The Captured Girlfriend
by Edward Mitchell


INTRODUCTION 

American people appear to be increasingly fascinated with the theme of crime 
and violence. Turn to any television station, listen to the media, read the 
newspaper-murder, dead bodies, guns, knives, explosives. Have we grown 
complacent about this amorality of violence, unaware of the inhuman 
brutality that takes place every day in every city in America? Perhaps evil 
has permeated our lives, saturated every aspect of our being, to the extent 
that we no longer recognize it, even in its rawest, most subtle form. 

Obviously, this is a problem we can not ignore. 

This novel is the story of a sheltered young woman who has never witnessed 
crime, never felt the sting of a hand or the humiliation of violation. Nor 
did Janice Meredith Quincy dream, in her most wild nightmares, that she 
would someday fall into the hands of a ruthless gang of drug smugglers. As 
the reader follows Janice through the awesomely shocking 
experiences-threats, sexual perversions-he will begin to understand the 
reasons behind the lawless age in which we live. 

We have here, too, the juxtaposition of two extreme classes of society. The 
extraordinarily wealthy girl engaged to the inheritor of a multi-million 
dollar estate, and a gang of underground smugglers who've known no homes but 
the streets they slept on. This clash of lifestyle and the attitudes-sexual, 
political, and ethical-that accompany them, adds to the richness of Janice 
and Charles' unbelievable story of intrigue. Read it for yourself and see. 

-The Publishers 


CHAPTER ONE 

Janice cupped a yawn and, blinking her robin egg eyes against the sun 
refracting through the window, let her head lean limply back against the 
scratchy blue and beige tweed of the train seat headrest. Her long, 
straight, honey blonde hair caught the dancing light of the sun and tossed 
it towards the mirrors rimming the headrest across from her. A little sigh 
of travel fatigue escaped from her soft, reddened lips as she stared 
absent-mindedly at the countryside near Aulnoye, France as it flashed by the 
train's bay-sized window to the right of her, terrain where cows lulled 
contentedly in green meadows and birds perched on craggy edges of jutting 
rocks that served to the cattle confined within the stone walls of their 
pastoral prisons. It all seemed so terribly desolate, compared to Boston, 
the twenty year old coed decided. Something caught her eye, then, and she 
pressed her nose to the window to get a better look at the fleeting image of 
a bent-over country woman shabbily attired in a fashionless long dress, her 
greying hair tucked under a peasant scarf, her small feet protected by the 
high-top boots as, from a wagon, she pitched manure. A giggle rumbled from 
Janice's pretty lips. 

The handsome young man across from her lifted his head from the Times Herald 
he was reading. "What's so funny, Janice?" he asked over the rim of his 
tortoise shell glasses that hid a pair of pale gray eyes tinged with thickly 
curling lashes. 

"Oh, you missed it, Charles! You should have seen that poor old country 
bumpkin out there shoveling . . . " She cleared her throat and lowered her 
eyes, a smile giving away her merriment. ". . . shoveling cow droppings onto 
the field. Can you imagine living like that? I mean, really!" 

Charles shot a quizzical look her way. "That's the beauty of traveling. You 
learn how truly lucky you are to be living in democratic America, instead of 
these socialist countries where people grovel for a living," he explained in 
his typically dogmatic, matter-of-fact tone that was as measured as the 
facts he conveyed. 

"But can you imagine me shoveling manure?" she clasped her tiny hands, then 
hastened to cover her . mouth because of a rebellious giggle welling in her 
throat. Charles, she knew, didn't approve of sudden outbursts, even if they 
were alone in a first class compartment with the door closed and curtains 
drawn. "Okay, Charles, here's one for you." She sat forward in her seat 
making her taut, melonous breasts strain against the cool blue linen of her 
dress. "Who would you rather marry, me or that woman shoveling manure?" 

Charles forced a tight little smile. "Oh, Janice.. . there's no choice to be 
made," he answered, clucking his tongue and picking up his newspaper to 
resume his reading. 

Still, it was funny to Janice to think that women-however similar in their 
bodily functions, their needs for affection and desire for motherhood-could 
be so radically different in lifestyles. The thought amused her. 

She relaxed back in the seat again and, with a swooshing sound, crossed her 
stockinged legs, her fingers toying with the tourist guide book in her lap 
while she watched Charles with his lean, handsome face, his classic features 
sitting opposite her in his proper long-sleeved shirt with the initialed 
pocket, sweater vest, and gabardine pants. 

A tiny glow of pride, no bigger than the glint of a sun ray peeking through 
the cumulous clouds overhead lighted in Janice. 

How absolutely fortunate she was to be engaged to Charles Edward Tarrington 
III. 

He was an ambitious young man, rather quiet and intellectual, but terribly 
dedicated to his upcoming profession as proven in this his last year at 
Harvard Law School when he'd been preening himself for a political career 
while working for an oil company lobbyist. The extra money his part time job 
brought in was in essence meaningless. The Tarringtons, a well established 
New England family had all the money they needed, and what they didn't have, 
Janice Meredith Quincy's family did. 

Neither of them talked about money . . . not about how much they should 
spend on an apartment when they got married next June, not where they could 
afford to take a honeymoon. Like Janice, Charles had been brought up to 
believe it was vulgar to talk about one's wealth as it was to talk about 
sex. And yet it was obvious that both families had money, and she and 
Charles were living proof that they had indulged in sex! She thought 
fleetingly of telling that to Charles, then decided against it. Charles 
wouldn't think that very funny. He wasn't much on humor. 

That sometimes bothered Janice, though she always quickly repressed the 
thought. His devotion to his work compensated tenfold. In her two years at 
Vassar she'd never dated one boy who was as determined or conscientious or 
well respected as Charles who stood at the head of his class. His 
professors-old friends of his family-openly admired Charles for his moral 
rectitude and propriety, two qualities requisite if one had an eye on the 
political arena. 

Charles glanced up from his paper, then flicked his wrist to check his 
watch. "Are you hungry? Perhaps we should catch a bite before we change 
trains in Bruxelles. I hear the trains there are abominable." 

"Certainly, Charles," she nodded, wondering vaguely what would happen if she 
said no. She wasn't hungry and she actually considered doing it, but 
something in his manner put her off, and she merely said, as always, "Yes, 
Charles." 

"Let's go to the dining car then. We have about an hour before the stop in 
Bruxelles. That should give us sufficient time to eat," he stated, rising 
from his seat and to make certain his wallet was still safe, patted his vest 
pocket with a delicate hand that looked as if it had never been dirty-even 
as a child. 

They ambled down the train's corridor, Janice trailing her hand along the 
railing below the window, her alligator handbag slung over her shoulders, as 
they passed compartment after compartment. Between the cars near the water 
closet they nodded to the uniformed, mustached conductor who sat on a low 
stool munching his sandwich. The third car down was the crowded snack bar 
where the second class passengers munched french fries and mayonnaise and 
dribbled mustard on sausages. With relief, Charles opened the door to the 
dining car where the tables were covered with white cloths and fresh flowers 
were daintily centered on each table in crystal vases, while waiters in full 
regalia whisked around the narrow car as quietly as cats. 

Charles pulled out the chair for his fiancee, then tucked his own in under 
the table in a most polished Bostonian manner. "Would you like to try the 
veal Marsala . . . and asparagus? And perhaps a fine wine?" 

Charles always suggested the dinner. He gave the order in French perfect 
enough to make the waiter raise his eyebrows in appreciation. Janice noticed 
the little premature lines of age etched around his eyes. He'd worked so 
hard this year and this vacation was good for him, and for her, too. How 
else would she have dared venture off to Europe by herself, enroll in the 
Sorbonne and head off for Amsterdam, Munich, and London by herself, without 
her dear Charles to guide the way. 

No doubt this coming year at the Sorbonne would be a lonely one, despite 
Paris' romantic allure. But she knew too, that if she was to marry Charles 
Edward Tarrington III she must polish off her cosmopolitan beginnings, 
continue with her art history degree and perfect her French and Italian. It 
was her duty now. to learn the language of a socialite, know how to meet 
dignitaries with presidential flare and diplomatically run a household full 
of servants. That would be her life, and if that meant eating veal when she 
wanted spaghetti, so be it. 

The waiter appeared with the wine, carried on a silver tray. He set the long 
stemmed glasses in front of the couple and let Charles taste it. It was to 
his liking. "Perfect for the asparagus," hastened Charles, letting her know 
it was proper for her to drink her wine before the entree reached the table. 

"Cheers. To you, Charles, for doing so wonderfully well at Harvard!" 

"Cheers!" echoed Charles clinking her glass. 

The wine tingled on Janice's tongue as she sipped it, and sent a warm glow 
through her as she swallowed. It made her very happy. Now that school was 
over and they had six weeks to travel together, Charles would have time for 
her. She" thought back over the six months of their engagement. It had been 
so . . . so impersonal, and now that they were traveling together maybe that 
would change. Not that they slept together. Janice would never have thought 
of sleeping with Charles any more than he would have thought to ask that of 
her. But still, even though they were together now twenty-four hours a day 
(discounting the time they slept in their separate hotel rooms) there had 
been none of those little intimacies between them that existed between other 
young lovers. No kisses after she'd slipped into her negligee and he his 
pajamas and robe . . . no fervent stroking of the thigh. 

"Charles, are you still going to stop off in Rotterdam to visit your aunt?" 
she asked, watching the waiter discreetly slip a plate of asparagus before 
them. 

"Yes, Janice. I promised mother. But I'm afraid we can't both stay there. 
Certainly they would find it improper for two unmarried people to be 
traveling together. This is risque enough as it is." He speared the lemon 
wedge with his fork and squeezed the fresh juice over the oozing mayonnaise. 

Janice gazed intently at him. "But we are engaged, surely that must mean 
something to her." 

"Not my Aunt Sybil, I'm afraid." He hastened to lighten her fears by lying 
his delicate hand on her tiny one. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you, 
dear. I've made reservations for you to sleep in a private compartment on 
the train, and when you get to Amsterdam call a taxi to take you to the 
Damtrack Hotel and I'll meet you there the next day at twelve sharp. Oh, and 
don't forget," he said, raising a finger, "you also change trains in 
Antwerp." 

"But, I. . . Charles.. . " Janice drew in her breath and forked a mouthful 
of asparagus. As much as she loathed the idea of being on a train alone, 
there was no rebuttal to Charles' suggestion. All was safe, or cautious 
Charles would never have suggested it. What would he think of her, anyway, 
if she was too scared to spend a night alone on a train? 

"I know you're worried, Janice, but the crime in Amsterdam is all centered 
around drugs. If you aren't foolish enough to purchase any, and nobody 
plants any on you . . . so why worry, Janice?" He threw up his hands to make 
his point. 

His comment touched off a question that Janice had been wondering about for 
some time since she'd started college. Though she'd never put a marijuana 
cigarette to her lips, she had several friends who had, and somehow she 
couldn't consider those girls criminals because they indulged in one vice. 
"Do you really think that somebody is a criminal because he tries drugs now 
and then? Oh, I don't mean heroin or cocaine, but just plain marijuana . . . 
why even the president's son has admitted to smoking it." 

Charles smiled indulgently at Janice, showing her unmistakably that he 
considered her as foolish as she was naive. "My dear, I'm afraid you've been 
the victim of a too liberal education." Taking another sip of his Pouilly 
Fuisse, he recalled one drug trial he'd attended during his first year in 
law school. 

A commune of young people had been hauled in from the slums of Boston, a 
crowd of dirty, foul-mouthed, raggedly dressed bums. From the moment he set 
eyes on them, he considered them no more than common criminals. 

The men were bad enough, with their lack of respect for the court. They 
didn't even dress decently, but came in work shirts open at the neck to show 
off their hairy chests. They didn't even wear suits and ties like others in 
the court! 

But the women! My Lord! Some of them wore sweaters so tight you could 
actually see their nipples standing straight up under them. Or they wore 
blouses cut so low and open so wide that their round, full breasts actually 
bounced out. Then there was the redhead in the see-through blouse who might 
as well have been naked. The two round spheres of her firm full breasts and 
the rosy aureoles were vivid against the snowy flesh of her pert, hard 
little nipples. 

She'd worn jeans, too . . . jeans so tight they looked painted on. They 
pulled and strained across the round curve of her buttocks, cupping them, 
molding them to her skin, rippling like flesh itself as she moved 
lasciviously across the room. Charles had noticed that the pants bunched and 
caught in the furrow of her buttocks, outlining the little pucker of her 
anus. And every man in the courtroom was staring at her, practically panting 
with sheer, raw lust! 

But the most disgusting of them all, Charles remembered, was the girl who'd 
come in late and taken a seat in the front row. She was young and slim-about 
Janice's age and size, he guessed-with a waist he could have spanned with 
his two hands. She'd even had a certain beauty, with her olive skin, the 
raven hair that hung to her shoulders, the eyes round and black. She wore a 
blue jean skirt that barely covered the hard little half-moons of her 
sensuous buttocks, barely concealed the vee of her crotch. 

The girl's full rich thighs were bare-why didn't these women wear bras and 
girdles and stockings like decent people? Her breasts were lewdly tilted, 
the nipples taut under the sheer summer blouse she wore. 

She flashed Charles a knowing look as she passed the bench, a look that told 
him as plainly as words that she would be willing to do anything he wanted. 
Her walk had been an open invitation to him and every other man in the 
courtroom. Hips undulating sensually, she prowled the room like a bitch in 
heat, just begging for some man to shove his rock-hard penis deep into her 
little quivering belly. And there were plenty of men there who were willing, 
too! 

A deceptive calm settled over the place when this girl sat down, just in the 
witness chair. She smoothed her skirt over the lushness of her hips, pressed 
her knees together, even crossed her ankles demurely. Beneath the calm, 
though, was a subdued current of sexuality that threatened to erupt. She 
answered the questions in a bored voice and when she became tired of the 
lengthy questions and accusations, her body went slack, and the girl 
sprawled in the chair now, legs wide apart, knees splayed out teasingly. 
Charles stared slack-jawed when he realized this girl wasn't wearing any 
panties. No thin strip of nylon, however narrow, however flimsy, concealed 
the quivering flesh of her smooth, curving thighs. There was nothing to hide 
the thin triangle of dark, silken curls that grew so sparsely there in the 
tight little vee between her legs, nothing to hide the delicate pink-tinted 
edges of her moist, pouting little pussy. 

The girl shifted in the seat, and now her legs slid farther apart, her 
smooth-skinned, swelling thighs spread open even wider. The pink-tipped 
hair-lined split lay open now, parted like the petals of a flower, and 
revealed the tiny bud of her clitoris that nestled within. 

Charles stared in fascinated shock. The tiny, blushing mound attracted him 
and held his attention riveted to it. He yearned to turn away, to ignore the 
tender tip of flesh, to close his eyes and his mind. But he was transfixed, 
powerless, trapped by her lewdity. His palms grew moist and his entire body 
dripped with sweat. He had no idea how long he sat there while the clerk 
knocked to call the court back to order. 

He listened and took notes, his eyes on the ceiling, trying to concentrate 
on the arguments of the lawyers. But his mind kept wandering back to the 
girl. He could imagine her thrashing around in bed somewhere with some man 
she'd picked up! Lying there with her legs flung wide while he licked and 
sucked there between them. Or licking him, sucking him, taking him into her 
mouth until she almost swallowed his hard, jutting cock. 

She was a drug user, a menace to society, Charles had thought. And he 
thought that now, too, as he sat in the dining car, staring at Janice over 
his wine glass rim as in his mind he reviewed the article he'd read moments 
ago in the Times Herald about a gang of heroin smugglers who'd crossed the 
Cambodian border with a purported wealth of fifty-two kilos of pure, uncut 
heroin, freshly harvested from the hills of the Golden Triangle. From the 
article's report, the police were on their tails, suspecting the criminals 
were heading north via train. Of course, Charles couldn't tell Janice that. 

Janice nibbled at her asparagus, wondering why Charles wasn't talking to 
her? Whatever was on his mind, he seemed a hundred miles away. 

They finished their lunch in near silence, and drank the wine to the bottom 
of the bottle. After Charles had paid and tipped the waiter, five minutes 
remained before arrival in Bruxelles where they would change trains. On 
their way again, headed for Rotterdam where Charles would stay with his 
wealthy Aunt Sybil. 

The train rumbled over the bridge of Rotterdam and Janice could see to the 
right of her the famous Rotterdam Cathedral, dark and mysterious, not far 
from the waters where Dutch ships lined up laden with cargoes destined for 
faraway places. Her heart gave a small patter when she realized this is 
where she would say goodbye to Charles. 

"Right on time," remarked Charles, looking at his watch. "I'll be seeing you 
tomorrow, Janice." His tone was cool, his manners almost offhand. 

Janice sighed and sat back in the seat. Would Charles always be like this . 
. . even after they were married? 

"I'll miss you, Charles," she whispered, slipping closer to her fianc, 
inching nearer to him until her marvelously molded young thighs brushed 
against his. The contact sent a little electric spark charging through her 
that seemed to set her on fire. Tiny flickers of flame licked at her loins 
deliciously. 

