back her head, while she reveled and thrilled at 
the magic of touching another woman's cunt . . . so soft and smooth, warm 
and moist. Her middle finger sluiced along the hot slit, feeling the juices 
sticky and seeping as she rolled her pelvis downward and out and spread her 
legs, bending them slightly at the knees. 

Their breath bathed each other's faces, so closely they stood, their 
stomachs and breasts touching as they swayed their shoulders back and forth, 
rubbing their nipples against each other as Jill with a wild thrill, felt 
her finger slide up into her lesbian lover's cunt. She fucked in and out of 
that wet hole as the women pumped their hips in perfect rhythm of lust. 

The playroom fell silent, except for the heavy breathing and rustle of 
clothing as every eye fastened on the two women moving and caressing each 
other obscenely. Jill, her eyes closed tight, eyelashes fluttering over 
flushed cheek bones, felt her body light with passion from liquor and the 
magic angel dust. . . and Sherrie's unexpected expert caresses. Suddenly 
Jill's middle finger pulled free of her sucking cunt and her hands slipped 
around her possessively. Jill was cupping her buttocks in her hands and 
pulling her forward, smashing their pubic mounds together. 

In answer, Sherrie cupped the cheeks of Jill's soft buttocks and the two 
women stood in the center of the room with their knees bent, their thighs 
rubbing against one another, their backs arched away from each other. Their 
heads threw back in animal abandonment and their hair hung free and long as 
they ground their pubic mounds together. Sherrie gnashed her teeth from the 
thrill of her pubic curls slipping on Jill's wet cunt and the electric 
excitement of Jill's pubic hair scraping over her swollen clitoris and 
teasing it to wicked heights of arousal. Their swollen pussy lips kissed and 
they groaned and clutched each other like fiercely mating cats, pumping and 
grinding. 

Sherrie was maddened with lust, stumbling. She started to fall, crazed with 
the bittersweet torment as her clitoris burned and her pussy lips throbbed. 
Blood pounded in her ears. 

Hoy heaved a cry of delight as Sherrie fell on the round bed, making the 
step up to the platform in a desperate attempt to find relief. She tumbled 
onto the mattress, her legs split wide. And Jill was right there to help . . 
. she pulled her lover's hips forward until they were on the round edge and 
then she spread her friend's legs wider still. With a lazy groan of lust, 
Sherrie let them fall open. Jill fell to her knees and knelt between them 
and, using the palms of her soft, warm hands to force her thighs still 
wider, she leaned over Sherrie's trapped body and saw her milk-white belly 
flowing up to her firm breasts. Lizard-like, Jill's teasing tongue darted 
out to lick at Sherrie's dimpled navel, bringing a long moan of joy from 
Sherrie's laxly parted lips. 

With maddening slowness, Jill began licking down the captive's stomach, 
before burying her face in the darkly curling pubic hair and watching 
Sherrie's cunt flower open and twitch convulsively like a fish's hungry 
mouth, begging in a rhythmic joy as it glistened with lust-crazed 
titillation. 

Every man in the room sat on the edge of the cushioned chair, gawking at 
Sherrie's reddened cunt with wild awe. The shy, auburn-haired woman turned 
lesbian was a rarity at the Hunters Point Inn . . . a rarity they would pay 
dearly for. And they did. 

Jill's practiced tongue darted out and licked around the puffy cuntal lips 
of Sherrie's trapped body that shook and goose-bumped with desire. She 
thrust up her hips, rotating them and spread her legs as wide as they would 
go while the men murmured obscenities, groaned and stroked kittenishly at 
their bulging cocks. 

With slow, torturous movements, Jill's tongue snaked up and down Sherrie's 
seething cunt, barely touching it, teasing it with feathery touches. Sherrie 
groaned aloud at the electrifying thrill as her body writhed and ground, 
longing for more sweet lesbian torture . . . begging for more . . . much 
more. 

Then with a flicker of an eyelash, Jill plunged her tongue into the steaming 
depths of Sherrie's aching cunt and Sherrie bent her knees and pulled them 
back and up so that they crushed against her magnificent breasts. Jill's 
tongue sucked at the juicy softness of her friend's fleeced vagina, 
delighting in the pungent taste of another woman's lust. She pulled her pink 
tongue out to work at the nubby, thumping clitoris that kept moving 
teasingly out of reach as Sherrie's hips ground lewdly into the bed. 

Jill, frenzied with desire, broke the soulful kiss and fell in a mass of 
goose-bumped flesh on top of her captive like a man, her tongue licking out. 
"Did that please you, honey?" she whispered in Sherrie's ear, her pussy 
grinding down hard on Sherrie's nakedly exposed 

"Oh . . . " Sherrie flailed her auburn head from side to side. Nothing was 
real; nothing mattering now. 

"Then do it to me!" came the hissed reply. 

Sherrie answered in a throaty rasp as their bodies, covered with a sheen of 
sweat, writhed together on the bed in front of the men's oogling eyes. Heat 
of arousal steamed from their bodies as they licked each other's tongues and 
rubbed their cunts together in grinding circles. The men lifted from their 
seats to watch, sweat beading on their tight faces as they licked their dry 
lips, their mouths suddenly parched from a savage desire to suck and fuck 
the two women who were clawing at each other's bodies like hungry cats. 

And Sherrie had turned feline. She had reached a state of sexual desperation 
and together they licked and writhed, stroked and caressed, becoming more 
frantic and wild. Now Sherrie was in a crazy, writhing passion . . . a 
whirlpool of lust. A feeling that surpassed blissful orgasm sizzled in her 
veins, numbing her brain and sparking her nerve endings. Her eyes swelled 
shut, her teeth ground and barred. She wrapped her long legs around Jill's 
waist and locked her slender ankles and squeezed with every ounce of 
strength left to her. She flattened her seeping cunt against Jill's. 
Together they moaned and licked and twisted on the bed while their hips 
pumped and they rocked back and forth, humping each other madly. They rocked 
too far, teetered over the rounded edge and crashed to the carpeted stage. 

Bewildered, Sherrie rose up on her hands and knees and glanced around. Thank 
God . . . Jill was right there, sprawled spread eagled on her back. Sherrie 
groped toward her, groaning, eyelashes fluttering; Jill slowly bent her 
knees and spread her legs wide, opening a moist cunt to Sherrie and all the 
men in the room. 

Sherrie's glistening body crawled between her lover's legs and her green 
eyes gazed at the lust twitching face. The heat of her sex seemed to steam 
from Jill's pussy and for the first time, Sherrie saw another woman as a 
sexual object. Bending her elbows slightly, she lowered her breasts so that 
her puckered nipples just barely touched Jill's pouting mounds. She swayed 
back and forth, rubbing her hardened nipples over Jill's firm mounds. Then, 
sensing the men in the room and knowing her bare buttocks were open to them, 
she split her legs wide, stretching her knees out until they touched the 
insides of Jill's thighs. The men dropped to hands and knees to get a better 
view of the brown button of Jill's anus and the ragged, pink folds of her 
cunt, throbbing with blood and twitching with lust. 

With a languid sigh, she lowered her naked body onto Jill who thrust her 
hips up and slowly lowered her weight until she was pressed against Jill's 
naked flesh and their wetly seeping cunts kissed. Sherrie pumped her hips 
while Roy, on the floor, peered longingly at the tiny brown hole. His breath 
panted from his lungs. 

The room was hypnotic with the smell of lust. No one spoke. Sherrie could 
feel the men's hot breath bathing her back as Jill cupped her breasts in her 
trembling hands, cupping and tilting them, offering them up to Sherrie's 
succulent mouth. 

With a desperate groan, Sherrie bent her head and poked her velvety tongue 
between her teeth to lick at the hardening nipple, feeling strangely excited 
at licking another woman's breasts . . . so milky and soft. Softly, she took 
one of the rosebud nipples in her hot mouth and gently sucked it while the 
tips of her teeth nibbled teasingly. 

The animalistic need to claw herself away from this bittersweet torture and 
orgasm overwhelmed her senses. Her body was on fire, from the tips of her 
puckered nipples to her curled under toes; she wiggled down over Jill who 
bent her knees while her hands played with Sherrie's navel and played there 
for a teasing moment. 

In Sherrie's drugged mind, she felt as if she were a spectator of her own 
lustful actions. In a split of mind and body, she watched with an 
objectively critical eye, two women making lesbian love . . . breaking all 
morals and societal rules . . . and it was damned exciting! 

Her eyes peeped open to tiny green slits, her eyelids heavy with passion and 
there, not an inch away, at the height of Jill's silken thighs, was her 
fringed pussy, dripping with love juices and pouting for attention. 

Once is fun and twice is habit.. . the words flitted through Sherrie's mind. 
Am I really becoming a lesbian? Oh, Gawd . . . I can't help myself. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

Coercing a police officer into giving out confidential information was 
harder than selling a beaten up Volkswagen to a millionaire, decided Jack 
impatiently. After nerve jangling hours of listening to Officer Pearson 
droll into the receiver to a Wisconsin officer in a case presumably related 
to Kurt Bailey's untimely transgressions, his nerves began to pop one by 
one. He could wait to see Bailey behind bars, but he couldn't wait to 
retrieve his wife. 

He pulled at Pearson's sleeve to get his attention, broke into his 
conversation, paced the floor scratching his neck. 

"You really know how to make a nuisance of yourself," grumbled Pearson, 
replacing the receiver. "I could have you arrested for impeding an officer 
of the law, you know." 

"Listen . . . " Jack's eyes bugged as he shook a fist at Pearson. ". . . if 
your wife disappeared and the police had a lead that just might get her 
back, wouldn't you go crazy listening to some damned fool rambling on about 
an out-of-state case . . . wasting time?" 

Pearson snickered. "Kid, if my wife was gone, I'd be the happiest damn man 
in the world!" His eyes fell to Sherrie Turner's sophisticated smile. But 
then my wife's fat and ugly . . . wonder if she gives him head? 

"Bullshit," muttered Jack painfully. "Last week I would have said the same 
thing.. . . " 

Pearson drew a heavy sigh. "Okay, kid." He rocked back in his chair. "If you 
happen to see the Greyhound bus records stating that a woman of your wife's 
description bought a ticket to Hurly, Wisconsin . . . I ain't really 
breaking a police officer's code, am I?" 