Charles' very nearness teased and tantalized, until a thrill of pleasure 
caressed her whole body, crawled over her flesh, making it tingle 
maddeningly. 

Aching for him to take her in his arms, she let her head fall on Charles' 
shoulder. Surely he felt something, too! But if he did, Charles showed no 
sign of it. When the train chugged to a stop, he lifted his bags from the 
rack overhead, kissed Janice lightly on the lips, and deboarded the train. 

Would he always be like this, she asked herself again, dreading the four 
hour lay-over in Antwerp before continuing on to Amsterdam. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Pigeons by the hundreds waddled fat, feathered bodies across the platforms 
in the Antwerp train station where Janice Meredith Quincy sat on a wooden 
bench, gazing up at the arched lead glass ceiling of the landmark train 
depot, her alligator baggage at her feet. This was the first time she'd been 
left to her own resources on this vacation, and she wasn't certain she liked 
it.. . not being able to communicate with any one. Certainly that wasn't 
French they were speaking, she thought, eavesdropping on a conversation 
between two young lovers. 

Where was Charles now? Dining with his stuffy Aunt Sybil? And would he even 
mention her, his fiancee! she wondered with a tingle of resentment. 

Was there something wrong with Charles that he didn't try to have any sexual 
contact with her? Or was the problem with her? Janice remembered her 
mother's scathing voice when once she had denounced a friend of hers, 
calling her immoral. And she had added in her aristocratic voice, "People of 
our type aren't interested in sex, Janice." 

Well, Charles was 'of her type,' and maybe he truly wasn't interested in 
sex. Marriage might be only a convenience to him, and Janice an asset, 
rather than someone he loved. Or maybe the problem was with her. Even though 
she was beautiful, maybe she wasn't attractive to men in that sense. 

She recalled the words of a boarding house suitemate. What was her name? 
Sandy Perry. She'd said, "Janice Quincy, who would go for her? She's all 
money and no fun." As Janice sat back on the hard wooden bench, the pigeons 
cooing about her, she thought about that night years ago, a night she tried 
to forget in her stronger moments. 

Sandy Petty wriggled beneath Terry Adams' hand as it explored her slim body, 
caressing the firm little breasts, tracing the swell of her belly, stroking 
her milky thighs. But when it roamed down to the golden patch of silky pubic 
hair that nestled between Sandy's legs, she pushed it away. 

What she and Terry was doing was wicked, she knew. Even when Terry had 
insisted that they sneak away from the dance, she had known it was evil. If 
it hadn't been from the gin they'd been drinking from his flask, she never 
would have done it, but it made her feel weak and warm and wonderful, and 
when Terry's hand slid to her swaying buttocks, pushing her so close to him 
that she could feel the hardening bulge beneath his trousers press into her 
flesh, little prickles of delight crawled up her spine. 

Now, lying naked on her small dormitory bed, Sandy tried to push his hand 
away. "Oh, God, Terry. We can't do that!" 

"I know, but it feels good, doesn't it?" whispered Terry. 

"Oh, God, yes," gasped Sandy. She stopped struggling and Terry's hand moved 
cautiously to the small tufted vee between her legs. He probed gently and 
found the tiny moist cleft, gently parted the delicate hair-lined pink lips, 
as Sandy quivered uncontrollably from the new experience. 

She turned on the bed, now, pulling Terry's lithe boyish body close to her 
own, his face to hers. Little shocks of pleasure jolted through her as 
Terry's tongue pried into her mouth, as she swiped her own into his. 
Suddenly he cupped her firmly ripe young breasts in his two hands and she 
felt her nipples harden. He rubbed the stiff little buds between his thumbs 
and forefingers, and Sandy moaned with pleasure. He trailed his tongue down 
her throat, to the furrow between the twin snowy mounds of her breasts, then 
over one breast itself. As his hand slid down to her belly again, his mouth 
closed over one stiff little nipple. He sucked on it with tantalizing 
delicacy at first, then with increasing pressure. At last he nipped the 
little mound gently, making Sandy gasp with the pleasure-pain. 

The boy ran his tongue over her plump ripe breast again, over the other 
breast until his tongue found the nipple there. As he fastened his mouth to 
it and began to suck, his hand once more crawled down her belly to the mass 
of golden hair and found the warm moist slit of her pussy. 

A probing finger worked its way into the tiny orifice, twisting and turning 
inside the narrow passage, while Sandy writhed and squirmed in ecstasy under 
his plunging hand. 

God, it was good, she thought! I never knew it was going to be like this! 
She lay on her back, responding to the maddening movement of Terry's 
fingers, pushing her hips up, rotating them, jerking them back and forth in 
wild, excited spasms. 

"Ohhh, Baby," crooned Terry. "Like it?" 

Terry's voice broke the ecstatic spell, and a small, still voice warned her 
to be careful. My God? Didn't she have any sense? Suppose someone heard? 
Sandy thought of Janice Quincy, asleep in the next bedroom. Suppose they 
woke her up? She'd run straight to the head mistress and tattle, the snooty 
bitch. Suppose she wanted to go all the way? What if she got pregnant? Oh, 
no! They couldn't do this! "Terry," Sandy begged him, "we've got to stop. 
Please! Now. Don't do any more." 

For answer, Terry only wormed his finger deeper into her warm, moist cuntal 
hole, withdrew it, plunged it in again, fucking back and forth as she ground 
her buttocks into the mattress. At last he withdrew his finger to search out 
and caress the tiny bud of her clitoris and to tease it into hardness. 

Sandy quivered, and a long drawn-out moan escaped her lips. Her little cunt 
was burning with hot flames of desire. As they leapt and licked at her 
loins, setting her whole being on fire, she knew that nothing . . . nothing 
at all.. . would make her stop Terry now. She would rather die, she thought. 
She really would rather die! 

Her hand searched for his virile young cock and found it pressing into the 
soft flesh of her thighs. She grasped it in her hand, and heard a groan of 
satisfaction from Terry. It felt all soft and velvety . . . but hard, too. 
She rubbed the foreskin back and forth, teasing Terry, exciting him. She ran 
her finger over the smooth rubbery head of his glorious young prick, and 
tickled the parted hole, then ran it along the underside of the hardened 
length. She stroked harder and harder, abandoning herself to the raw young 
lust that possessed her aroused young body and moistly steaming pussy. 

Terry's fingers plunged deep inside her once more, and began moving slowly, 
rhythmically while Sandy, impaled on them, squirmed in an insane rhythm of 
her own. A warm, sticky fluid oozed from her pulsing depths under Terry's 
manipulations, drenching her pussy and flowing down her sensuously naked 
thighs. 

Terry's awakened young prick jerked in her hand and Sandy cried out in 
delight. All doubts, all fears were wiped away by the exquisite pleasure she 
was feeling as Terry finger-fucked her passion obsessed cunt. 

In a frenzy of wild abandon, Sandy's other hand slipped down to the 
sperm-laden balls, encompassed them, and cradled them with infinite 
tenderness as, with one finger, she stroked the pendulous, silk-smooth sacs. 
At the same time, she gripped his throbbing cock still tighter, and brought 
first a deep groan from the boy, and then a spine-tingling wail that 
resounded eerily in the small dormitory room. 

With a violent shudder, Sandy released Terry's sensitive tender balls and 
grasped his lust-rigid cock between both hands, massaging it furiously, 
working it back and forth, reveling in the obscene excitement that made 
itself felt in Terry's heavy breathing, her own overwhelming need for 
release from the lust that rumbled through her being, Sandy guided the 
bulbously throbbing head of Terry's swollen cock down to the opening of her 
gaping pussy. A stifled, muffled scream of "Terrrry!" . . . broke from her 
constricted throat, and with an uncontrollable jerk, Sandy's knees shot out 
further, opening a clear smooth path to her tight little virginal passage. 

With a grunt, Terry rolled over onto Sandy, and one leg slipped between her 
open thighs. Abruptly, he withdrew his hand from the young girl's excitedly 
clasping cunt, and touched her small face. He bent his head to hers, his 
tongue darting out, finding her lips, flicking them open, finding her teeth, 
her tongue, to end in a long, wet kiss. 

God, it was so wonderful! And how Sandy wanted him inside her! That 
rock-hard young cock of his plunging deep inside, plundering her virginal 
hole, making her a woman at last. Her burning little pussy ached for him 
with an unquenchable desire. Oh, God! She could hardly stand it! 

Now, rolling over on top of her, his hardened young penis parted the thin 
silken hair that guarded her vaginal mouth, eased slowly through the gently 
pulsating lips and slipped hotly into the fleshy opening of Sandy's 
unplundered cunt. A shudder of delight convulsed her slight frame while 
little mewls of pleasure burst from her openly quivering lips. 

The boy's surging cock burrowed deeper and deeper into the unresisting walls 
of her aroused drenched pussy and Sandy struggled to clasp his arching back 
between her legs. Her buttocks were upturned, now, exposed fully, and as his 
excitedly swollen shaft sank in to the hilt, his equally swollen balls 
slapped flatly against the cheeks of her ass. Impaled on his thrusting 
prick, Sandy's hip rotated wildly in response, bouncing against the 
mattress, sending the headboard beating against the wall. 

A few minutes earlier in the room next door, Janice Quincy, who'd had no 
date for the dance, had lain in the unhappy darkness, listening. What on 
earth was going On next door? Sandy was at the dance, wasn't she? Bitterly, 
she thought, everyone is at the dance but me. 

She muffled a sob and wiped her nose on the bedsheet, remembering her mother 
telling her, "Janice, you're much too young to date," in her usual 
authoritarian voice. Even if her mother had approved of her going to the 
dance, who would have asked such a gawky looking, shy girl. None, Janice 
admitted to herself, with another sob. If only her own flat, childish 
breasts were as fully developed as Sandy's, her hips as sensuously curved, 
her buttocks as round. Sandy had had a dozen different boys begging to take 
her to the dance. Right now, Janice was certain there were that many more 
fighting to dance with her. 

She heard the noise from Sandy's room again, and again she wondered what on 
earth went on. If Sandy was at the dance, whirling around like a movie 
starlet, who was making that noise in her room? Janice had to find out. What 
if it was a robber? 

She slipped from the bed, drew a robe over her short, sheer nightie and 
padded barefoot into the hall. She glided over the thick carpet until she 
reached Sandy's door, and stood there, afraid at first to knock. But the 
sounds grew louder and Janice at last summoned up her courage, stepped 
forward and rapped lightly on the door. 

When there was no answer, she rapped again, louder this time. There was 
still no answer, although the sounds from the room continued. She's in 
there, Janice thought with annoyance. Why doesn't she answer? Again she 
knocked, then turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack. The sounds 
from the room were louder now-a low wail, followed by a moan and then a 
sigh. Sandy must be sick, she thought, peering into the darkness. 

As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, Janice froze in shock. Her 
legs seemed to go as soft as jelly, buckling under her and caving in. She 
grabbed the doorknob to keep herself from falling. 

Sandy's moans changed to clearly recognizable words, and Janice heard her 
begging. "Oh, Terry! Honey! Do it to me. Dooooo . . . it! Please, Terry. 
PLEASE!" 

Janice's head whirled as the lewdly pleading words registered in her shocked 
mind. She longed to run, to hide in some dark corner where no one could see 
her fear and revulsion. She tried to close the door, but her trembling hands 
hung limply at her sides, refusing to move. She stood rooted to the spot, 
unable to move, unable to lift one foot and put it ahead of the other, 
carrying her away from this disgusting sight. 

A blast of wind seemed to ripple up her back from the base of her spine, 
raising goose bumps on her neck and arms. She shivered, and her teeth began 
to chatter. Yet her forehead felt burning hot. 

Almost fainting now, Janice's head lolled against the open door. It swung 
farther ajar, and in the patch of light that now fell across the bed, Janice 
saw Sandy nakedly sprawled across it. 

She tried to shout at her, to save her, somehow, from this wicked thing that 
was happening. But when she opened her mouth, nothing came out but a low 
groan. She couldn't stand there and watch this vile, filthy scene in front 
of her, she thought. . . and with that boy Terry, naked like Sandy, 
straddling the girl as he made love to her. 

He panted and writhed above her, groaning unintelligibly as his jutting 
penis desperately tried to enter Sandy's softly seeping little pussy. "Oh, 
my God," he groaned, "I want you Sandy. Sandy, do you know what I wanna do? 
I wanna fuck you." 

The foul word struck Janice's ear. He couldn't have mid that. Janice jerked 
to life and clapped her hands over her ears. But it was too late, for she 
had already heard Sandy's mewl of obscene pleasure at the foul word and her 
answer, "I want you to, Terry. Honest I do. I want.. . you . . . to fuck . . 
. me!" 

She reached out and took Terry's throbbing cock in one small hand. It's so 
big, thought Janice. Why, Sandy's hand could barely go around it. Don't, she 
pleaded with Terry silently. Oh, God, you'll hurt her! 

Sandy moaned again, then guided Terry's swollen cock towards the pink, 
hair-lined split of her young throbbing hussy. She opened her legs wider, 
pulling her knees back until they almost brushed her shoulders. Holding 
Terry's penis in her hand, she stroked the tender little mound of her 
clitoris with it, moaning softly all the time. 

As Janice watched, frozen in horrified shock, Terry eased his blood-swollen 
penis into the small hole of Sandy's tight little pussy, a twitch of 
excitement rippled through her own body. Drops of warm, sticky vaginal fluid 
oozed from her own little virgin orifice, flooding through the gold silk of 
her pubic hair to trickle hotly down between her thighs. A warm throbbing 
ache there sent small waves of pleasure darting through her blood. Her 
little clitoris tingled and Janice, without realizing it, touched it, 
tentatively at first, then stroked it deliberately. 

Suddenly she was aware of what she was doing, and hot, scalding tears sprang 
to her eyes. "Oh God, Fm as bad as they are," she told herself. Tm evil and 
filthy. OH, I'm worse." Yet she couldn't stop herself. 

Through tear-blurred eyes she watched her suitemate squirm against the white 
coverlet of her bed as the boy fucked his penis deeper and deeper into her 
gratefully accepting little belly. Sweat dripped from her body; an unearthly 
gasp that was more like a shriek of pleasure rippled from her lips. 

He slid his hands under Sandy's firmly rounded buttocks, cupped them, 
lifting the smooth white cheeks from the bed, clenched them, and released 
them. All the while he forced his penis farther up between the warm moist 
walls of her open vagina and then, jerking back, he completely withdrew his 
wetly gleaming cock. 

As Sandy bucked and heaved beneath the naked boy, he again with the smooth 
head of his cock, parted the silken strands of her cuntal flesh and his 
stiff, proud young cock speared deeply back up into her hotly sucking cunt. 
It was moving faster now, ramming all the way to her cervix, sliding out, 
fucking deep into the girl's desperately working belly. 

Still transfixed, Janice watched the sordid scene, while the dull, 
tantalizing ache of her own tight pussy maddened her. She stroked her tiny, 
budding clitoris into hardness, while electrifying bolts of pleasure shot 
through her from tip to toe and she quivered. Oh, it was wrong, it was 
wicked, yet she couldn't stop! 

Gently, carefully, she parted the thin pink edges of her cuntal lips. An 
exploratory finger wormed slowly into her moist throbbing little cunt, and 
her pleasure mounted to an almost unbearable ecstasy. She slipped another 
finger into the burning hole, then a third, and her tender, virginal flesh 
closed around them, sucking them, swallowing them on inside. On the bed the 
naked couple fucked with wild abandon, oblivious of everything but their own 
crazed desire. 

Sandy rotated her hips wildly, rose to meet Terry's thrusts, then fell back 
as he withdrew. The rhythm of their lascivious lovemaking became faster as 
it crescendoed into a nakedly writhing climax. Janice, watching, began to 
move with them, her fingers matching the thrust of the boy's plunging cock, 
the lewd, smacking slap of his belly against that of the hotly twisting 
young girl. 

Then a long wail wafted Janice's lust-fogged brain. It was Terry howling, 
"Ohhh, fuck back, baby, fuck back! I'm cumming! I'M CUMMING!" 

Sandy grasped him tighter, her fingernails trailing across his naked 
buttocks, leaving red welts mingled with white fingernail scratches. Her 
knees were tightly back up to the twin full moons of her breasts, and pinned 
there by the weight of Terry's lean, strong body. The flat plane of her 
crotch opened wide to the pounding, and Sandy welcomed it with little mewls 
of pleasure. The boy's sperm-filled balls slapped against the rounded cheeks 
of her upturned buttocks as he rammed again and again into the wetly 
clinging hole. 

Then Sandy's shriek pierced the night air. "Oh, my God!" she squealed, her 
voice sounding inhuman. "Oh, Terry. Oooo! I'm cumming too!. . . I'm 
cumming!" 

She jerked and thrashed beneath him as his hard, virile cock hammered deep 
up into the soft fleshy tissue of her cervix. A shudder of overwhelming 
pleasure shook her, setting fire to her belly, sending tongues of flames 
licking through her body. She screamed again, calling his name. "Oh, Terry!" 
And then, with a final, convulsive spasm that signaled the ultimate ecstasy, 
she lay back, legs splayed out obscenely once more as the boy pumped his 
hot, steaming sperm deep into her belly, to mingle with those of her own 
thick, steamy juices. 