"Jesus, you're human after all," breathed Jack, ready to kiss the bear of a 
man swinging around in his swivel chair to face a map of Illinois, including 
bits of Wisconsin and Iowa. 

A chipped nail pointed to a small dot in northern Wisconsin. "That's where 
she went." 

Jack grabbed his coat. 

"Oh, and kid. . . . " 

A trace of a smile creased Jack's unshaven face. 

"Yeah. . . ? " 

"Remember what I said about getting bloodied for sticking your nose in other 
people's business. Don't play cop." 

A little bit of information is sometimes a dangerous thing, ruminated 
Officer Pearson, but by the time Jack drove to that dumpy hick town, he 
wouldn't have a chance to play cop. At least it got the guy out of his hair. 
A pudgy finger dialed Wisconsin as his eyes lifted to watch Jack Turner 
charge past security. 

Once, twice . . .forever? A thread of rationale wove in Sherrie's dusty mind 
as choice, this time her own, dictated by the animalish scent of another 
woman's genitals, made her flick out her tongue before taking the lunge. 

Slowly her pink tongue slid out from between her soft lips and Sherrie 
closed her eyes and buried her warm head in Jill's steaming loins and felt 
the pulsating head and moistness of her female lover's vagina. Her tongue 
wiggled and darted towards the hair fringed target. She paused a moment to 
savor the juices flaring in her nostrils. 

Jill wrapped her legs around Sherrie's swan-like neck and thrust her hips up 
and ground her pelvis, moaning. Her arms flailed out, all control of her 
nervous system short-circuited. She was all nerves. The two shameless women 
writhed across the floor, rolling over once so that Sherrie lay flat on her 
back with Jill straddling her stomach. Her vagina ground over Sherrie's face 
as her hips pumped up and down against the maddening thrust of Sherrie's hot 
tongue. 

Thrashing her blonde hair in shimmers of red under the lights, a banshee cry 
of demonic lust tore from 

Jill's throat. She leapt to her feet, her breasts heaving, sheened with 
sweat, screaming: "Let me, let me!" Yanking Sherrie to her feet, the two 
naked women stood facing each other, glassy eyes sparkling under lust heavy 
lids. 

"Let me fuck you!" Jill hissed. She guided her lover by the shoulders to the 
bed and eased her down so that she lay flat on her back, legs spread wide 
and shamelessly. She lay in a dream of lust. Languidly, Sherrie bent her 
knees and let her legs fall open so that every person in the room could see 
her crying, begging cunt. 

Through half-swollen shut eyes, Jill watched, her fingertips playing in the 
forest of her cunt as Southworth came forward, his sickening face devilish 
in the red light. He handed Jill something that resembled a piece of the 
mechanical chair-a shaft with straps and buckles attached. Southworth glared 
licentiously down at his captive with a wild, tight expression. He reached 
down to pinch Jill on the breast, making her wince as he twisted the 
hardened nub of her nipple between steely fingers. 

Then Jill was all motion, fastening buckles and positioning herself. 
Sherrie's eyes saucered as she stared at the dildo, hanging obscenely 
between Jill's lithe thighs like some kind of practical joke. One tight 
strap crossed her taut buttocks, pinching the flesh; they fastened a strap 
around each thigh and tightened the buckles so that the prick was erect . . 
. horrifyingly erect. 

And Roy was more than willing to help. His fingers, eager and hot, got in 
the way of Jill's smaller ones, lie won in the end, pulling the buckle 
tight. Bending her knees and using one hand, Jill deftly slipped the cock 
end of the dildo into her own cunt and fucked herself. The cock twirled 
between the fringes of her cunt as she mewled. 

Just before orgasm, she cupped her hands in front of her and Southworth 
handed Roy a bottle of oil which she poured into her hands. Ceremoniously, 
as if approaching a virgin, Jill smeared the oil over the plastic length of 
the artificial penis. 

The captive did not flinch this time! Past memories of the chamber fluttered 
through her drugged mind, and only the pleasure, the godforsaken pleasure 
poked up through the clouds of remembrance. Shamelessly, the runaway wife 
thrust her hips upward and her hands squeezed the milky mounds of her 
breasts as she offered all of her sex to Jill. 

Jill crawled down on the bed between Sherrie's taut thighs and the men went 
wild! The straps and buckles stripped about Jill's luscious flesh brought a 
collective groan of lechery from the Chicago corporate executives whose own 
wives forbid them the pleasure of fleshy vice. 

Slowly, Jill lowered herself and Sherrie accommodatingly slid her hands 
under her buttocks and lifted her hips up so that her pouting pussy jutted 
out and her cunt twitched, searching to fuck the artificial penis in its hot 
walls. 

Jill, lewdly, provocatively, rubbed the mushroomed head of the pink plastic 
dildo up and down the lubricated slit of her lover's vagina, searching for 
the sweet tasting hole of her cunt. 

Sherrie squeezed her eyes shut and let her head loll hack and forth, her 
breasts quivering and glistening with sweat under the red lights. "Fuck me!" 
the words tore from her throat. "Fuck me like a man!" 