Janice saw Terry's milk-white sperm spill from Sandy's still wide spread 
young pussy, flow over her thighs and drip down into the crevice of her 
buttocks. Her own excitedly twitching little cunt was still impaled on her 
own fingers, and she moved them back and forth now, back and forth, in and 
out, deeper and deeper, stimulating the sensitive flesh of her vagina. "Oh, 
God," she thought. "I can't stand it any longer. "I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!" And 
then with a shock and wonder, she felt her first orgasm. "Oh, God, I'm 
cumming too!" 

A pleasure so wonderful it was almost pain surged through Janice's climaxing 
young body, leaving her quivering and shaking. She was lost in a world in 
which there was no time, no place . . . just bliss and passion. 

Slowly the lust ebbed and Janice came back to her senses. A shudder of 
horror shook her slender body and she was convulsed again with sobs. "Oh, 
what have I done?" she thought. "WHAT?" She shook her head and rubbed a 
scalding tear from her cheek, her mother's warning sounding loud and 
guilt-laden in her mind: "People of our type aren't interested in sex." 
Janice gasped at the thought of her mother finding out how wicked her 
daughter really was. She began to sob aloud, now, unable to hold back the 
tears that flowed down her pale cheeks. 

There was a sudden sound from the room where Sandy and the boy lay. Quickly, 
quietly, she drew the door closed behind her, as Sandy's startled voice 
asked Terry, "What was that?" 

"I didn't hear anything," yawned Terry. "I sure did. It's probably that 
snoopy Janice Quincy." 

"Naw, I'm sure I saw her at the dance," said Terry, bending his head to kiss 
her throat, then her erect nipples. 

"Then you don't know Janice Quincy. Who would ever want to go out with her? 
She's all money and no fun." 

With those words, Janice scurried for her bedroom, jumped in, and pulled the 
covers over her head. 

Now, sitting on the wooden bench in the Antwerp train depot, watching the 
hordes of weekend travelers queue up for the train, Janice had found her 
answer. Beautiful as she was, she decided, she lacked a carnal sensuality 
that all men found irresistible. 

Surely Charles, good, kind, Charles had never done anything as despicable as 
she'd seen that night outside of Sandy Petty's door. Charles was a man fully 
in control of himself at all times. The problem was her own. Not that she 
wasn't attractive to men, but that her mind was filled with evil. She would 
control that wickedness from now on, she vowed, watching with relief as the 
Amsterdam placard flipped on the board announcing arriving trains. 

Yes, she would have a nice dinner in the dining car and retire afterwards to 
her private compartment. Tomorrow morning at seven o'clock she would be in 
Amsterdam, the city of a thousand bridges. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

At some point in her younger years, Janice Meredith Quincy had developed an 
abhorrence for eating alone and, now, as she sat in the dining car gazing 
absentmindedly out of the blackened window onto the flattening green lands 
smoothing towards Amsterdam, she felt particularly alone . . . rather like a 
chastised maid in a darkened kitchen eating her soup in silence. 

Except for the table across from her where sat a family of four, only three 
other tables were occupied-one by a burly bunch of travelers whose 
appearance and manners seemed far too crude for first class accommodations. 
They must have traveled for weeks, assumed Janice, desperately trying not to 
stare at the men's dirty trousers and beards that seemed to have grown 
unintentionally without the grace of grooming. 

And the woman.. . my Lord, she was just as bad with her stockingless legs 
and stringy black hair. Charles would have them removed from the car, mused 
Janice, sitting up a little straighter. They spoke English, though whether 
or not they were from the States, Janice couldn't tell. 

She let her wine glass linger at her lips while her shell-like ears strained 
for any hint as to who these disgracefully crass people might be, but they 
were talking too low in hushed, almost secretive voice for her to hear. 
Something in her New England aristocratic upbringing made her lose her 
appetite in the company of such tawdry folk, and she concentrated on her 
wine, leaving her lamb in curry sauce nearly untouched. 

The Beaujolais slid down her throat with a pleasant tingle, and she poured 
herself another glass from the half-bottle, forcing herself to remain 
oblivious to the uncomely group of people blemishing the spotless dining 
car. 

Suddenly their voices hushed to an inaudible whisper and Janice felt their 
eyes searching her out, cold unfriendly eyes that rose goose bumps up and 
down the delicate length of her spine. Was it her imagination or were they 
deliberately spying her out? she wondered, suspecting that her own chilly 
stares of disapproval had cornered their attention and now looks of disgust 
was her due reward for such blatant snobbery. 

Mother would never allow such a thing to happen, clucked Janice, finishing 
her wine, then motioning to the waiter to settle her bill. By luck, he 
accepted French francs, not just Belgium ones, and she left a handful of 
coins on the tip tray, perhaps out of habit, unconcerned whether the bill 
included the tip or not. With her alligator bag securely slung over her 
shoulder, she hastened off towards the last sleeping car on the train where 
her reserved private compartment lay waiting, bed turned down for a night of 
solid rest before her eyes opened tomorrow morning upon buzzing Amsterdam. 

The incessant clang of the train rumbling on the tracks was terribly loud 
and rattling in her delicate ears as she opened the doors to the exit of 
each wagon, feeling the chilling vibrations of the train's powerful speed 
under her size five feet, while the connecting mechanism on the wagon forced 
the car to weave back and forth like a sideways see-saw. Somewhere near the 
third car from the end she was about to pull open the heavy metal door when 
it opened for her. 

"Oh, thank you," she smiled into the handsome face of a border policeman who 
tipped his medallioned hat, then held the door for her to pass by. She was 
to meet six of those similarly dressed policemen on her short journey to the 
last sleeping car. 

That caused a small flicker of concern to ignite in her delicate body. What 
was going on here, she wondered, thankful to step into her private 
compartment and slipped her bag off her shoulder to set it on the bed. On 
several trains she and Charles had traveled on, she recalled seeing two or 
three conductors, and occasionally more than one border police at the 
border. She shrugged off her fears with the help of the wine and 
rationalized that perhaps it was traveling alone, a new experience for 
Janice Meredith Quincy, that made her more cognizant of possible dangers. 

Wistfully discarding her thoughts, Janice unzipped her navy blue linen dress 
that cost a small fortune and slipped out of it. The fabric rustled over her 
body, sliding over her smooth, creamy shoulders, onto her full, round 
breasts, then down to her smooth, sveltely curving buttocks, her voluptuous 
thighs, and her slim legs. It settled on the bare floor of her tiny cabin. 

She stepped out of the crumpled pile of fabric and pulled the sheerness of 
her slip over her head, and dropped it, too, on the floor of her sleeping 
room. 

Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bit of black lace which was her 
brassiere, then slipped the straps off her shoulders and let it fall to join 
her dress on the floor. 

Standing there in the confining room with barely enough space to turn 
around, Janice began to feel terribly homesick for the expensive comfort of 
her bedroom in Boston, with its authentic pink satin Victorian furniture and 
soft carpets, lush and thick as a plantation lawn. 

Her flimsy nylon panties came off next, followed by her panty hose and a 
pair of black leather pumps. Her silken body shivered with a chill as she 
hastily bent down to her suitcase on the bed and opened it, drew out a 
yellow satin robe and wrapped the lace-trimmed slinkiness around her naked 
body. Her pretty mouth ovaled into a yawn as she stepped to the sink in the 
far corner of her humble accommodations and stared into the small mirror 
above the porcelain basin. 

The day's travel had left her feeling soiled, a feeling she loathed; and 
staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror, she splashed water on her 
face in preparation for night cream on skin that was so clear it was almost 
translucent, glowing with subdued color. Her cheek bones were perhaps her 
finest feature, yet her small, pouty mouth was good, too, and her teeth 
perfect. 

Her eyes, she had always thought a bit too wide set, but the limpid blue of 
them made up for any imperfection, as did the black lashes that shaded her 
eyes. Toweling her face dry, she swathed a fine layer of expensive night 
cream under her eyes-needless, really-then flipped off the light and slid 
between the cool sheets. 

She lay awake thinking for some time, listening to the mesmerizing rumbling 
vibration of the train charging toward Amsterdam, its entrancing sound 
creating a contrapuntal rhythm in her head like that of a drum beat. 

The stained glass windows of Notre Dame, the spaghetti she'd been craving 
all day, Charles' Aunt Sybil (she was as stuffy as Mrs. Tarrington?). . . 
the sleepy young woman thought about all those things, and she thought, too, 
about the six border patrols who'd come aboard the train in Antwerp. Why? 
Suspicion stirred a thread of tension in her lithe body, but she shook it 
off and turned on her side to slip one fragile arm under the flat foam 
rubber pillow. Eyelids grew heavy and thoughts more wistful and scattered as 
she fell into a deep slumber. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

"Jesus Christ, patrols are swarming this goddamned train like a beehive!" 
Hank stormed through the narrow door of the sleeping compartment number 2 
and locked it fast behind him, his thick fingers working deftly, fingers 
that had itched on many gun triggers, fingers that in their thirty-four 
years had cracked many safes. "Those bastards have been on our tail since 
Turkey and by God, three fuckin' hours away from Amsterdam and the 
sonofabitches catch up." A distraught hulk of a man, he sank down on the 
cot, smoking furiously at a strong-smelling cigarette, the tiny room that 
was to become their prison in the hours to come blue with smoke while his 
comrades scattered around him: Lisa, Theo, and Gunnar, three heroin 
smugglers with whom he'd run heroin from the Golden Triangle around Cambodia 
to Amsterdam for the past four years. 

Gunnar braced his military boot up on the porcelain basin in the corner, 
hunching his body into a contorting posture, that made his short, stocky 
German frame appear even more compact. He spit into the sink, a look of 
disgust on his pock-marked face. "Shit. They've been searchin' every 
goddamned passenger and piece of luggage. The only way we'll get to 
Amsterdam is in handcuffs." 

Lisa, who'd been leaning against the wall, moved to stand in front of the 
door. She was quickest to respond rationally. 'Time to make a choice. Either 
we dump the shit, we jump the train, or we take a hostage and bargain our 
way out." She was a lean, dark haired woman, pretty, too, had she showed 
more concern over grooming. One by one, she surveyed the faces of her 
comrades, her dark penetrating eyes reading their minds, searching for signs 
of weakness. She knew them all well. They'd been through hell and back 
together in the four years they'd been runners-'astronauts', as those in the 
underworld call them-for a Chinese headed syndicate in Amsterdam. 

The four of them had met in Amsterdam years back when they'd hung out around 
the Paradisio where heroin was easy to buy, if one knew the right people. 
With no work and too many occasional arrests, the habit became too expensive 
to support and payoffs began to take on the character of favors, leading 
finally to the ultimate-working for Ti Wong. 

"Choice? You call that a choice?" Theo, a lean, fair-complexioned Swede of 
thirty-two years rasped sarcastically, his eyes squinting with emotion. The 
still burning ashes of his cigarette crumbled as he stubbed out the end of 
it on the heel of his shoe and tossed it in the toilet bowl with an angry 
gesture of defeat, which in Lisa's eyes registered as fear. She'd seen 
enough of it in the past four years to smell it. "You know what Ti Wong did 
to Christine for fuckin' up." 

The room fell silent, save for the maddening drip of the leaky faucet in the 
corner basin. Their minds were horrifyingly vivid with the memory of an 
Amsterdam girl found nailed to a door, razor blade cuts lacing her body in 
cross-hatchings that oozed blood till she bled to death. She had ratted, 
gone to the police and given names after being arrested on a smuggling 
charge. Ti Wong's men had busted her out of prison and killed her. Christine 
had been one of Lisa's closest friends. 

Which was why this was to be Lisa's, Gunnar's, Theo's, and Hank's last run. 
Christine had wanted out but wasn't quick enough to leave. This was it: the 
final run, the big one before they ran separate ways, trying to save their 
necks from the scrupulous Chinese madman whose control of Amsterdam's drug 
world was undisputed, even by the police who tracked him night and day like 
dogs after the fox. And like the fox, he managed to disappear into a hole 
right under their noses. 

Hank scratched his thick black beard, then stroked it thoughtfully. "Hostage 
. . . we need a hostage." 

"But we can't hold the whole damned train hostage, you idiot! You have any 
idea how many cars are on this thing?" Gunnar drew a stick of chewing gum 
from his pocket and stuck the wad in his mouth. When he was nervous he 
chewed gum; perhaps that's why his teeth were half rotted. "We need one 
person . . . somebody that means something, not just some dumpy Dutch dude." 

A Mona Lisa smile etched Lisa's sallow face. "I think I know who. I followed 
her from the dining car. In fact, our ticket to freedom is sleeping next 
door to us.. . she's the only one sleeping on this car except for us." 

Hank looked up from the spot on the wall where his eyes had been focusing 
unblinking as camera lens. "And she's got to have money, if it's that sexy 
looking blonde bitch. Christ, judging from the way she dressed, her daddy 
probably owns Manhattan Island." 

Gunnar snapped a bubble from the wad of chewing gum. "Pretty damned nice ass 
on her, too." 

Everybody looked grim, and especially Hank, the realist of the bunch, also 
the leader when times got rocky, like now. He drew out a train schedule from 
his work shirt pocket and followed it with his finger, reading aloud. "Okay, 
we stop in Den Haag. That's where we cut loose. Gunnar, you used to be a 
brakeman, you get your ass workin' on disconnecting this train car, and 
Lisa, you keep him covered. Theo keeps an eye on the police while I kidnap 
the girl." 

The ammunition was checked, watches synchronized. Tension was heavy in the 
room. 

It was a terrifying dream. She was on the north elevator of the Eiffel Tower 
headed for the third level when it broke, the elevator carriage plunging 
with sickening speed to the deathly ground below, when Janice was suddenly 
awakened by the screech of iron that sounded as if it had come from directly 
under her train car. Bewildered and shaking with fright, she bolted up in 
bed, her yellow satin robe gaping open in the front, letting her full, 
creamy breasts and their strawberry nipples quiver in the cool air. Heavy 
footsteps running past her door pounded threateningly in her delicate ears 
and in the dark she heard the gut tearing sound of someone working at the 
lock of the door to her sleeping compartment. 

"Who-who's there?" she called out in a voice that echoed with the same fear 
that scorched her body. "Please, get away from my door . . . I.. . " 

Suddenly the door burst open and in the dark all that Janice Quincy could 
see of her assailant was the evil, wide, white grin of his smile. Then his 
hand shot out, and he grabbed her brutally by the shoulder, pinning her back 
down on the cot. "Don't try anything," he warned, slapping her. He drew a 
small bottle from his pocket and uncorked it under Janice's nose. She 
struggled, trying desperately to free herself from the evil smelling fumes 
that she breathed, making her eyes water, causing her to cough and gag. She 
felt dizzy and the world around her whirled; the man's face-what little she 
could see of it-went blurred and fuzzy, and then everything fell dark again. 

It was still dark when Janice awoke and she had no idea where she was. She 
only knew that she was lying on a narrow cot in what seemed to be a small 
room, terribly stuffy it was, with only a tiny window to let in the growing 
pink of the rising sun. Her head ached and her mouth was bone dry; her 
stomach churned and when she tried to turn over she found she had no 
strength to do so. 

What had happened to her? Time was a complete blank. How long had she been 
in this room, she wondered. The effort of thinking exhausted her, as well as 
the fear she felt in her constricted throat, and she fell asleep again. 

Later that evening when she awoke, she made out a shadowy figure standing by 
the bed. A shiver and chill shuddering through her lithe body, she 
discovered that she was naked. Her yellow satin robe had disappeared, as had 
her blue linen dress that she'd hung on the door's hook the night before. 

Where were her clothes? Who took them, and why? 

A cry of pure terror welled up in Janice's throat, only to be strangled 
there. That filthy evil man who broke into her room must have taken them, 
clawing at her body as he removed it. 

Oh, God! He must have touched her poor, defenseless body, forced her to 
submit to lewd, indecent acts. Oh, dear God, no! Janice clenched her teeth, 
holding back her screams of fear and horror that wracked her body like a 
fever. 

And what would happen to her now? Was she to be attacked, assaulted, her 
helpless virginity plundered and invaded by this figure in the room? Raped? 
She shuddered, and with no control left at all, she began to scream wildly. 
"No! Don't touch me! Please don't touch me." 

The figure moved, and Janice cringed and flung her arm over her face as she 
waited for his obscene touch on her trembling body. Then she heard someone 
coming through the door. Janice peeped through her fingers just as someone 
turned on the light overhead. In the illumination she saw a man whom she 
instantly recognized as one of the filthy brutes in the dining car last 
night. And the other was a woman. 

The man's voice was loud and sudden. "Lisa, for Chrissakes, keep her quiet. 
They'll think we're torturing her!" he barked. 

"She's hysterical, Gunnar. What can I do?" 

"Rough her up a little bit." 

"But we agreed not to hurt her, remember? One rap is enough." 

"Do anything, just shut her up!" Gunnar scratched his crotch. "I know 
something I'd like to put in her mouth to keep her quiet." 