Jack's blue eyes trailed up filigreed pine boughs to the bursting sun as his 
Datsun snow tires bit into the ice slickened narrow county road forking 
ahead. The back of his neck felt tight and ached from the long tedious drive 
. . . to nowhere? Ahead he caught a glimpse of a cafe, looking dirty and 
rundown in the pristine setting of green pines and pure snow. 

Why the hell Sherrie would come here, he hadn't the foggiest. Didn't make 
any more sense than him fucking her in the ass. His neck screwed tighter at 
the loathsome thought. He hammered his fist on the steering wheel, tasting 
self-disgust. A woman of Sherrie's moral stature didn't deserve animalish 
treatment 

Caffeine was the last thing he needed for his nerves, but his senses were 
fading fast and although the pathetic looking hamburger painted on the 
cafe's front was hardly appetizing, he had the sense to respect somatic 
needs. He'd been running on coffee and adrenalin; now his stomach was 
complaining sourly. 

The drunken ass implanted on a beer can littered sofa watching Dallas 
Cowgirls shake their boobies was an alien creature to the one bending his 
head and pulling up his collar creating the hapless picture of a man looking 
for his wife. 

I le took a seat at the counter and through heavy lidded eyes stared at the 
gruff faced man standing with one foot on a box of Folgers Coffee cans, 
smoking a cigarette and watching game shows on television. 

"Cup of coffee, please . . . no cream . . . and a cheeseburger, no mustard." 

Harvey surveyed the stranger suspiciously. He cocked his head to the side 
and smelled the cologne fragrance of city living and noted, too, the five 
o'clock shadow glooming the man's handsome face. The coffee dribbled from 
the pot as, tilting it, he kept a weary eye on the customer, sensing in him 
some of the alien qualities of the young auburn who . . . Now, don't bring 
trouble to your door, Harvey, he rebuked himself. 

Yet he couldn't squelch curiosity. Last night's dog hunt haunted him still. 
"You ain' from these parts of the woods, are ya?" 

It was an answer, not a question. Jack blinked through the steaming wafting 
from his coffee cup. "What makes you ask that?" The cup clattered on the 
saucer. 

Harvey shrugged his shoulders. "Jes wonderin', tha's all." He turned his 
attention back to 'Match game' and stroked a scruffy chin, feeling, rather 
than watching the man stirring his coffee. 

"You remember seeing a tall, auburn-haired woman with hair down to here come 
through here lately'. '" stated Jack. 

Harvey's eyes Hinted. "Who are you, a private investigator? I don' know 
nothin' about it." He karate chopped the air stiffly and stared back at the 
pool television reception. 

Jack watched the man's jaws mesh in profile. Through the steam making his 
sinuses drip, he smelled suspicion. "The bus stops yards from your door 
letting off every passenger ticketed to Hurly. and you don't remember who 
comes through your door?" 

"Don' take it personal if I don' remember this lady, for chrissakes . . . I 
ain't responsible for other people." 

Jack jumped to his feet. The long ride and sleepless nights focused on the 
apathetic man watching TV. "Listen, you bastard . . . if you know something 
. . . " And here he grabbed Harvey by the shirt sleeves and hissed in his 
face three inches from his.". . . know anything that could help me find my 
wife, I'll put a bullet through your eyes! I've had people shooting at me, 
and I ain't no chicken shit. . . you ask Bailey if you don' believe me!" 

At the name Bailey, Harvey's heart jumped to his throat. "Okay, okay," he 
relented, shaking himself loose from Turner's white knuckled grip. "I 
remember her. Sh-she got off the bus and wanted to know where the Crackerbox 
was. . . . " 

Jack's tired face screwed up. "The Crackerbox . . . what the hell's that?" 

"It's down the road . . . but don' let anybody know I told you . . . you 
hear me?" he barked after the man running for the door. "You hear me? I wan' 
no part of this!" 

Jack raked trembling fingers through his hair, feeling none of the cold. He 
unzipped his leather trimmed coat and wiped the sweat from his brow. Hands 
shook on the key chain. "Damned coffee. . . . " he cursed, pulling out of 
the cafe parking lot and heading down the road. 

The blonde-haired hussy in red hunting underwear crooking a tempting finger 
caught his attention like iron to a magnet, and it was with a sigh of relief 
that he pulled into the Crackerbox's vacant parking lot and leapt to the 
door. 

He squinted up at the sun, waiting for the door to open, while the postmark 
on Bailey's tight security mail kept parachuting into his brain. That and 
the bugged look on the cafe owner's face at the mention of Bailey. He 
stroked his scratchy chin and waited. 

The door creaked open, didn't swing open in welcome as the blonde in the red 
underwear promised. The anemic, drawn face of a frightened woman peeked 
through the crack in the door, then disappeared. 

Jack shouldered his way through with a grunt, watching the woman's face turn 
from surprise to fear. Her head shot around and she sucked in her breath 
tightly, showing off as she did, high cheek bones and a finely chiseled nose 
that one day, conjectured Jack, had been the makings of one gorgeous woman. 
The detective in him wondered what had gone wrong. 