Janice writhed in shame at the obscene joking, struggling to cover herself 
with the skimpy sheet to hide her bare shoulders. God, how foul this man 
was! Base, depraved man who would rape a woman as casually as they would 
smoke a cigarette. She thought of Charles, fine decent Charles, and she 
sobbed. 

Gunnar's eyes roved over her sheet covered body, and Janice shrank back as 
if they had actually touched her. She winced as Gunnar nudged Lisa with his 
elbow and asked, "You suppose she's got an old man to suck that high class 
twat of hers?" 

Lisa whirled on him. "Cut the clowning," she rasped in a shrill voice. 

"But I was kinda hopin'. . . " 

"We don't touch her, remember?" Lisa walked over and leaned against the sink 
in the corner. "What's goin' on out there? The patrol's here, no doubt." 

Gunnar shook his head. "You got that right! Looks like World War II all over 
again. It's gonna be tough." Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, and 
Gunnar jumped to his feet and stormed from the cabin. 

Lisa walked slowly over to the bed. "Scared?" she asked Janice. 

Janice turned her face to the wall. "How can he talk like that!" she wailed. 
"He's so crude and vulgar-and oh, God!" 

"Sure he's crude and vulgar," admitted Lisa, "but he's never had a lot of 
money like you." She sat down on Janice's bed. "Anyway," she went on, "he 
probably won't bother you. We've got enough trouble on our hands without 
adding rape to our rap." 

Janice sat up on the bed, "Who are you?" she demanded. 

"I'm Lisa." 

"But who are you?" persisted the blonde with saucered eyes. "And why am I 
being held here? The train's not moving is it?" she put in suddenly, as if 
recognizing that fact for the first time. Amsterdam seemed impossibly far. 
"And where are my clothes-my blue dress and my robe? What's going to happen 
to me?" 

"Look, little girl," Lisa said. "None of us are happy about this damnable 
situation. We want to get to Amsterdam worse than you do." 

Janice sat upright on the bed, trying to focus her attention on what Lisa 
was telling her, but nothing made sense. Here she was on a train in a 
country she'd never been in before, in a train car with a whole gang of 
awful people who had taken her clothes, with her head throbbing and aching 
and whirling from whatever it was that had been in that bottle-so that she 
couldn't seem to grasp anything she was told. And she felt tired, too tired 
to think, to figure things out. "I don't understand," she said at last. 

Patiently, as if she were talking to a small child, Lisa began, "You are a 
hostage." 

"You mean I've been kidnapped?" Janice whispered the words. 

"Of sorts . . . you see we're in a mess just like you are now. The police 
are after us-have been for a long time and now, in order to bargain our way 
out, we're trading you for a couple years in prison. Understand now?" 

As Janice thought about it, things started to fall in place, even in her 
fogged, chloroformed brain. 

But that was no reason to take her robe, was it? She looked at her luxurious 
curves of her naked body under the thin sheet, and felt the full humiliation 
of her position. "Don't hurt me, please," she said in a half whisper. I'll 
give you money, anything you want-Charles will too-but don't hurt me." 

"We aren't planning to," said Lisa. "We don't want to hurt you any more than 
we want the police to start shooting at us." 

There sounded a rap on the door, and Janice slid down between the sheets, 
pulling the coverlet up to her chin as Hank sauntered into the room, a tall, 
burly looking man with thick black hair and a beard to match. Every inch of 
him seemed to be covered by hair, like some kind of evolutionary throwback. 
She dived deeper into the bed. Again she fell into a heavy sleep. 

When she awoke it was to see Hank and Gunnar in the room, deep in discussion 
with Lisa. She strained her ears to hear what they were saying, and, 
although their words escaped her, she knew by the solemn tones that it was 
bad news. 

By the evening of the second day, Janice had a sense of impending doom. A 
heavy pall of gloom hung over the train car and all five within its metal 
prison. Lisa sat by Janice's bed wrapped in deep thought from which she 
stirred occasionally to pace nervously back and forth in the tiny prison of 
gloom. Once in a while one of the others-Hank, Gunnar, or Theo opened the 
door a crack, poked his head in and held whispered, mysterious conversations 
with her. 

As the night dragged on, Janice's nerves began to give way. The slam of the 
door made her teeth clench with fear. With trembling fingers, she lit one 
cigarette after another, snuffing them out half smoked. 

By morning, she awakened to find Hank in her room. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Hank sat on the commode in Janice's tiny prison and stared at the hostage's 
sleeping form. Christ, but the innocent little bitch was built! Just looking 
at her was enough to make his balls ache and his thick cock stiffen and jerk 
inside his pants. Especially the way she was lying now, her magnificently 
rounded breasts just bursting out from under the sheet, the soft pink flesh 
of her naked shoulders displayed so provocatively, and her swanlike neck. 
One leg had kicked out to the side in her sleep, making the sheet bunch up 
and expose her full white thigh. God, if she stood up and stood at her side, 
he could see her pink little pussy and the thin golden patch of pubic fleece 
there. 

Even the way Janice's hair curled down against her cheek, the way one smooth 
arm lay across her forehead, sent a dull pounding ache coursing the length 
of Hank's rigid penis. God, but he'd like to have it up in her now, ram it 
deep inside her while she moaned and thrashed and bucked under him. And 
begged for more, too. By God, that would be half the fun, to hear the snooty 
little bitch actually begging for his cock. That would take the edge off the 
wait, while the police gathered and decisions were made as to how to arrest 
Ti Wong's runners without endangering the captive's life . . . if indeed, 
they even knew she was there. 

Hank sucked in his breath, remembering the hands off policy. When she was 
released, it had to be the way they found her-in good health, or else they's 
send them all up the river for rape, assault, and God only knows what else. 

Janice stirred and opened her eyes. She wasn't sure of where she was at 
first, or who was sitting there in the room. But his intentions were 
unmistakable. His lecherous eyes crawled over her like dirty little insects, 
and Janice, crushed and humiliated, tried to brush them away. What was wrong 
with these people? Were they a bunch of perverts? Janice saw with disgust 
the bulge under the man's trousers, and turned away in revulsion. 

With an angry gesture, she pulled her sheet up to her neck and tucked in her 
leg, then shot Hank a demeaning look. "Do you have to sit there and stare at 
me?" she spat at him. 

"Here, put this shirt on." His fingers worked at the buttons of his work 
shirt, blue, but black with filth. "I promise I'll close my eyes while you 
slip it on." He sat there on the commode, his hairy chest grizzly looking 
while his captive sat up in bed and, grabbing the shirt at the foot of it, 
hastily slipped her arms through the gaping holes of the sleeves. Then she 
got up and rummaging through her alligator suitcase, drew out a pair of 
panties and slipped them on, too. Hank sucked in his breath with an obscene 
panting sound, then let out a long, low whistle that made Janice turn and 
hiss icily: "Well, do you have to stare at me?" 

Her captor grinned and licked his thick lips repulsively. "Don't have to . . 
. want to." 

A cry that was half rage, half shame escaped Janice's tightly pursed lips. 
"You're rotten, you and your bunch of no-good thugs!" her voice began 
shrill, turned to a scream of fury, ". . . kidnappers . . . rapists!" 

Hank leapt to his feet and strode across the room. He seized Janice by her 
shoulders and his nails dug cruelly into the soft, tender flesh as he shook 
her savagely. Janice squirmed and writhed, trying to escape his powerful 
hands, but Hank held her tight. She threw her head back, and laughed 
hysterically. "Oh, you're so big and strong and brave, aren't you?" she 
taunted him. "But you're not so smart are you . . . otherwise you wouldn't 
be in this situation, huh? Yeah, you criminals and dope addicts are all 
alike. You take what you want and then whimper like a hurt puppy when you 
get caught." 

Janice stopped, panting for breath, and Hank pushed her away from him, 
holding her at arms length. His voice was cold and cruel when he spoke, and 
his dark eyes glinted with something Janice couldn't identify. "Okay, maybe 
you're right. But if I'm an animal I'll act like one." 

"What do you mean?" Janice asked with a sudden fear that she had said too 
much. 

Hank held her, motionless at arm's length, and stared insolently into her 
small frightened face. "I mean I want you and if I have to whimper about it 
later I will." He gave her a shove that sent her reeling backwards two steps 
to land flat on the cot. With one giant step Hank was beside her, clutching 
her by the shoulder again, pulling her to her feet. "I'm going to fuck you, 
puppy dog that I am, Miss whoever you are," he said, "like you've never been 
fucked before." He gave a short laugh, his mouth curled back evilly over his 
cruel, sharp, tobacco-stained teeth. 

HO 

"Oh, no you don't! Do you know who I am? Janice Meredith Quincy, that's who, 
you stupid brute. And do you know who I'm marrying? Charles Edward 
Tarrington the third, and he's awfully smart and wealthy and when he finds 
out about this he'll kill you!" She'd broken the family rule of not 
discussing their money, and she paid for that mistake, dearly. 

"Shut up!" Hank's hand shot out, seizing the fragile nylon of her panties 
and with one swift motion, he ripped them from her, letting them fall to the 
floor. His hand shot out again, this time to send the buttons on his 
workshirt popping across the room, and he tore the shirt from her heaving 
breasts, then wadded it in a ball and tossed it on the floor. 

Holding the frozen Janice by one hand now, he struggled out of his pants. 
Quickly, deftly, he unbuckled his belt, then unzipped his pants, easing them 
and his cotton undershorts down over his hips. His thick, rock-hard cock 
sprang free, stiff as a pole, its bulbously swollen head oozing drops of 
lubricating fluid. Janice gasped in terror. Good Lord, it was huge! Would he 
really try? 

Hank followed her glance downward as she stood mesmerized by his jutting 
penis. "What's the matter," he asked with an arrogant sneer, "haven't you 
seen a prick before?" 

Janice stiffened as his hand slid down over her stomach to the gentle mound 
of her pelvis, then 'til down between her legs to crawl with provoking 
slowness along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She gasped, 
struggling to free herself from his lecherous fingers; even so, a tiny spark 
of unwanted pleasure burst in between her legs. What if Charles should find 
out? Huge wet tears rose in her eyes and cased down her satin cheeks. Even 
if dear, good Charles never knew of this depravity, Janice would never be 
able to face him again, with this guilty secret on her conscience. 

She began to plead pitifully with Hank. "I'll do anything . . . ANYTHING . . 
. if only you'll let me go. I won't tell. . . " She buried her face in her 
hands, sobbing. "Oh God, please let me go!" 

He gave her a look of contempt as he forced her naked body back to the bed, 
then down upon it. In a moment he was on his knees, over her defenseless 
form, his snaky eyes filled with lust, his mouth twisted sadistically. 

"I'll do anything," whimpered Janice. Her voice trailed off as the utter 
hopelessness of her situation registered in her mind. There was nothing she 
could do, she knew, and tears flowed down her cheeks now. 

Hank bent his head to Janice's and fixed his lips wetly on her tightly 
closed mouth. Brutally, he forced his tongue between her futilely resisting 
lips, flicked it in and out, then pressed it deep into her throat. 

Janice struggled against him until the last ounce of her strength had died 
away, then submitted weakly. She lay beneath him, sobbing softy as his hands 
roamed at will over her helpless body, stroking her neck, her throat, the 
soft, naked flesh of her smooth white shoulders. They moved down and he 
cupped a breast in the huge palm of each hand, kneading and squeezing. His 
hot, hungry lips explored her face again, his tongue sank deep into her 
mouth, teasing. Then he ran it down the valley between her milk-white 
breasts. With a lewd, savage cry, he fastened his teeth harshly into the 
small bud of her nipple while Janice recoiled in pain. She began to struggle 
feebly once again, her naked flesh squirming up against the hard, lean body 
that pinned her down. 

With a quick movement, Hank caught her small wrists in his powerful hands, 
crushing them until she winced with pain. He lifted his head and with an 
infuriating growl, snapped, "You little bitch, what did you do that for?" 

Janice suppressed a sob, then pleaded: "I want you to stop. Oh, please, 
stop!" 

"Bullshit you do, baby. Deep down inside that snooty little mind of yours, 
you love it!" 

"Oh, no. NO!" But even as she denied it, Janice felt a lewd twirling in her 
stomach, a low, involuntary groan of pleasure rising in her throat. 

"You do like it." Hank mocked again. "Pretty soon you'll be loving it even 
more." He bent his head again, and now his thick lips roamed moistly over 
the snowy whiteness of her heaving breasts, teasing the nipples into taut 
little cherries. At the same time, his two hands slid down the flesh of her 
belly, roved over the soft, sensitive curves of her hips, slipped under the 
twin half moons of her smoothly rounded buttocks. 

His touch again sent little quivers of unwanted passion tingling through 
Janice and against her will, she found herself responding to his teasing 
touch. She made no effort to stop his hand that sought the thin, softly 
curling wisps of her pubic hair and there slipped slowly, deliciously into 
the narrow slit of her pussy, searching teasingly between the warmth of her 
inner thighs until he found the tiny bud of her clitoris and stroked it into 
throbbing erection 

Then, as suddenly as he had begun, Hank slipped his fingers from Janice's 
helpless quivering cunt and knelt up over her again. "Liked that, didn't 
you?" he asked, and his harsh tone brought Janice's mind back to the reality 
of her gloomy situation with horrible abruptness. She thought of Charles 
again, and the hate he would feel for her for giving in this way to such 
lewdity. With a little cry of fear, she clamped her thighs together against 
the man's vile degrading of her naked virginity. 

Roughly, Hank pulled her thighs apart, then hunched over her, his head just 
above her loins. As she realized what he was planning to do, she let out 
another cry. She'd been right all along! This man was a pervert, going to 
perform obscene acts on her defenseless body as she lay pinned beneath him. 
She wouldn't let him, though! 

She thrashed about, flailing her arms until she was exhausted, while Hank's 
superior strength held her with a mocking grin. When she lay back at last, 
limp and unresisting, he fixed his eyes on the thin, tight slit up between 
her trembling legs, already moist with unwanted desire. 

Hank rested the palms of his hands on her soft inner thighs, while his 
thumbs sought out the fleshy edges of her cunt. Then with a slow, teasing 
outward movement with them that brought a low cry of shame from Janice, he 
pressed the softly hair-fringed lips apart, exposing the pink, glistening 
little hole of her pussy completely to his gaze. He uttered a low 
appreciative grunt, then slipped himself forward and buried his face in the 
vee of her openly spread crotch. His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, 
running over his parted lips with lascivious expectation. Then, darting 
forth like a lizard's, it slipped deep up inside her wetly throbbing pussy. 

"Oooooh, God God! Aaaahhhh!" Janice cried out at the lewd, delicious 
sensation that raced through her whole body, making it tingle against its 
will with a mad all-consuming desire. Convulsively, against every effort of 
her will, her legs jerked wide apart now, splaying out obscenely, hanging 
over the edges of the bed as though they belonged to a limp doll. 

Hank ran his tongue up and down the thin, virginal furrow, probing and 
exploring until he found the tiny bud of her clitoris again, and, once again 
with maddening spiraling motion of his tongue, he licked the quivering 
little mound to trembling erection. Janice whined with agonized pleasure, 
torn between the exquisite feelings that the man's insistent licking of her 
virginal cunt aroused in her, and the shame and humiliation at the wicked 
delight her traitorous body was feeling. At last Hank's mouth closed over 
the hardened flesh that strained against his flicking tongue, and breathing 
heavily with his insane passion, he began to suck it as if it were a berry. 
Satiated at last, he gave the tiny, tender titty of flesh a sharp, cruel nip 
with his teeth while Janice cried out with a tortured cry of pain that 
mingled with the intense pleasure she felt, also. 

She arched backwards, struggling one more time to free herself from the 
monster who ravaged her so obscenely. Then with a mingled groan of despair 
and desire, she slumped back against the bed while he began the maddening 
licking of her cuntal lips all over again. He slithered his tongue in and 
out of her saliva drenched pussy, flicked at the soft folds of throbbing 
pink flesh there, then withdrew to push her legs up and lick downwards at 
the narrow crevice between the smooth twin mounds of her nakedly upturned 
buttocks. 

Christ, but she was a hot little bitch! Ready to fuck now, just aching for 
it. And Hank was the one to give her what she wanted, he thought 
maliciously, eyeing her with a triumphal gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes. He 
took his thick cock in one hand and, kneeling up between her widespread 
thighs, guided it to the tiny vertical little mouth between her legs, 
pushing forward insistently until the thick, rubbery head slipped through 
the long golden strands of her pubic hair towards the tightly giving lips of 
her pulsating pussy. 

Janice gasped and held her breath as feelings of irrepressible desire mixed 
with those of agonizing guilt within her. She fought against the delicious 
quivering that wracked her body, while the thought of the disgrace of this 
vile rape of her open pussy wracked her mind. Then, as the blood-swollen tip 
of Hank's enormous prick slipped into and penetrated slightly the tightly 
clenched opening of her naked cunt, she seemed to see Charles standing 
before her, dressed in his proper gray flannel suit-the lawyer's 
suit-judging her. 

The searing contact of Hank's huge cockhead with her young cuntal lips sent 
her into sharp little spasms of pain and pleasure and she began to scream. 
"Oh, don't" she begged. "For Godsake's! Hank! HANK!" 