"I'm Jack Turner," he testified hotly, "and I've come to find my wife." 

Anna's work gnarled hands clasped and pressed to her chest, her thin face 
twitching nervously. A man hadn't looked at her with that intensity for 
years, and the angry glare, so like her brother's accusation, made her 
wither. 

"Her name is Sherrie . . . Sherrie Turner . . . I know she's been here . . . 
I've been in contact with the Chicago police," he said stiffly, plumping up 
confidence. "I have testimony from a cafe owner down the road . . . now 
where is she?" 

Who was more nervous, the maid whose twitch had strengthened to a near 
convulsive tremor, or the caffeine sodden sodomist was a matter of 
conjecture. 

He flipped open his wallet and Sherrie's shiny face smiled up at Anna. "This 
is Sherrie . . . have you seen her in the last couple of days? " Waiting for 
an answer, he flipped it again, mentally noting the musty dampness and aura 
of despair in the room. Even the deer's head hanging above the stone 
fireplace seemed to leer down at him unwelcomingly. No smell of roast duck, 
no sound of laughter, no register book . . . what kind of lodge was this? 

Anna's hand flew to her mouth. She shook her head wildly. "No . . . no . . . 
I've never seen her . . . I.. . 

Jack's hand shot to her wrist, giving it an angry, desperate twist. 
"Listen," he spat, "I have reason to believe that my wife has disappeared . 
. . if you know anything . . . " It was a long shot in the dark. Officer 
Pearson had simply given him the clue: Hurly, Wisconsin. With a sigh, he let 
go of her wrist and wondered if he was going crazy. Bailey, asshole that he 
was, had nothing to do with his daughter's disappearance. 

Anna rubbed her wrist, eyes falling to Sherrie's face. A hot wetness stung 
her eyes. Had she the courage to end the nightmare of years of moral and 
psychic enslavement that deepened with each beautiful, hopeful face that 
appeared at the door? She fingered the gold band in her apron pocket. 
Clutching it tightly in her fist, her eyes swept around for signs of Myra, 
locked in her bedroom. Reluctantly, the maid drew out the treasure. 

"I found this in the hallway . . . when she tried to escape." 

"That's Sherrie's wedding ring!" Blood pounded in Jack's ears. Escape . . . 
? Keep cool. . . keep cool! Anna squeezed back emotion. Fate works in 
miraculous ways, she thought thankfully. With Southworth delivering off his 
captive to Hunters and Myra nursing a black eye, fate had led her to open 
the door. She was ruminating on this, paying little heed to the distraught 
husband shaking her by the shoulders. 

"Where is she?" he hissed, shaking Anna so hard her pug loosened and 
shimmering black hair tumbled about her shoulders. "Are you hearing me?" 

"Yes, yes . . . " His strength clutching her shoulders overwhelmed her . . . 
the closeness of a man's body. 

"Where is she?" 

"She's been taken to Hunters Point Inn," mumbled Anna, still clutching the 
wedding band. "Where?" 

Choking back emotion, she offered directions. When the door slammed behind 
him, Anna stood rubbing her shoulders, holding herself. Southworth would 
kill her for this treasonous act. This marked the end, she knew. Strange 
that one woman could change her life, perhaps end it. But the end of 
anything is a beginning of something fresh and, with that realization burst 
a glimmer of self esteem, something foreign to Anna since the day she'd been 
accused by her mother of sleeping with her stepfather. The drunken, moronic 
sort who'd laughed the day she packed her suitcase, and against her 
brother's advice, left home. 

The desperation of being disowned by one's family hurt worse than 
Southworth's tortures. For a mother to damn her daughter, stain her soul 
with boundless guilt . . . and a brother to watch apathetically while she 
threw herself into a world she knew nothing about, was a kind of death in 
itself. By freeing Sherrie, she'd freed herself in a sense. 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

"Fuck me, fuck me like a man!" Jack's panting wife bleated, her face eerily 
distorted in the red light's glow. 

Jill quickly complied. Placing the head of the plastic dildo at the slit of 
Sherrie's cunt and pushing down, she felt it sink into her seething flesh 
and felt, too, the end boring into her own cunt, gouging, filling her with 
wild desire for the real thing. 

"Ohhhaaaggghh!" Sherrie sighed and shivered with goose- bumps. Jill's deep 
throated groans of delight echoed hers as the men watched the cock head plow 
in, pulling her cuntal lips obscenely apart while Sherrie's body wriggled in 
attempts to gobble it up. 

Slowly, calculatingly, Jill withdrew the plastic penis inch by inch, only to 
plunge downward with a pelvic smashing thrust into Sherrie's womb. The men 
crowded closer to the bed, watching Jill's strapped buttocks and thighs pump 
in and out as she fucked like a man . . . as best a woman can. On the bed, a 
sweating mass of shivering naked flesh, Sherrie bent her legs as far as they 
would go as she thrust her hips forward to eat up all of the artificial 
cock. Jill fell on top of her and stabbed her pink tongue into Sherrie's 
drooling mouth. 

They writhed and undulated together on the sofa, crushing their milky 
breasts together as Jill fucked the cock all the way to Sherrie's spongy 
cervix and felt the other end gouge into her own vagina. Each withdrawal 
made the fitted end contract in her cunt and when she fucked into Sherrie's 
pussy, the end swelled and surged in her. Faster and faster she fucked, 
building a frenzied rhythm, the two of them digging their nails into each 
other's backs as they fucked and wallowed in lesbian love. 

Something savage about the way the straps fitted her lover's naked flesh and 
the way she humped her like a man, shoving the artificial penis (or was it 
artificial . . . she wondered, biting her lip until she drew blood. . . . ) 
into her creamy cunt.. . nearly made Sherrie cum. 

Roy was tearing off his pants, ready to get what he'd paid for. He was the 
first to crawl on to the bed naked, his hands groping for the lesbian lovers 
as they fucked and licked one another, moaning and grunting out their lust. 
He lay on his side, jutting out his rock hard cock stuck in their faces, a 
lick away. 

Jill was the first to lick it. Sweating, she fought for it . . . until 
Sherrie caught sight of the manly stalk of flesh and vied for possession of 
its power. Their hands were all over it, stroking it, their tongues licking 
each other as they licked it. 

Now Sherrie lay on her back with Jill on top of her, feeling their soft, 
sweat sheened breasts crushed together with their puffy nipples slipping and 
sliding as the dildo fucked in and out of her cunt. Jill took Roy's 
blood-red penis in her mouth and sucked noisily on the mushroomed head, 
seeping with pre-cum. Sherrie craned forward and claimed the shaft of it, 
bumping heads with her lesbian lover who fucked her still. 

With a grunt, Roy pulled his cock out of Jill's mouth and smirking 
obscenely, shoved it between Sherrie's laxly parted lips. It came as a 
shock, the rubbery pole twisting down her throat, but she sucked, loving the 
taste, the feel, the sin of it all. 

But that wasn't enough for Roy. He'd come here for pleasure and if one woman 
was all he wanted, he would have stayed home with his wife. He shoved his 
cock first into one mouth and then the other, panting, his teeth showing as 
he watched the two women suck and fight over the possession while they 
fucked each other with the dildo. 

Then the mattress shook from other weight on the bed-coming from all 
directions. Roy's board of directors crawled over the coverlet on this, 
their last meeting of 'a week long sojourn to the north country to discuss 
corporate politics in a setting conducive to level headed decision making' 
as the memo to the chosen few stated, after arrangements had been made with 
a Chicago contact. 

Those corporate hands were making quick decisions now as they pawed at the 
women, naked and reckless. One shoved a bony finger up Jill's anus as the 
other tried to wedge his hand underneath Sherrie, his finger probing for her 
own puckered, sensitive once-violated hole. 

Bodies fell like dead weight on the bed. An older man with silver hair was 
there alongside Roy. Sherrie's eyes flashed open with a start. The dildo was 
gone. 

Jill shrieked as they pulled her off of Sherrie's clutching body, throwing 
her on her back, tearing at the buckles and tossing the plastic shaft across 
the room, jealous of the surrogate penis when they had the real thing! As 
Sherrie watched, a treacherously sinful thrill ran through her body . . . 
Jill had disappeared under a heap of thrashing, sex-maddened bodies, 
creating a hydra of arms and legs and a cacophony of lustful grunts and 
moans. 

Rape! She'd learned the meaning of that word. Again she would be raped. All 
those stout cocks, those mouths, jabbing at her vulnerable orifices. She 
gasped, but not with apprehension as hands grabbed her goose-bumped flesh. 
Rape . . . a trickle of indecision shot through her brain. Was it rape? 
Didn't she want to be mauled and screwed in her mouth, in her cunt and in 
her-Sherrie's eyes flew open to stare into Southworth's pinprick pupils, 
flashing red in the lights . . . then downward to his pathetically wormish 
cock in his hand. 

He yanked her to the edge until her head drooped over the side and 
everything looked upside down . . . she felt the hands, the bodies, the 
legs, the cocks. The men were on her and someone-did it matter who?-was 
sliding his swollen cock up and down her seething cunt. Hands and lips and 
tongues and cocks possessed her body, every inch of her naked flesh, 
fucking, probing, pinching, driving her toward orgasm. 

She opened her mouth and Southworth's wormish penis slipped in uninvited. It 
grew hot and hard in her mouth as she sucked breathlessly, drawing his sperm 
from his testicles until she tasted one drop of cum. That spurred her on, 
made her crave more. 

A writhing mass of bodies crowded the bed, with no way to sort them out.. . 
Sherrie sucking Southworth's cock while he watched gleefully, counting the 
profits he's make from this sweet dish. As dollar signs shown in his eyes, 
the sperm amassed in his genitals until, with a screeching yelp he came in 
her mouth, shooting white hot streams of hot sperm that scorched her tonsils 
and burned her throat, filling her gullet with a puddle of cream. 

With a final moan, Southworth staggered backwards and tumbled to the floor, 
his eyes fastened on the wild orgy. Sherrie licked her lips and closed her 
eyes to everything but feeling. She was being fucked and sucked and battered 
around like a rag doll. Somebody was jabbing his penis in her cum dripping 
mouth . . . who? Did it matter? 