But then, with a sudden thrust, he flicked his hips forward and thrust his 
cock deep into her narrow tight cuntal slit, spearing into her without 
mercy. "Hank" she called him, and a feeling of elation warmed his whole 
being. "Hank!" Well, now at least he was a person to her-a man. It was up to 
him to show her how much of a man he was, too, and that was just what he 
intended to do. In no time at all, he would break her to his will. 

He thrust his hips forward again, plunging on and on until Janice felt as if 
his huge fleshy shaft had exploded up inside her to fill the very center of 
her being, sending forbidden waves of painful ecstasy crashing through her. 
Vainly, she tried to save herself from this ultimate humiliation, struggling 
against this cruel man's rape. 

She lay still and exhausted beneath him at last, impaled on his stiff cock 
that filled every part of her insides, pressing against the soft, ridged 
flesh of her cunt, inflaming it, turning it into a searing sheath of fire. 
Hank lay still, too, then suddenly arched back, raising himself above Janice 
to stare contemptuously into her face. "You love it, don't you, baby?" he 
asked with a mocking leer. 

Janice's lips trembled and she stifled another sob, refusing to answer his 
question. 

Hank flicked forward, fucking deep into her trembling belly once more, and 
now Janice let out a long wail of pain. He partially withdrew once more, 
again raised himself, again said? "You love it, don't you?" His tone had 
become brutal, his manner cruel. Janice, terrified, at last found her voice 
and gasped, "Y-yes!" 

"Yes, what?" Hank's voice left no doubt that he knew he had her in his 
power. 

"Yes, Hank," whimpered Janice. "I.. . I.. . I.. . love it!" 

"Want some more cock?" Hank grinned with lewd delight at Janice's meek 
submission to him. 

"Oh . . . no . . . o . . . o . . . ! " she wailed. 

"No?" There was a threat of retribution in his voice. 

"Y-yes. Yes, Hank, I d-do!" Janice hurriedly amended as, even through her 
pain, she caught his tone of displeasure. 

"Then ask for it!" ordered Hank. 

"Please, Hank . . . " 

"Not like that. Beg, you God damned snob!" Janice sucked in her breath. "Do 
it," she pleaded. "Do it." 

"Say 'Fuck me! Fuck me with your cock.' And make it sound like you mean it." 

Janice's head lolled to one side in abject humiliation and shame as she 
submitted even more completely to his degrading demands. With tears 
streaming down her face, she pleaded, "Oh Hank, fuck me. Please fuck me. For 
God's sake, fuck me with your cock!" 

Hank's mouth twisted scornfully. He slipped his hands beneath the smoothly 
rounded cheeks of her buttocks as he began the slow rhythmic thrust which 
would soon build to climax. He slaved above her, fucking in and out of her 
tightly clenched pussy in long, smooth strokes, sending his cock deep up 
into her moist pussy that clasped and released it, clasped and released it 
of its own accord, then withdrew to plunge deep again. Then, as though 
wishing to press the ultimate humilation upon her helpless young genitals, 
the tip of his outstretched finger invaded the tiny puckered opening of her 
anus, and Janice groaned in unexpected pain. But moments later, the groans 
turned to soft, mewling sounds of pleasure, as he slowly wormed it deeper 
and the rubbery stretching little rectal passage slowly grew used to the 
unaccustomed presence there. 

Hank fucked in and out of her cunt wildly nowin and out-quickening his 
stroke until Janice felt she was on fire with exquisite tongues of flame 
searing her loins, her quivering belly, shooting high up through her body to 
lick at her tender, sensitive breasts. She seemed possessed by an insane 
passion that blotted out all but the ecstatic pleasure of this man's hard 
driving penis, his finger skewering deep inside her rectum. 

As he thrust again and again, his cock throbbing with his impending climax, 
Hank felt Janice jerk and lurch beneath him. A wet, sticky fluid gushed 
forth from the walls of her hotly clinging pussy and then, unbelievably to 
them both, as she writhed and churned wildly beneath him, Janice began her 
weird, rhythmical scream. "Ohhh, God! I'm cumming. I'm cummming . . . oh, my 
God! I'm cumming . . . ! " 

Hank felt his own lust tormented cock expand in agonizing spasm, the inside 
of his testicles seemed to explode and split wide open. The hot white liquid 
churning there raced the full length of his rock-like prick, and then he 
spewed it into the depths of Janice's hotly contracting young belly. It 
mingled momentarily there with her own excitedly flooding juices, then 
overflowed back out her tightly locked cuntal lips to trickle in thin, lewd 
rivulets of surrender down the soft whiteness of her thighs. With a loud 
sigh, Hank collapsed on her voluptuously curved young body, already gone 
limp and exhausted beneath him . . . her legs spread lewdly open in utter 
and total defeat. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Charles Edward Tarrington III drummed his manicured fingernails on the heavy 
mahogany of the policeman's desk, his mouth twisted scornfully at the Dutch 
gibberish rumbling from John Jorgerson's mustached mouth, contemptuous that 
he could not understand this message two days in coming. He tried to calm 
himself, staring out the window at the Leidsplein Square directly across the 
street where unkempt young people with long scraggly hair, dungarees tucked 
into high boots and hash pipes hanging out of their mouths sauntered in and 
out of the Milky Way, Amsterdam's well known drug bar, where buying hash was 
as common as buying a beer. Crime right under the nose of the police. What 
did they do about it? Did they crack down? No! Absolutely not. No wonder it 
had taken them two days to locate Janice. 

A little laugh rumbled from Jorgerson's huge belly and he set the receiver 
back on its cradle, his merry blue eyes reflecting none of the gut-tearing 
anxiety Charles had suffered the last two nights suspecting the worst. That 
angered Charles. He leaned over the desk, his cheeks pale with lack of sleep 
and nourisliment. "So tell me, have you heard?" 

"Oh, yes, Mr. Tarrington. But it's not the best news," apologized the 
uniformed policeman in an unconcerned tone that Charles didn't take kindly 
to. Ineptitude infuriated him. 

"Well, for God's sake, tell me what you've heard!" snapped Charles between 
his angrily clenched teeth. 

"Well.. . " Jorgerson leaned his hulkish body over the edge of the desk, 
resting his elbows on it sluggishly. "We know, sir, that she's been 
kidnapped by a gang of heroin smugglers. The high jackers have disconnected 
the sleeping car that your. . . " he spread his hands expansively and 
grinned, "lady friend, shall we say, was sleeping in." 

"That's great. Just great," snarled Charles. "And how do you know it's 
Janice? My God, how do I know she's not murdered somewhere?" 

"They've sent her clothes, sir . . . and her passport." 

Charles' hand trembled violently, and he lowered his head and cradled it on 
his arms which were across the top of Jorgerson's desk. Two blackened, sleep 
weary eyes glared out over the brown tweed of his sports coat sleeve. "And 
just what clothes do you have?" 

Jorgerson cleared his throat and stiffened. "We have a navy blue dress, a 
yellow robe, and . . . and a brassiere, sir." 

There came a stifled cry from Charles . . . then a groan of heartfelt 
despair. 

"Sir, could I get you something?" Jorgerson's heavy eyebrows knitted with 
sympathy. "A cup of coffee . . . pastry, perhaps? Or how about a cognac to 
soothe your nerves?" 

He got up from his squeaking chair, and Charles forced himself to sit up, 
his hand to his forehead, eyes closed. Janice's robe and bra. That meant 
that Janice was running around naked. No, he thought. God, no! Not Janice, 
decent Janice! 

Maybe she's pulled a sheet or towel around her, he thought. Yes. He gripped 
the arms of the chair, his nails clawing into it. So she's pulled a towel 
around her. He closed his eyes, imagining what his voluptuous future wife 
looked like. 

The towel would just cover her lovely, large breasts, and the slim swell of 
her belly, would be slung low in back, almost, but not quite, to the bottom 
of her cheeks of her firmly rounded buttocks. They wouldn't be able to see 
between them to the pucker of her anus, but they would be staring. God, 
would they stare! In no time at all the guy's prick would jerk and lurch 
inside his pants, hardening until it ached unbearably. 

It wouldn't take long, then, before the guy had his pants open, and his 
grubby hand yanked out his stiff cock and maneuvered it out into the open, 
stroked it, drew the foreskin back and forth while drops of thick fluid 
oozed from the tip as his lust mounted. And moments later, his other hand 
would be on one of Janice's breasts, taking one small budding nipple between 
his finger, rolling and squeezing it, manipulating it into a hard point, 
while Janice squirmed under the ever increasing pressure, finally screaming 
in pain . . . and possibly pleasure, too. 

She would, too, Charles knew. She would find pleasure in something as 
obscene and filthy as that. Oh, she'd fight it. He had to give her credit 
for that. She'd be shocked and horrified-she was a sheltered girl. Later, 
after she'd been forced back onto the bed, as she lay there stripped 
completely naked with her legs open and the thin, hair-lined slit of her 
cunt exposed to his evil grin, the plundering fingers of this drug crazed 
rapist would rip through her quivering pussy. 

My God! As he got on top of her, entering her, his thick cock plowing into 
her narrow unused vaginal passage, already drenched, already steaming and 
hot, Janice would begin to moan and mewl, thrashing about under his heaving, 
bucking body, rising to meet his fucking thrusts, falling back, rising abain 
. . . responding . . . willingly. And then . . . 

Charles closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead. It was drenched 
with sweat, and he wiped away the perspiration with the back of one hand, 
wishing he could wipe away his nightmare as well. He wiped it again, and 
gasped for breath. Oh, God! Janice would submit! She would resist at first, 
but Janice-his lovely, beautiful, charming, intelligent Janice-would submit 
like a common whore, begging if they wanted her to. And then, God help her, 
she would lose herself in wild abandon, spreading her legs wider in welcome, 
coming to a climax with screams of joy. 

Charles wiped his forehead again and looked over his shoulder to see John 
Jorgerson standing beside him, a glass of cognac in his hand. Charles took 
the glass between his trembling fingers. He held it to his lips, and a drop 
sloshed over the side, dribbling down his chin. He set the glass down, took 
out an embroidered handkerchief and wiped away the cognac, then mopped the 
beads of perspiration from his brow. He drained the glass. 

Jorgerson patted him on the shoulder. "Control yourself, sir," he said 
quietly. 

Charles stared moodily into space. Control.. . ? That's precisely what 
Janice lacked, not he. Janice had never been able to control herself, he 
thought. He remembered the embarrassing way she had almost offered herself 
to him on the train on that last day in the Rotterdam station. Her mother . 
. . his mother would never have done such a thing. There was an 
unexplainable strain of the tramp in Janice, he was forced to admit. He'd 
hoped that marriage to him would somehow wipe this lascivious spark out of 
her . . . the otherwise lovely woman he wished to marry. That would make her 
an asset to his career. 

Sex, he thought, between a husband and wife was normal and even desirable. 
But Janice, he reflected, was given to indulgence. And now there she was 
alone with those sex fiends! But to think of Janice enjoying it! OH, God, 
that was hell! What would happen to her mind if she were exposed to raw 
animal sex? Nothing, Charles thought blankly. Nothing at all! He sat still 
and pale with shock, staring blankly into space until John Jorgerson's voice 
filtered through the void. 

"The problem here is a complicated one," began the chief of police, sipping 
at his own cognac which he'd poured into a coffee cup. He smacked his 
liverish lips and leaned back in his chair, its springs complaining of the 
weight. His jowls jounced as he spoke. "We've been trailing this band of 
smugglers for some time now. You see, the problem with drugs in Amsterdam is 
getting harder to crack because of the syndicate-run by a bunch of Chinese. 
Now we know . . . " he sat forward and pressed his fingertips together in 
thought, "if Ti Wong, the kingpin of this smuggling operation, were to get 
hold of these people before we do . . . poof!" He threw up his pudgy hands. 
"No evidence. Nothing to jail his ass. So we need to get those smugglers 
alive so they'll talk to us. We don't want to shoot our way into that train 
car . . . unless, of course, they start shooting first, and then your Miss 
Quincy's life will be endangered. But.. . " he hastened to add. "They're not 
going to want to add to their prison sentences with her murder, so my guess 
is they'll take good care of her." 

"Wh-wha . . . ? Shooting . . . ? Oh, my God, sir!. . . Please, no . . . ! 

Jorgerson held up his hand to hush him. "Please understand our predicament, 
Mr. Tarrington. Miss Quincy is the only thing they have to negotiate. None 
of them are stupid enough to rat on Ti Wong--he'll have them killed no 
matter if they're behind bars or not. We're playing with a double-edged 
sword. On one hand, we have your fiancee's life to worry about. . . and then 
we have a precedent to set, otherwise high-jacking and kidnapping is going 
to be an open invitation to crime. Do you understand, Mr. Tarrington?" 

Had Charles been in his own country, one phone call would have taken care of 
this mess. "Y-yes, I suppose so," choked the law student, feeling like an 
impotent child instead of the inheritor of the multi-million dollar 
Tarrington estate. His head lifted and his spirits, too, for an aborted 
moment. "Money.. . if it's money they want.. . I . . . " 

Jorgerson shook his fat head. "Not money, sir. Freedom." 

Charles sat back in his chair, feeling weak and dizzy from cognac, no sleep, 
and plenty of worry. He gazed out the window pf that filthy bunch of 
humanity gathering across the street from the police station. 

Drugs! Filthy, rotten drugs. He ground his jaws together, gnashing his teeth 
with a tight squeak, his eyes narrowing into slits. That's what Janice's 
kidnappers were-a bunch of socially diseased drug pushers . . . the same 
breed as those vile people he'd witnessed at the court hearing in law 
school. He then shuddered, a cool chill winding all down his spine. 

"So are you saying, sir, that a precedent is as important as Janice?" He 
withered as Jorgerson nodded the affirmative. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Janice lay on the narrow cot in the prison cell of her sleeping compartment, 
the stuffiness nearly overwhelming her. Her ravished young body ached under 
the sheet. She'd been given an old shirt and a pair of men's underwear. 
Perhaps to add to her humiliation? 

Her head throbbed and ached with a tortured rhythm that recalled the 
terrifying events of the hours before to her; the sawing into her now widely 
stretched cuntal passage, the hard thrusting of the young man called Hank's 
huge, rock-hard penis grinding up into her helplessly quivering vaginal 
passage. Tears welled up in her blue eyes and straggled down her cheeks. Oh, 
it was unbearable to think that she, Janice Meredith Quincy, shortly to be 
Charles Edward Tarrington III's wife, had been debased and defiled in the 
most humiliating way by a heroin smuggler when Charles, whose wife she was 
to have been, and respected her virginity, had demanded nothing of her that 
she was not willing to give-had, in fact, demanded even less than she would 
have given. And now she had been degraded at the hands of nothing more than 
a common criminal. 

She could never face Charles again. He would need only look at her face to 
know the terrible guilt she harbored. And Charles would never he able to 
forgive her. 

And why should he? For he would know that even though she'd struggled, 
terrified, that in the end she had submitted willingly. Yes, she was vile, 
and yet her gratification had been so intense that she regretted nothing. 
She was not fit, she knew now, to be the wife to a fine man like Charles, to 
be the mother of his children. No decent man would ever want her knowing 
that her belly had been filled with another man's hotly scalding sperm. She 
turned her face to the wall and sobbed. 

When Janice heard the door open softly, she shuddered, waiting for Hank's 
laughter, his rough voice mocking her again. Instead, she heard Lisa asking 
quietly, "Are you okay?" 

Janice lifted her head and shifted in the bed, her body aching agonizingly 
as she pulled herself painfully to a sitting position. Lisa came close and 
held a glass to her. "I brought you some whiskey," she said. "Thought you 
might need it." 

Janice took the glass and drained it. It was warm and soothing going down, 
and she smiled gratefully at Lisa who offered her another glass which she 
accepted and drank. When she had finished it, her mind dazed slightly, Lisa 
seated herself on the side of the narrow bed, putting an arm around her. 
Slowly, tenderly, she began to stroke Janice's shoulder as she spoke, 
lulling the broken young girl into a soft sleep-like state. 

"That no good Hank!" she began after a few moments of slow, hypnotic 
caressing. "He's been out there bragging to Theo and Gunnar about fucking 
you. Said you were begging for it, too!" She half-whispered, offering Janice 
her sympathy, and her fingers slipped under the loose shirt Janice wore, and 
eased the fabric down, slipping the shirt partially off, fully exposing one 
firm, lush breast. "Men!" she tutted in Janice's ear, as she began to stroke 
the lovely rounded semi-sphere with a soft movement. "You can't trust them 
two feet." 

With her other hand, Lisa unbuttoned Janice's blouse, drew it off her and 
dropped it on the floor. "Now women are different. A woman can give you 
something . . . warmth, tenderness. Men . . . nothing!" There was anger in 
her voice. "Men care about men and that's it! Isn't that right, Janice?" 

Janice mumbled, too surprised, too weakened by the whiskey and her earlier 
ordeal to speak, as Lisa's fingers trailed lightly over first one breast and 
then the other, gently teased the nipples into a taut erection, then slipped 
lightly down over the smooth white skin of Janice's belly, itching for more. 
Janice instinctively crossed her legs, pressing her thighs tight together to 
prevent any new ravishment of her vagina. She closed her eyes, and when she 
opened them again, she saw that Lisa was stripping her own clothes off, 
working awkwardly with one hand while she continued to caress Janice, 
teasing her nipples once again into hard little knobs. 

"It's different, isn't it, Jan?" she murmured softly, her breath excited and 
heavy with passion. Without waiting for an answer, she drew the young girl 
to her, pressing her own nude body next to Janice's. Her pointed breasts 
crushed against Janice's, their nipples meeting, as Lisa's hand moved down 
the soft flesh of Janice's stomach underneath the elastic waistband of the 
jockey shorts she wore to the luxuriously tangled triangle of silken hair 
that graced her vagina. "Oh, Jan," she murmured, "You're so beautiful. I can 
make you happy. Not the way Hank did, but in a soft way." 

Janice's head seemed to swim in helpless confusion, and she let it fall on 
the girl's shoulder, resting in the hollows of her neck, letting Lisa cradle 
it between her shoulders and her chin. She had no idea of what was 
happening. She'd heard of scandals in boarding schools. Daisy chains . . . 
wasn't that what they called them? She'd thought it idle rumor . . . vicious 
talk. But now it was happening to her, and Janice felt strangely relaxed and 
peaceful, as if she were a small child, cradled in the arms of a loving 
mother, and at the same time, she felt like the most desirable woman in the 
world, responding to a strong man. 

With a strong but gentle hand, Lisa cupped Janice's chin and raised her face 
to the level of her own. Her full lips brushed Janice's as if by accident, 
then returned, pressing them close. Her tongue darted out, expertly parting 
Janice's lips, easing between them, searching and finding the woman's 
tongue, while Janice let out little gasps of shocked delight. She was aware 
of Lisa's hands roaming over her body, aware that the girl was playing in 
some way with the clothes she still wore, and then, as she felt the cotton 
of the men's jockey shorts drawn slowly down over her hips and thighs and a 
cool breeze waft across her body, she realized she was lying stark naked 
next to a woman. 

She closed her eyes again, as Lisa held her tight, her own body rubbing 
against Janice's, her thighs curled around Janice's body, clasping it tight 
to hers while she moved slowly down on Janice until her dark curly pubic 
hair mingled with Janice's honey-colored strands. Janice felt a tiny thrill 
of pleasure rip through her, even as her alcohol-dimmed mind flickered 
warning signs of slight revulsion at the perverted attack on her naked 
flesh. With a shudder, she realized that Lisa's hand was caressing her 
buttocks, gently at first, then parting the softness of the twin mounds 
until her fingertip teased into the tiny puckered mouth of her anus, 
shocking her again, yet delighting her too. 

She moaned faintly, then collapsed back quietly as Lisa suddenly twisted 
around, moving her head sideways and down to the trembling white flesh of 
Janice's thighs. Lisa began to kiss the tender skin there, making the 
sensitive nerve ends quiver with that strange, wonderful excitement Janice 
had felt so recently, under Hank's forced attack. As Janice moaned again, 
her legs falling open, Lisa's lips wandered to the tingling little triangle 
between her thighs, moved down to it, searching out the fleshy lips, the 
soft hair-lined slit of Janice's pussy. Her pink, pointed tongue parted the 
cuntal lips, licked slowly and hotly at the moist pulsating hole, then 
explored the narrow slit until it found the tiny pink bud of her clitoris. 

The tantalizing touch of Lisa's tongue was sending new waves of lust 
crashing through Janice's receptive body, while her brain reeled with a dull 
horror of what was happening. Good, God, but it was wonderful! Janice 
thought, and yet she found herself longing to fight off this further assault 
against her once pure body. Yet she was powerless under the delicious 
ravishment of her loins, and could only mewl with pleasure as she submitted, 
one more, to an overpowering sexual stimulation. 

Janice, through her involuntarily rising passion, was dimly aware of 
agitated noises somewhere off in the other part of the train car. Sometimes 
she heard an excited voice shouting orders to one person or another; 
sometimes she heard obscene words hurled. At other times she heard a loud 
speaker, but she couldn't understand the language they spoke; though she 
knew it concerned her kidnapping. Luckily, her kidnappers spoke English and 
she heard them translate the word 'police'. Once she roused herself enough 
from the wildly pleasurable sensations that engulfed her down between her 
open thighs to comprehend the fact that the police had surrounded the train. 
But the importance of the news faded before the erotic sensations that 
fanned her body. 

She lay still again, thrilling to the excitement that rose almost to the 
bursting point in her now drenched, hotly pulsing pussy. So intent was she 
that the sound of Hank, calling from outside their cabin door made no 
impression on her at all. It was only when the door burst open and Hank's 
voice broke the silence that Janice remembered where she was and how she 
came to be there. His voice soared with a tinge of panic as he began to 
explain the latest developments. The negotiations had begun. Janice Meredith 
Quincy for freedom and an escort out of Amsterdam; but the police weren't 
about to settle on such flimsy terms. What about Ti Wong? charged the 
negotiators. We can't let you get away with this, or how many other heroin 
smugglers and criminals will try kidnapping hostages? His words stopped 
brusquely as he gazed in amazement at the sight before him. "My God!" he 
exclaimed. "I never would have believe it had I not seen it with my own 
eyes." 

Lisa raised her head from the soft curling triangle of Janice's slowly 
grinding little pussy, recognizing Hank with a cry of anger. "What the hell 
do you want?" 

A lewd, lecherous grin spread across Hank's face. "Just what you're 
getting," he said coolly, striding briskly the two steps to the bed. With a 
vicious gesture, he yanked Lisa from her position above Janice's prostrate 
body, tossing her to the floor as if she were a discarded newspaper. 

"Let me at that!" he said, with a short, coarse sneer that sent shivers 
shooting up Janice's spine. 

In an instant Lisa was on her feet. "Why aren't you out there bargaining 
with the police? How the hell do you expect us to get out of this mess if 
you spend all your time fucking this poor woman!" 

"Oh?" Hank said laconically. "And you?" 

"That's different. She wanted it." 

A groan of protest escaped Janice's lips. "No.. . I didn't . . . really, I 
didn't!" she howled. 

Hank grinned at her maliciously. "Then let's see if you want this, baby," he 
said with an arrogant sneer. 

Janice noticed with a shock of renewed fear the bulge in Hank's pants, knew, 
somehow, that he had been watching her own lascivious performance with Lisa 
for a long time, that it had excited him, and that now he would force her to 
submit to being fucked by him right before Lisa, who crouched whimpering in 
a corner. He stood over her, the sneer still twisting his mouth, enjoying 
her anguish while Janice cowered her nakedness down against the mattress as 
if she might somehow burrow her way into it. She closed her eyes and felt 
the scalding tear course down her cheek. Blinded, she groped for the blanket 
that had covered her before. Where was it! And her clothes. The shirt and 
those horrid men's jockey shorts, that Lisa must have stripped from her! 
They must be there somewhere! 

A sudden movement startled her, and her eyelids fluttered open. She uttered 
a shrill, half-muffled cry as she saw Hank standing only inches from her 
pillowed head. He gave a brief, short laugh, then with a sudden movement 
jerked his zipped fly open. A second later he had reached it to bring the 
fleshy hard rod close to Janice's mouth. "Ever sucked cock, baby?" he 
demanded lewdly, with the young naked woman cringed at the crude words he 
had uttered as if she had been struck with a clenched fist. 

Wide-eyed, paralyzed with fear, she watched him straddle her naked breasts, 
pinning her arms to her sides with his knees and saw the blood-swollen head 
of Hank's penis thrust forward and press wetly against her tightly clenched 
lips. 

"Come on! I need something to relax me!" He grinned and lewdly reached down 
with his thumb and forefinger and pinched the nostrils of her finely 
chiseled little nose tightly together until she couldn't breathe. 

"Mmmmmmph! Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-mmmmmph!" Janice groaned desperately, trying to 
hold her breath as long as she could so she wouldn't be forced to open her 
mouth. 

"Come on, open up and get a little fresh air . . . and a big bite of cock!" 
he laughed cruelly, watching her desperately twisting face slowly turning a 
bright crimson from the desperate struggle not to breathe. 

And finally, her lungs burning from lack of oxygen, her lips popped open 
wide, sucking in great gulps of air. 

"Oh ho, now you want a little cock!" he mocked above her and then he shoved 
it into her helplessly gasping mouth, ramming it down deep inside, until it 
seemed to brush all the way back against her tonsils. Janice gagged and 
fought wildly to force out the rock-hard length that filled her mouth so 
cruelly. She moved her head from side to side, struggling helplessly, 
gasping for breath. My God! She would suffocate . . . she would die! 

Viciously, Hank grasped Janice's head in both hands and pulled it forward, 
as Janice broke free just long enough to suck in more of the cool fresh air, 
filling her lungs, panting with relief. Then the grinning young man's 
lust-hardened pole sank deep into her mouth again . . . in . . . in up to 
the hilt, and the short, wiry hair around his organ grazed and tickled 
Janice's lips, while his sperm-filled balls slapped lewdly down against her 
chin. Now he began to fuck in and out of her widely ovaled mouth with long, 
quick strokes, and strangely, partly due to the alcohol, and partly due to a 
rising tide of masochistic acceptance to the lewd, debasing act she was 
forced to perform, Janice began to feel a whirling tide of unwanted passion 
again rising in her that took hold of her body, leaving her helpless to 
fight against this obscene cock stretching her lips. Without looking, she 
knew that Lisa was watching her, despising her and Hank, and the thought 
added a new thrill of perverted pleasure. Chills of excitement were 
beginning to whip up and down her spine, little sparks of ecstatic joy 
seemed to explode, fluttering like butterflies in her stomach. With a 
terrible shame, and yet an undeniable pride, she felt the sticky moistness 
seeping more fluidly between her now wide-spread legs, felt the warmth of it 
suddenly hotly flooding her pussy. The old ache and desire between her legs 
had renewed itself. 

Oh God! How wonderful and horrible it was! Wicked and evil though it might 
be, it was wonderful, too, and now she, with a moan, abandoned herself to 
the delight of the lewd, cock-sucking act she was performing, running her 
tongue back and forth over the sensitive surface of Hank's huge prick, 
teasing the tiny slit in its tip, licking the drops of sticky fluid that 
oozed from it, tasting it, savoring it as he jerked his hips forward and 
fucked deep down inside the saliva-filled cavern of her mouth, withdrew to 
plunge in again. 

Now Janice's lust distorted brain brushed aside all rational thought of her 
lewd position, and gave herself up completely to the ecstasy of being fucked 
in the mouth, of actually sucking a man off. No, she'd never sucked cock 
before, she thought hazily, remembering Hank's question a few short minutes 
before. And now it seemed she could never get enough of swollen penis down 
her throat. She couldn't bear to wait for him to shoot his cream-white 
sperm, filling her mouth with the pungent male liquid, pouring it down her 
throat, letting it flood out over her lips, dribbling down her chin while 
she moaned and thrashed in lustful bliss below him. 

Madly, insanely now, Janice sucked on and on, her cheeks of their own 
volition contracting, tightening around the fleshy staff that moved in and 
out between her tight, pursed lips. And then suddenly Hank's body above her 
was seized with a violent, wild spasm, and his abruptly jerking testicles 
sent the eagerly welcomed stream of thin, milky sperm gushing warmly into 
her tightly locked mouth, welling up and over her pursed young lips like a 
flowing fountain of half whipped cream. Janice gulped to swallow every 
precious sweet drop, her throat constricting and relaxing alternately, 
hungrily, like a famished child sucking at its mother's breast. Close to 
satiation, her brain deranged with passion, she licked and swished her 
tongue hotly around the now slowly deflating penis, clinging possessively to 
it with her elastically ovaled lips in a last desperate effort to prolong 
the joy for another moment. At last Hank pulled away from her mouth with a 
wet, sucking sound, and reeled backwards, a thin, glistening strand of his 
sperm following him away and across the firmly rounded mounds of her naked 
breasts as Janice's exhausted head sank heavily down onto the pillow once 
more. 

Just before she closed her eyes, she caught sight of Lisa edging towards the 
door, her face livid with fury at Janice's betrayal of her. Janice smiled to 
herself. At least now the records were set straight. She was no dyke. 

Janice was drifting off to sleep when she heard Theo translate the Dutch 
broadcast to his comrades, mostly for the benefit of Lisa who did not speak 
the language. 

She strained her ears, and once or twice caught her own name. Struggling to 
her feet, she crept to the metal door of her prison and put her ear to it. 
Slowly, she began to fit the pieces together. 

The police had moved in on all sides now, surrounding the train car with 
guns. Negotiations were being made between the heroin smugglers and the 
Minister of Justice who, at this time, had refused to grant them amnesty in 
exchange for the American girl, claiming that a precedent was being set 
here, one the tiny country could not afford to uphold for its own safety. 
How many other criminals would trade a kidnapped hostage for freedom? was 
the ethical question that was being argued. 

Oh, my Lord, Charles! In her lewd sexual pleasure Janice Quincy had all but 
forgotten about her fianc. Now she dared not think of him or how he would 
react if he ever found out about what had just happened between she and 
Hank. Why had she allowed herself to sink to such despicable depths of 
depravity? With a sob, she collapsed back down on the bed, burying her face 
in the pillow. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

The travel agent hadn't marked Den Haag on Charles' itinerary, but he was 
getting his first glimpse of that city now as he rode in the Volkswagen 
police car with John Jorgerson along the narrow strips of road that 
paralleled the railroad tracks through the manicured landscape of Holland. 
Who were these people who'd snatched Janice and held her now, he kept 
wondering. How did they behave, cooped up in that hot train car? The police 
officer stepped on the gas, his eyes gazing toward the frail man sitting 
beside him. It didn't take much to read his mind. "Just because they're dope 
smugglers doesn't mean they're rapists, Mr. Tarrington." He shook his heavy 
head. "But you can never tell what people will do under stress." 

"What does that mean?" Charles began to question him, but the Chief of 
Police paid little heed; he'd heard those questions a hundred times in route 
from Amsterdam, and, if the truth be known, he was getting a bit tired of 
making up answers. To change the subject, he pointed to a train depot, not 
far in the distance, small by European standards, situated on the outskirts 
of tidy Den Haag, and there, sitting alone, gleaming like a newly polished 
gun barrel in the sun was the sleeping car where Janice had spent hellish 
days and nights with a group of kidnappers. 

Charles choked, gaped, and reached up, grabbing his knotted tie and loosened 
it. Then he cracked the window a bit. For days he'd conjured up images in 
his mind of where his fiancee was held captive, and now that he was there at 
the scene, it took on no more reality than it had in his wildest 
imagination. He felt as if he were watching a television program, or a 
movie. 

Jorgerson slowed the car and pulled up alongside the lineup of polished blue 
police cars surrounding the train car and, with one foot out the door, 
started giving orders, calling officers to him, sending them off in all 
directions. From time to time he spoke into a small transmitter, informing 
police headquarters of developments, requesting reinforcements, ordering 
officers posted at strategic points. Then he turned and put his arm on 
Charles' shoulder. 

"I've been given orders by headquarters to settle this nonsense as soon as 
possible. All trains are being held up, rerouted through Utrecht. You have 
any idea, sir, what that's doing to our revenue? Seems the Minister of 
Justice isn't sympathetic." He took one look at Charles' withering 
expression and said, "I'm sorry, Charles. But I'm only following orders." 

* * * 

Inside the stuffy train car, Theo, Gunnar, Lisa, and Hank lay crouched below 
the low windows that lined the side of the car facing their enemy, fingers 
clutching sweatily at the safeties of their guns while they listened 
anxiously to the loudspeaker behind which a voice blasted. There would be no 
amnesty. This was it.. . the end . . . fini. 

With a loud curse, Theo dropped his gun and buried his face in his dirty 
hands. The world seemed to whirl around him, and he shook his head as he 
tried to work things out in his mind. Calmer now, he considered the 
situation facing him. He had vowed once to die rather than spend the rest of 
his life behind bars, and now it looked like he might do just that. He wiped 
the sweat from his forehead. "I don't want to die yet," he mumbled, not 
caring who heard him. 

He tried to think of a way out. He could turn Janice over to the police and 
try to save his skin that way. But Lisa, Hank, and Gunnar would never stand 
for that . . . not to mention what Ti Wong would do, knowing Theo had 
defected. That was certain death at the hands of a madman. Thoughts of 
Christine fleeted through his mind, and he froze, paralyzed with fear. There 
had to be better ways to end life than bleeding to death, nailed to a door 
in some Amsterdam alleyway. 

Their supplies were running low. They'd drunk all the water from the 
faucets, and nobody had thought to stop Janice from flushing the toilet so 
that now, except for a bottle of whiskey, liquids had run dry. Hank knew 
that, too, Hank who sat on his haunches next to Gunnar, his eyes peeking 
occasionally out of the window at the infestation of cops milling around the 
lineup of police cars. 

Today it would end, and they all knew it. 