Angel dust, PCP, is known for the remarkable agility its users experience, 
that and a noticeable lack of pain. That's what happened to Sherrie now and 
Southworth grinned, knowing he'd struck the right combinations in drug 
usage, alcohol and settings to create an orgy that made the Romans look like 
pussy cats. 

Jill was lying beside Sherrie on her back, being fucked in the cunt while 
another man suckled her bruised breasts. The air was hot and sticky with cum 
and she felt someone's cum puddling warmly on her belly . . . whose sperm 
meant for whom? Threads of stickiness glistening on Jill's nakedness added 
to the chorus of lustful moans coming from the corporate directors' mouths. 
The two lesbian lovers groped for each other and their mouths locked as they 
sparred their tongues, both cumming, their bodies shuddering and twitching 
as they were fucked by one man after the other. 

The chairman of the board, Roy Jepsen, was definitely the leader of the 
gang. Barking out orders, he made everyone back off and then directed Jill 
to climb on top of Sherrie. The women lay together, dizzy, engulfed in a 
pool of lust, grinding their cum-drenched vaginas together, spreading their 
legs wide so that Roy could get behind them and fuck first one and then the 
other. Each director was granted his turn at fucking the two captive women 
and, as Sherrie felt each renewed cock plunge into her spongy cervix, she 
convulsed, cumming in a spiting stream of lust. Each man had his turn, 
before falling away exhausted. Rubbing her sweat sheened breasts against 
Sherrie's, Jill matched her lover, orgasm for orgasm. As the men fucked them 
from behind, the women licked each other's faces, wiping clean the men's 
sperm splattered over their lust contorted features. Making love to a woman 
and a man, decided Sherrie somewhere in some corner of her brain, had to be 
heaven! 

The room sizzled with the smell and heat of lust, mingled with the sweet 
smell of angel dust. Their bodies mingled into one mass of sweat glistening, 
cum-spattered flesh. Roy suddenly dragged Jill across the bed, her face wild 
and ecstatic as he flipped her over onto her stomach and shoved his cock 
into her cringing asshole. With amazing strength, he rammed his slithering 
cock tight into her anus and rolled her over on top of him so that she 
sprawled obscenely, legs spread apart, face contorted in pleasure-pain, cunt 
gaping open with Roy's cock buried deep in her anus. One of his director's 
eyed his chance, licked his lips and jumped into the foray. 

Jill groped for his sticky cock and guided the head up into her neglected 
cunt and fell into a rhythm between the two men: one cock in her anus, one 
cock in her cunt. 

One in her anus . . . The thought burned through the dusty haze of mind 
numbing drugs. Jack . . . raping her. She slithered for the edge of the bed, 
but Roy, eyeing his chance, let another director take his post at Jill's 
creamy vagina and leapt on the auburn-haired lovely who'd captured his 
lecherous attentions. 

He fell on top of her in a lustful groan and she felt the bulbous head of 
his slippery cock press against the button of her anus. Sherrie squeezed 
shut her mascara-smeared eyes, and gritted her teeth, knowing the pain would 
kill her. The soft walls of her rectum could never tolerate his gouging 
masculinity! 

She didn't know the blessings of PCP or Southworth's crafty reasons for 
using the drug. . .and when Roy plunged deep inside her anus, boring deep 
into her bowels . . . there was no pain beyond a dull pressure. He sawed in 
and out, making strange sucking sounds. Then someone was lifting her limp 
body until she lay on her back with Roy under her, his thick cock boring 
into her tender anus. His rough hands reached up and around her rib cage to 
paw her breasts, squeezing them, taunting her chafed nipples until even 
through the tranquillizing drug, they felt raw. 

Now on top of her was the vice chairman of the board, leering down at her. 
For a thin man, he possessed a girthy cock, she mused lewdly, proud of 
herself for being able to put together one cogent thought. With an inviting 
little mewl from her cum-encrusted, parted lips, she groped for that stalk 
of male meat and guided it up into her creamy cunt, feeling the two penises 
move in slippery unison, fucking her in the tender nether regions of her 
anus and the other into her seething vagina. She blinked her eyes and 
sighed, oblivious to any goings on in other parts of the Hunters Point Inn. 

When Jack's blue Datsun nosed into the Hunters Point Inn parking lot, a 
lineup of black and white cars blocked the entrance and exits, trapping the 
Mercedes and Cadillacs and foreign sports models with their out-of-state 
license plates from his home state. 

The police were amassed, checking their ammunition. The press photographer 
was there. Jack scratched his head. They were about to close in-on whom, for 
what, and why? 

Sherrie couldn't stop cumming! She bucked and writhed and wriggled herself 
between the two men, impaling herself on their potent stalks of blood-fed 
masculinity. "Cum, cum, cum . . . " she muttered through hissed teeth, 
goading the men on to fill her with their steaming seed, loving their male 
dominance controlling her body while she floated off on a cloud of sensual 
hysteria. 

The directors worked overtime, thrashing slavishly to please her. The lanky 
gray-haired man drilling into her vagina stiffened, threw back his head and 
Sherrie's ear drums pounded from the shrill screech torn from his lungs. He 
shot a hoseful of steaming cum deep into her cunt just as Roy reached the 
end of his race for stamina. Faster and faster he bored into her anus, 
sawing, pulling out the tender anal flesh on each withdrawal and shoving it 
back in with a grunt. 

"I . . . I . . . I'm cummming . . . again!" wailed the captive, biting her 
lip until it bled as she bucked in unison with Roy's fleshy body. 

He mauled her flesh, as if holding it for ransom, until he'd emptied his 
pint of white hot cum in the depths of her bowels. Sherrie was delighting in 
the feel of laying naked between the two sweating male bodies whose cum 
dribbled from her ravaged anus and vagina, when a scream rent the air. First 
one shriek, then another, and another. 

The police crashed through the door, knocking it off its hinges. A chorus of 
humiliated startlement rang with anger and fear, echoing off the mirrored 
walls steamed with illicit sex. The board of directors scrambled madly for 
clothes, fighting for possession of a shirt, pants. . .anything to cover 
their incriminating nudity. Roy Jepsen, chairman of the board, covered his 
face with his hands and barked threats at the snickering press photographer 
who'd snapped off a roll of film in the first minute. 

The sheriff brandished the cold nose of a .38 magnum before Southworth's 
piggish eyes; in the red light is resembled a black penis glinting with red 
blood. "You picked the wrong fortune cookie this time, Southworth. We 
finally got your ass." The officer of the law cocked his head toward one of 
the ten state police flanking him. "Handcuff this one . . . and make sure 
the press gets a good shot of him!" 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Snowflakes swirled over the Datsun's hood. The air was invigorating, 
awakening. Jack cracked the window and swung one arm around Sherrie's 
shoulders and kissed her hair. 

"I still can't believe Daddy could have involved himself with that loathsome 
Southworth . . . criminal, murder, analist.'" The past week had been 
agonizing. Everything she'd believed stable and enduring had been inverted, 
converted . . . everything from faith in parentage to love for her husband. 
And her sexuality. 

The doctor had warned of extreme fluctuations in mood and, seeing his wife 
tremble with emotion, Jack hugged her close as they headed south to Chicago. 

"Don't worry about your father, honey. He'll probably turn state's evidence 
on Southworth and whatever that lesbian's name was and get off." No sympathy 
chimed in his voice. Just to turn the screw deeper, he started to inform his 
wife that he'd been partially responsible for finding her, but changed his 
mind. 

"You really think so?" she sniffled. "I still don't understand why they 
arrested him." 

"For conspiring with a public official to falsify state records. Clever guy, 
your Daddy," snickered Jack bitterly. "He and the county coroner had a deal 
worked out so that death certificates were issued on every poor bitch who 
turned up at the Crackerbox." 

"You mean I could have been declared dead? 

He nodded. "Sure. No body, no evidence . . . out of state. . . . " 

"But if you love somebody and they disappear," she interrupted, "wouldn't 
most people dig deeper? I mean it's all so apathetic . . . so horrible!" 

"The county coroner had that one wrapped up too. He presumably had the 
bodies buried in the state owned cemeteries and it takes years to get 
permission to exhume a body . . . by that time seven years had elapsed and 
insurance companies are satisfied with that." 

"But how many women did he murder." 

"Who knows? Most of them were suicides, according to the cops." He hugged 
her close. "Don't worry . . . even Anna was supposedly declared dead, but 
she's working at Harvey's cafe now." 

"I.. . I want to forget it and concentrate on life for awhile." 

"That's right. From now on I pay the mortgage, not Daddy . . . and when you 
need a new dishwasher, you come to your husband." Tempting it was to drive 
home the loathsome point that in a sense her father had held her captive and 
raped her. "You're going to have to learn to trust me. I know it upset you 
that your father fired me . . . but he did that because I was getting 
suspicious, not because I was too stupid to sell cars." 

"Maybe you don't want me, after I . . . with those men," she confessed in a 
small voice. 

He squeezed her shoulders and kissed her hair that tumbled over her flushed 
cheeks. Sherrie began to sob openly and cuddled against his strength. 

"I.. . I haven't been giving you enough credit, have I? I always thought 
Daddy was right." 

"It's going to be all right. A man has to be a male before he can be a 
husband, and that's what I intend to do. No more favors from anybody . . . 
except one," he amended. 

Liquidy green eyes studied the strong profile, one hundred percent male and 
handsome as the day she'd met him. 

"How about spending the night in a motel with a bottle of champagne and a 
nice dinner. . . ? " Jack tried to pry his mind loose of the vision that 
haunted him for the three days of Sherrie's recovery in the hospital. 
Sherrie, strewn naked on the bed with cunt hungry men pawing at her 
vulnerable curves. Only by replacing himself at dominator could he eradicate 
that nightmare. "And no TV," she retorted crisply. "No TV." 

This is what it took, Sherrie began to understand, to stop judging Jack so 
harshly. Foolishly, she'd prayed for the day when Jack could afford to buy 
her the luxuries her father had showered upon her. What she didn't realize 
was that in the end, she'd paid for it dearly. 


THE END