Tension between Lisa and Hank was tight as a bowstring, almost tangible, 
adding to the pervading tension in the train that seemed to crawl over their 
flesh, making them quake, jump, snap at any misunderstood word or gesture. 
All they had was each other now. "How is that American bitch?" he asked of 
Lisa. "We've got to keep her from getting hysterical or they're likely to 
bomb this goddamned train car. We've really got to keep her cool and happy." 

Lisa reached into the deepness of her skirt pocket and drew out a matchbox. 
"Dope," she said, offering it for Hank's approval. "We could slip her a 
little H in it, but I'm afraid that if they give her a blood test . . . or 
an autopsy . . . " she gulped, fear edging her voice, too, ". . . it's not 
gonna look good for us." 

"Yeah, roll her a couple of reefers and keep her smoking. I'll keep the cops 
covered." He squinted into the sun, two beady eyes peering over the window 
ledge. "They're getting antsy out there . . . trigger happy sonsabitches." 

* * * 

Uniformed policemen lay on the ground, some digging holes in the soft earth 
like World War I trench war face reenacted. 

Charles was growing impatient. Hands thrust in his trench coat pockets, 
fingers playing with a tiny ball of lint, he paced the distance from the 
police cars to the train depot and back again, ignoring the calls from the 
officers to keep low. I dare the bastards to take a pot shot at me! he 
thought, grinding his teeth angrily, his head pounding with fear. 

He caught Jorgerson waddling back from the men's room in the train depot, 
and he cornered him, demanding an answer. "Why don't you just storm that 
train and rescue Janice?" 

Once again, Jorgerson placed a restraining hand on Charles' shoulder. 
"Suppose we start shooting. What happens if we hit Janice?" 

A low, sarcastic snicker whistled from Charles' nostrils and he threw up his 
hands. "So what are you going to do?" 

"Wait for them to shoot firsi," answered Jorgerson in a deceptively calm 
voice. 

Charles Tarrington sat down on a rock alongside of the road, his legs 
spread, hands folded limply, hanging between his knees and staring up into 
the blue sky at a flock of geese winging high overhead. He bit his lip. God, 
but he envied them their animal stupidity! His eyes fell back on the metal 
box that was Janice's prison. 

If only this could have happened in the States . . . Christ, he'd have the 
whole goddamned army and every FBI agent on the Eastern seaboard out there . 
. . not to mention the Chief Justice of the United States, an old college 
pal of his father's. What an outrage; he thought, taking off his glasses and 
folding then, tucked them in the breast pocket of his vest. 

Then a cold blast of what felt like Artie air chilled him as fleetingly he 
thought of his mother hearing of this insipid kidnap from the lips of Walter 
Cronkite. Charles froze to the rock. God, she'd have a heart attack. 
Reluctantly, she'd allowed her son to accompany his fiancee from Boston to 
Paris, where Janice was to stay while Charles traveled on to pay his respect 
to Aunt Sybil, the couple meeting at Orly Airport to wing back to the States 
together. 

Scandal would rock the newspapers' social sections, not to mention what his 
Harvard Law professors would think of their dandy boy whose conduct up to 
now had been as clean as a baby's buttocks at birth. He could see the 
headlines now: "Boston Debutante Kidnapped While Traveling With Heir to 
Tarrington Estate." 

Charles closed his swollen eyes, lowering his head, and rubbed the reddened 
lids between his thumbs and middle fingers, feeling victim, for the first 
time in his life, to the public that had a knack of keeping tabs on the 
wealthy. What of a political career, now? Sometime-just when he'd gotten 
national attention-some boorish columnist would dig up the dirt and smear 
his face with it, wiping out his career for ever. That would be it for his 
senatorial seat. Then what would he do? Sit behind a desk and settle divorce 
cases for the rest of his life? 

The day wore on. The sun beat down on the train, on the policeman's backs, 
on the gun barrels. 

Charles sat under a tree, waiting . . . waiting. Everything remained the 
same, nothing changed. Nobody changed his mind. The Dutch police wouldn't 
shoot, the Dutch Ministry wouldn't change it's mind, and the smugglers 
wouldn't give themselves up. 

Charles had shed his trench coat and dropped it on the ground to sit on top 
of it; then he'd torn his tie off, loosened his shirt to the third button 
and sat waiting like a hawk. From time to time he'd sneak around the train 
car, despite the barrage of pleadings from the police officers, and strained 
to see any sign of Janice within. His body ached and his stomach grumbled, 
but Charles could neither eat nor sleep. 

Jorgerson picked up the bullhorn for the countless time. "We've got you 
surrounded. Come on out with our hands up and then we'll negotiate." No 
response came from the metal box. 

"How long do you think it will be?" Charles demanded. "How long will we have 
to wait?" 

Jorgerson's patience was growing thin. "God only knows," he blasted, then 
turned back to confer with a group of officers, some in plain clothes. 

Charles stomped off, pondering what he'd heard. He kicked at a rock with the 
toe of his hand sewn shoe, scuffing it, then wondering why he did a silly 
thing like that. He felt slightly faint from the heat and the anxiety and 
the fear for Janice that tore at his insides now. All the thoughts he'd had 
before came flooding back to his mind. Had she been violated already by one 
of these wretched dope addicts . . . smugglers . . . dregs of society? 

The whole sickening scene passed again in his mind, like the thousandth 
replay of an old movie: Janice lying naked, on a cot in that toyish looking 
train car in front of him, pure and lovely and beautiful. He saw one of 
those foul, dirty men approach her, begin to stroke that tender, milky skin, 
run his huge, calloused hand with its dirty nails down the smooth, slender 
curve of her buttocks, her thighs, her legs, while his other hand squeezed 
and manipulated and . . . mauled . . . and here Charles nearly broke. Yes, 
mauled one of her snowy rounded breasts that was perfection itself. He saw 
the leer on the face of the man, the lips curled back obscenely, the glint 
of sheer lust in his evil eyes as one hand glided from her beautiful breast 
to the lovely naked curve of her belly, to the golden thatch of silky hair 
that hid her femininity and finally dropped between her knees and entered 
her! 

"Jorgerson!" he snapped in a voice so filled with pain that Jorgerson turned 
his bearish body to gaze into the anguish-filled eyes of Charles Tarrington. 

"Yes, Mr. Tarrington?" 

"How do we know Janice is in there? What if they're bluffing?" His eyes were 
wild with hope and fear, giving a wolfish kind of visage to his otherwise 
delicate face. 

Jorgerson stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I'd never thought of that, chap. 
Yes, we need proof." Patting Charles on the shoulder, the chief of police 
ambled off to confer briefly with another officer, while Charles tried to 
content himself under the aspen tree, his future life as well as Janice's 
welfare pounding in his temples. 

Whatever happened today, he decided, picking up a twig and striping off its 
bark, he must uphold the Tarrington family tradition.. . yes, to death, if 
necessary. His delicate fingers worked at the twig, breaking it into a 
million pieces, then scattering the bits to the wind. Again he wiped his 
brow, then let his elbows rest on his knees. 

Maybe this was is recompense.. . maybe this was the price he, Charles Edward 
Tarrington III, must pay for those favors society flits in the direction of 
the rich. The draft board his father bought off . . . yes, there was that to 
pay. And how about the private tutoring of top Yale professors . . . old 
friends of is fathers . . . ? There was another example. Perhaps, he 
wondered, this was the first time in his life he had really suffered. 

His future . . . and what did that mean now? Scandal? Not to mention the 
possibility of losing Janice. His potential political career was all but 
sold up the river if he passed the buck this time. Charles Tarrington had 
never thought of being a hero, in the physical sense, but the blood boiling 
in his veins, his head dizzied with hunger was radioing messages to his 
brain, and before a second thought stopped him, he jumped to his feet, 
heading for the group of officers gathered around the cars. 

"Mr. Jorgerson," he demanded, "let me change places with Janice. Let them 
take me hostage." 

The hulky set of shoulders shrugged. "Mr. Tarrington, do you have any idea 
what you're asking? But.. . " he threw up his arms, ". . . that's one way of 
finding out if Janice is still inside that car." 

* * * 

Janice sat up on the bed, legs curled under her, sweltering in the stifling 
heat. She wished that somebody would open a window to let in some air. But 
in her compartment there was no window to open, so she contented herself, 
cooling herself with an accordian-pleated newspaper with which she fanned 
herself. Someone . . . Gunnar or Theo . . . brought her a bottle of whiskey 
to nip from, but it was Lisa, she well remembered, who later offered her the 
sweet-tasting cigarettes which she'd rolled herself and lit for the hostage. 

As Janice inhaled deeply, letting the smoke swirl around her lungs as long 
as possible before blowing it out again, a strange feeling of peace and well 
being came over her. She, oddly, was no longer frightened as she had been 
before, although it was obvious that she was in greater danger than ever. 
She was certain, though, through the drug she was unknowingly taking, that 
nothing could touch her, nothing could harm her, and she was just as certain 
that, if she were threatened, she would have no desire to protect herself. 

Happily, she rocked back and forth on her buttocks, staring at the blank 
wall, humming to herself. For a while she concentrated on the smear of rust 
around the sink's basin, a rich deep red color that seemed to grow more 
intense with each second. 

She heard someone call her name . . . blast it, from somewhere outside the 
train car. Yes, there really was a world outside this train car, she mused 
profoundly. That seemed terribly silly, and she giggled behind her tiny fist 
and resumed her rocking. It came again: "JANICE QUINCY . . . JANICE MEREDITH 
QUINCY . . . " It seemed to come from the skies, maybe heaven itself, 
inviting her to emerge forth like Boticelli's Venus drifting ashore on a 
seashell. 

The door burst open then, and Janice smiled up at Lisa, a broad, 
good-morning kind of grin. But Lisa wasn't looking very jovial; her eyes 
were wild, dark, sloe eyes that to a rational Janice would have registered 
fear. Janice cupped her ears as she heard the voice louder this time: 
"Attention!" John Jorgerson was bellowing. "You are surrounded by police, 
and we will attack unless we see Janice Quincy!" 

Hank burst into the room just then. "We'd better show them the girl," he 
shrugged at Lisa. With a crisp gesture, he motioned for Lisa and Janice to 
follow out the door of the sleeping compartment to the line-up of windows on 
the open side of the car. His dirty fingernails gripped at her flesh, 
squeezing it painfully, as he thrust her towards the window. "Here she is!" 
he called out. "Okay?" 

Janice waggled her hand back and forth. 

"We wish to make an offer!" came the answer from the bullhorn. "Do you 
hear?" 

Inside the car, the three men whispered excitedly among themselves. "You 
hear that?" Gunnar's sweat-streaked reddened face seemed to pale a little. 
"What is this, some kind of trick? Yesterday they wouldn't even talk to us, 
and now they want to make an offer." 

Hank reached up and opened the window a little and called out between cupped 
hands. "What is your offer?" 

"We will exchange Janice Quincy for Charles Tarrington. Do you accept?" the 
bullhorn blasted again. 

Hank turned to the others, a broad grin on his face. "Well, I guess we can 
accept that. Two hostages are better than one. Besides if they're gonna open 
fire, chances are, they're gonna be a little more careful with two 
Americans." 

 CHAPTER NINE 

The sun was setting, a huge ball of flame over the smooth green of Den Haag, 
when Charles Edward Tarrington III edged out of the protection of the police 
barricade and walked slowly, steadily across the no-man's land between the 
police infested line to the iron rails of the railroad tracks toward the 
train car that resembled more a child's toy than a hide out. He did as 
Jorgerson instructed, holding his hands high. All eyes were on him, both 
within the train and behind him. 

Reason told Charles he might well be shot to death, out there in the open, 
the perfect target for the guns of a trigger happy, exhausted policeman 
who'd heard the order wrong. But he stoked his courage and optimism with the 
heartening thought that whatever happened once he set foot inside that train 
car, it would happen out of his defense of his family name and for his 
career. His conscience would be a clean slate. Analysis told him, too, that 
they would not harm him . . . yet. After Janice had been released, it would 
be a different story. Certainly, reasoned Charles, they wouldn't harm a 
hostage, or what good would it do? But human behavior was irrational, he 
thought, and he wondered how many ways there were to die. At least he would 
save Janice. 

He walked on, mechanically placing one foot in front of the other, the short 
distance seeming to space for miles; the few minutes it took to walk across 
the three sets of railroad tracks seemed to take light years. Halfway 
across, he took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure and then 
walked on once more, slowly, steadily. Janice would be waiting for him, just 
inside the door, he remembered. As he saw the chute open and the metal steps 
emerge from the train car, he expected to see her standing there, ready to 
leave. He hoped he would at least have a few minutes to talk to her, to find 
out what had happened that by some ridiculous fluke, she'd ended up in the 
company of this savage drug smugglers. Janice, as the agreement was made, 
would leave at their release the moment he walked on that train. Charles 
sighed, wondering when and if ever the smugglers would release him, too . . 
. or would his dear mother hear about this, too, from the lips of Walter 
Cronkite? 

He had reached the opened steps now, and turned to take a last glance in 
back of him before he entered the train. 

Where was Janice? She was to pass him, leaving freely, at this very moment. 
And then someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside the car, 
closing the chute with a violent metallic thud that was to echo in his ears 
for much of that evening. 

He had been tricked! Janice was not released. 

Hank had been sitting at the train window with his comrades scattered around 
him, while he reported Charles' progress across the railroad yard. "He's 
half-way here! Hands up, by God! Oops, he's looking back. Hey, come on you 
sweet sonofabitch, keep those Pucci shoes walking. Yeah, man . . . " 

He'd expected a muscle bound Mr. America, after the threats Janice had 
hurled at him regarding her fianc's strengths, but now he knew all that 
strength was in his head, not in the flimsy arms that he held over his head. 
. . and God knows not between those whimpish legs. 

The bearded smuggler guffawed, thinking of young Janice Quincy's luscious 
body, her wild, bottled-up passion being wasted on a weakling like this man 
stepping towards him. "He's almost here, the sucker . . . " 

Theo paled. "What's he gonna say when he finds out you been pumpin' it to 
his ol' lady?" Visions of a judge pounding his gavel on a mahogany desk, 
sentencing him to years in prison for a crime he didn't commit, pounded in 
his temples. "I ain't getting stuck with that rap, Hank. I didn't touch the 
girl." Theo's finely chiseled cheekbones moved under his skin as he worked 
his jaws back and forth on tightly clenched teeth. 

But Theo's monologue was cut short as Hank continued his running account of 
Charles' approach. "He's cuming right on. My God, he's two steps away. 
Gunnar, get ready to grab that sonofabitch!" 

The heavy slam of the metal door reverberated throughout the car and Gunnar 
let out a loud, "Yup! He's ours!" 

Charles was shaking with fury when he was led, arms pinned behind his back, 
into the main body of the train car to face Hank who quickly rose from his 
position to greet their hostage. 

It was Charles who spoke first. "You're nothing but a bunch of animals, 
worse than criminals. If you were in America, I swear to God I'd have the 
bunch of you hanging from flagpoles . . . " Charles paused, searching for 
more words. Gunnar pushed him against the wall, and Charles slumped down 
against it, landing on his buttocks, head fallen to the side, like some limp 
rag doll. 

Hank smiled cockily. "Thanks for the compliment, you sonofabitch!" he 
bellowed while Charles glowered at him through a paling expression. Hank 
towered above the slumped over, defeated looking hulk of male flesh, his 
thick tongue twirling around inside his mouth, making his cheek pooch out 
above the hairy line of his beard. He seemed to be thinking, cogitating, as 
he stood with legs spread wide, hands on his hips. "You know, I think you're 
gonna be worth something to us, friend. You're gonna be the one who gets us 
out of Amsterdam. You know what you're gonna do.. . ? " He knelt down on his 
haunches next to Charles' crumpled body. "You're gonna escort us out of 
Holland to Sweden, you imagine-assed sonofabitch." 

Theo stepped forward, yanking at Hank's elbow, spinning him around, a 
gesture which, judging from Hank's narrowing eyes, he didn't take kindly to. 
"Come on, Hank, let's give up. There's no way in hell this man is gonna give 
up without a fight. . . not after the way you been fuckin' his old lady." 

Janice . . . Fuckin' his old lady? The words registered in Charles addled 
brain, and a snarl curled his lip. "Janice!" he called out, as if 
remembering for the first time the purpose of his mission. "Where is Janice? 
I swear to God, if you've touched one single hair on her head.. . . " 
Charles whipped off his glasses and braced himself against the train wall 
ready to spring at his tormentor. 

"You stupid bastard!" charged Hank, his heavy jaw set, his ball-sized fists 
clenching, unclenching like a machine while he charged Theo. "You don't have 
a brain in your head!" 

Hank was cut off by a curse from Charles. "You bastard!" he bellowed. 

Hank shook a warning finger at the American. "If you want us to be nice, 
friend, you'd better change your attitude real fast. Like it or not, we're 
walkin' you through that line-up of cops out there, straight on through to 
one of those nice clean cars with lots of gas, and guess who's driving us to 
Denmark?" he smirked. "Oh, you can go home after we get to Frederikshavn 
'cause we've got a friend there with a boat, and he's gonna putt us to 
Goteburg." 

For the first time, Lisa heard this new plan, and she stepped forward 
desperately wanting to ease the tension between she and Hank, now that 
freedom seemed less of an impossibility. And it was Hank, too, who had the 
connections-all the more reason why she should make amends. "Janice . . . 
what do we do with Janice?" 

"That's entirely up to Charles here," was Hank's curt reply. 

Charles hung his head, shook it slightly, and rubbed his tender jaw, 
wondering what he'd done to deserve such cruel fate as to end up in the 
mercy of these burly smugglers, these less than human scums of society. 
Through their own lack of foresight and intelligence they'd dragged 
themselves down to this filthy level, and now they were taking him along 
with them . . . demanding that he, Charles Edward Tarrington III, submit to 
accomplicing them in an escape plan. Were they crazy? He'd never do that! 
Never! What would that do to his career? Oh, how some columnist or Democrat 
would love to get ahold of that story, how truly un-American that would make 
him look. Hostage or not, it was still aiding and abetting, a nebulous 
position which could easily be misconstrued by someone wishing to degrade 
his name. 

"You think I'm gonna help you, you're crazy! People like you belong behind 
bars." Charles leaped to his feet and took one step toward Hank. Immediately 
Theo and Gunnar pounced on him and wrestled him back to the floor. 

"Don't play Superman," mocked Hank. "You think you can take care of yourself 
. . . fine, but what about your lady friend in there? What kind of 
lily-livered sonofabitch is she gonna think you are for letting us cut up 
that pretty little face of hers because lover boy doesn't wanna go for a 
little drive?" 

This time Charles struggled free of his captors, knocked over a gun causing 
it to fire, blowing a hole in the side of the train car, and threatened Hank 
with his clenched fists. Hank warded off the blow, then with the help of the 
others, seized Charles' wrists, twisting them painfully. "Let's not try that 
again, huh?" 

Charles was forced back onto the hard floor of the car. He tried to think of 
something else, concentrating on the barrel of the gun poised inches from 
his head from where Gunnar stood, his German genes making his finger itch on 
the trigger. He stared at the hole . . . hole-oh, my God! he thought-holes! 
Like Janice's lovely little puckered anus would look, with its rubbery, 
brown-tinged ring-he'd never let himself think of that consciously-then 
thought of the beautiful pink hair-lined slit of her cunt that would open to 
him. He tried to push the idea from his mind as he'd always done before and 
knew now that he couldn't and sat trembling, covered with cold sweat as 
Hank's words rolled on and on. 

"We're gonna have to do something with her, you know. I hate to think we'd 
have to kill that pretty little thing, but we might have to." He looked to 
his comrades, all of whom nodded solemnly, all but Theo that is who looked 
away, turning his head. "Of course, there are ways to make you change your 
mind. Certainly with a pretty little thing like Janice you've had occasion 
to take a peek at those pretty breasts of hers, all nice and firm and soft 
in your hands . . . or that hot little cunt of hers, nice and silky. Oh, did 
you know, Charles, she's got just the tiniest little birthmark on her right 
inner thigh." 

"You bastard! You sonofabitchin' bastard!" screamed Charles, drooling from 
the mouth with fury. 

"You like to see it? There's lots about Janice you don't know, sir. Come on 
. . . " he gestured, his voice overly friendly and deceptive. Hank ran his 
tongue lasciviously around his lips, and stared mockingly at Charles. Then, 
with a loud sigh, as if he dreaded the job that lay ahead, he said, "Let's 
go see her." 

The rest, pushing Charles along with them, followed. Hank opened the door to 
the stuffy room where Janice was sitting on the bed there, smoking another 
of the thin, brown cigarettes, while Lisa, who'd gone ahead of the rest, sat 
on the commode across from her. Janice looked up at Hank and smiled, as she 
inhaled deeply on the marijuana. It made everything seem so beautiful, she 
thought, so perfect. Nothing mattered except the warm, wonderful sensation 
of the moment. 

She looked up with a start of pleasure when Hank entered the room, got up 
off the bed and went over to greet him. Hank was a wonderful young man, she 
thought, Lisa was a nice friend, everything was nice, and she wouldn't for a 
moment change anything. "Hi," she said, grinning lopsidedly, her eyes 
squinting slightly to focus. 

"Hi," Hank grunted, waving his hand. 

Janice squinted dreamily at the others. Charles was there, too, she saw. 
Everything was wonderful! Hank-and in her drugged state, the memory of 
Hank's hands on her naked body sent her soaring. Everybody was there! And 
when Hank moved forward pulling her brutally to him, she responded with an 
unearthly thrill. Her entire body tingled with anticipation of the pleasure 
to come when Hank fucked her again as she knew he was going to do.. . yes, 
that was the word-fucked her-just the way he had before, her mouth . . . her 
vagina . . . everywhere. 

Without a word of protest, she let Hank ease his hands under the loose cloth 
of her work shirt she wore, slipping it down, unbuttoning it in the front so 
that Janice sat there with her lovely rounded white breasts thrust out like 
twin moons, hanging suspended in the open air for all to see. There was a 
burst of applause from the group standing in the doorway, mingled with a 
groan of fury and agony from Charles, and then Hank's hand slid down across 
the tender, pointed breasts to Janice's slim waist, moving back and forth 
gently caressing the pale skin. Then he slid his hands under the 
ridiculously out-sized jockey shorts she wore, that grotesque, mannish 
garment that belonged to a man, and not around the undeniably feminine body 
of 

Janice Quincy. 

Slowly, patiently, he traced the deliciously rounded orbs of her buttocks 
under the panties, sending tiny, electric thrills of pleasure coursing 
through Janice's body. Then he yanked her to her feet, and let one hand 
stroke her lightly, casually, and then the fingers found the smooth white 
cleft between her buttocks, traced the line of it, down, down, thrust 
forward between her legs, spreading them wide, found the petal-pink slit of 
her cuntal lips, and caressed them, too, before he removed his digits. 

Once again, Hank traced the thin, fuzz-lined furrow of Janice's buttocks, 
moved between the rounded cheeks of her ass. This time, though, he paused at 
the tiny puckered opening of her anus and smilingly wormed one fingertip in 
while Janice grunted softly in unexpected discomfort, then withdrew it 
quickly, with a dry little sucking sound. Charles, watching a few feet away, 
slumped in the corner next to the commode, let out a shriek that sounded 
like that of a wounded moose, and then made a final, desperate attempt to 
break away, to rescue Janice. A blow to the side of his face knocked him 
back reeling against the wall, a second blow set him sprawling to the floor. 
He opened a reddened eye to see Gunnar standing over him, sweat pouring down 
his pock-marked face. "Come on, Theo, help me stand him up so our friend can 
get a better view," he said contemptuously as Theo helped haul Charles to 
his feet, standing him against the wall. 

Now Hank ripped at the underwear Janice wore, tearing the cotton away from 
the thick elastic band at the top, making them tumble to the floor, tangling 
around her ankles. Hank offered Janice his hand, in some parody of 
gentility, and she took it, stepping from her clothes with the grace of her 
upbringing. 

Across the room, Gunnar sucked in his breath at the sight of Janice's naked 
body. My God, she was gorgeous. He'd never seen a woman with such delicacy, 
such sheer beauty. Her lovely arms might have been smoothed by the hands of 
a craftsman. . . from marble or alabaster. Her legs were long, her thighs 
rich and full and heavy. Gunnar whistled in amazement. So this is what Hank 
was doing back here while he, Gunnar, stood watch at the window. He'd have 
his turn soon enough, and so would Theo if this sonofabitch didn't break. 

He watched, spellbound, as Hank placed his hands on the young girl's ripe, 
full breasts, pressing his thumbs and forefingers against the tiny little 
buds of her nipples, rolling them into a tight, taut erection. He felt his 
prick jerk inside his pants as he anticipated the pleasure in store for him 
in a short time. 

Now Hank's hands roved down Janice's supple body, caressing the firm flesh 
of her gently swelling belly, moving to explore the mass of thickly curling 
pubic hair between her legs. Janice stood transfixed in her drugged haze, a 
rising tide of passion surging through her at the delicious touch of the 
young man's fingers, the palm of his hand. Tingling with excitement, she 
stepped backwards and, mouth hanging open expectantly, seated herself on the 
edge of the bed. In an instant, Hank was on his knees beside her, stroking 
her thighs again, running his hands down the outside of them, over them, 
spreading them apart in a slow, methodical movement, running his hands up 
and down the tender flesh of her inner thighs. 

Janice whimpered in ecstasy, and then drew her legs together in shocked 
surprise as the air blew across her long, narrow vaginal slit. Again Hank 
spread her thighs wide, and now his hand slipped closer to her pinkly 
glistening pussy, gently parting the sensitive fleece-lined lips while 
Janice closed her eyes, head hanging backward, gasping with pleasure. She 
felt the surging deisre flowing through her whole body, but converging there 
a wild, throbbing sensation that was beyond her control, a desire that 
turned her narrow cuntal passage into a hot seeping tunnel of moisture. She 
groaned softly and lifted her feet up with heels far apart on the edge of 
the bed and presented the whole of her naked pussy to his lewdly gaping 
eyes. 

Now Hank's finger wormed tenderly into the wetness of it, and Janice's 
entire being tingled. He probed deeper, fingering the fleshy folds, withdrew 
to find the hard, taut bud of her clitoris. He stroked that, too, gently, 
slowly, until Janice responded with a sudden little spasm of pure delight 
and sensuous grinding of her buttocks that was visible to all the onlookers. 

She remembered them in some dim way, their faces merging with the bright 
colors and sweet sounds which were the setting for the marvelous sensations 
she felt, and turned her head to see Charles. 

She loved him so much, she knew. But he seemed angry. Now why should he be 
angry? Janice searched her dazed mind for an answer and at last found one. 
The Tarringtons and the Quincys didn't believe in sex, she remembered. They 
thought it was nasty. Necessary, sometimes, but nasty. 

But they couldn't have known what it was like, could they? They couldn't 
have known it was so wonderful. Janice could understand, quite rationally, 
that they thought that what she was doing was wrong. Looking at it from 
their point of view, she almost agreed with them. But on the other hand, 
from her point of view, it was so wonderful. And how could anything so nice 
be wrong? Janice brushed the question aside, lying back now, as Hank's 
finger eased gently into her hotly steaming little cunt, probing deeper and 
deeper into her moistly welcoming cunt. She moaned and tossed beneath him, 
then with a sudden movement threw her arms up and around his neck, as she 
began to rotate her hips against his searching finger. 

She caught sight of Charles' face again, bright red now with fury, with 
hatred, with disgust. I'll make it up to him, she promised herself. I'll 
explain very rationally to him and Charles will understand, dear 
understanding, rational Charles. And we'll do this together and Charles will 
know how nice it is and he won't be mad at me any longer, and he'll feel 
just the way I do . . . she thought through the dim haze of her drugged, 
aroused passion. 

She held Hank closer to her, but there was something wrong.. . something 
terribly wrong. It didn't feel right. At first she didn't know what it was, 
and then it dawned on her that Hank's body, which should have felt smooth 
and warm and pungent, for some reason was rough. She stroked him again. He 
was rough and dry and uncomfortable. She focused her eyes on him, puzzled, 
and then it dawned on her that Hank was fully clothed, that he was wearing 
the scratchy Levi's he'd been wearing for so long, and the shirt, too, the 
one he'd put on after he'd given her his. 

He shouldn't be wearing those, thought Janice, frowning at how it spoiled 
the fun. She began to rip the buttons off his shirt, but when her limp 
fingers slid around them, she reached for the zipper of his pants. That was 
easier, she found. She pulled and something snapped, and then she pulled 
again, her fingers on the metal tab, and there was the whining sound of a 
zipper being slid down. Then Janice put her hand inside, maneuvering under 
Hank's jockey shorts to find the hidden, half-hard length of his penis. 

Carefully, as if it were sacred . . . Janice clasped her fingers around the 
man's blood-swollen rod, massaged it gently, moving the foreskin back and 
forth, back and forth, until Hank's prick grew strong and wiry, springing to 
life. And then she drew it out, holding it in her hand. She gazed at it, 
admiring its gigantic size, its now rock-hard rigidity, staring unblinking, 
unwinking at the small hole that was like an eye, at the very tip of his 
penis, noticing with a smile of pleasure that the drops of lubricating fluid 
that gathered there, oozed from it slowly. 

"Ohhhhh!" she moaned, falling back on the bed, her legs spread wide, her 
heels splayed out over the sides of it. "Ohhhhh, Hank!" 

With a quick twist of his wrist, he pulled his shirt off, unbuckled his 
belt, letting his pants slip down. He'd been kneeling, but now he stood, 
leaning over Janice lying limp and waiting on the hard mattress. "What do 
you want me to do, baby," he asked coldly. 

"Ohhhh," moaned the captive. "Ohhhh . . . you know." 

"No, I don't." 

"Yes, you do.. . you did it before!" she winked up at him. 

"Tell me, sweetheart," ordered Hank. 

"I want you to fuck me," admitted Janice, all inhibitions wiped away by the 
exhilarating feel of the marijuana. "I want you to fuck me, Hank." 

Hank shot a quick, evil glance at Charles, who watched the scene as a child 
would a horror movie . . . in complete shock and utter horror. "Say it 
again, Janice," he ordered her, twisting the emotional knife one more time. 
"Say it loud so your friend here can hear it!" 

Charles wanted to hear her say it, Janice thought. But of course she would 
for him. She would do anything to make Charles happy. They were engaged to 
be married, and someday they would be married, and they would do this sort 
of thing then, too, and she would make Charles so happy when that time came. 
But now she would make him happy by saying it again. "Fuck me Hank," she 
said in a low, passion-thickened voice. "Fuck me like you did before." 

She heard a scream that sounded as if it came from Charles, but she couldn't 
understand why he would scream when she was doing what he wanted her to, and 
then the scream died away and she forgot about it as Hank, kneeling eagerly 
between her open thighs, used the thick, bulbous head of his cock to part 
the soft, silken strands of her pubic hair, sweeping them away from the pale 
pink lips of her pussy, leaving the exciting little mouth up between her 
legs completely open to him. And now he forced the lustfully throbbing head 
into her moist, pulsing pussy, thrusting inch by inch into the softly 
yielding walls of her welcoming cunt. He settled his body upon Janice, 
grinding his hips between her open thighs, filling her to bursting, then 
withdrew for a moment, penetrated her again, deeper this time until the head 
beat rhythmically against her cervix. 

"Ohhhhh, God, darling, you fuck me good!" she moaned and mouth open, moved 
her head from side to side. 

He rotated his hips, and Janice moved against them, rotating hers in turn, 
while beads of perspiration formed on her upper lip. Hank reached down 
around her hips and cupped her naked buttocks to pull them closer to his own 
surging loins, and Janice was filled with an insane pleasure, a bliss so 
intense she found it almost unbearable. Nothing was real now, nothing 
existed except Hank's huge, impaling cock fucking in and out setting her 
quivering, quaking body on fire with pure lust. 

"Oh ohohohohoh God!" she grunted softly as though speaking to herself 
beneath him. 

His strokes quickened now, as Janice's cuntal lips grasped and sucked at his 
charging cock hungrily, milking it. His soft, hairless, sperm-filled balls 
slapped flatly against the naked cheeks of her upturned ass, and Janice 
shrieked in wild abandon as she gave herself up to the lewd, obscene act she 
was performing before the others, oblivious of all but the overwhelming 
ecstasy it brought her. She writhed beneath Hank's tough, muscularly hairy 
bod, her legs jerking back spasmodically to wrap themselves around his 
torso, ankles locking behind his back, while he ground his fleshy, 
lust-hardened cock ever deeper into her greedily devouring young belly. And 
then, before Charles' horrified eyes, Janice began to lurch from side to 
side, her face contorted, mouth open wide, in the mindless grip of her great 
passion. She gasped, panting hard, her breasts heaving, and her mewls of 
pleasure grew to a frenzied cry. "Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhh!" she half-wailed, 
half-sang. 

Hank felt the warm, sticky fluid of Janice's beginning orgasm as it rose and 
spilled into her warm, tight pussy, oozed around his plunging cock, bathing 
it hotly in its slippery wetness. Oh, my God, he thought. 

"Oh God . . . Ohhhh! God! I'm cummming!" wailed Janice, and the satiated 
Hank thought, Christ, me, too. Then he felt the boiling sperm in his 
inflated balls bubble up and spurt forward, mingling with Janice's own hot 
juices, felt it spray the inside of her pussy, felt the incredible tensions 
of the past few minutes dissolve in a wildly exploding moment of joy. 

He fell back, exhausted, beside Janice on the bed and lay there next to her 
for a few moments, eyes closed, savoring the exquisite delight of the 
moment. Then he heard his name called, and recognized Gunnar's voice. "Okay, 
Hank. It's my turn now." 

Dizzily, he rose, found his pants and shirt, pulled them on, moving away 
from Janice who lay back on the bed in a look of utter depravity. He caught 
a glimpse of Charles' face, and at first he didn't recognize him. The man 
was like a mad tiger, snarling at the leash, ready to kill. Hank gave him a 
wink and moved across the small room to sink against the wall, too tired now 
to watch the fun and games Janice was going to indulge in with Gunnar. 

She was lying on the bed when Gunnar approached, and she made no objection 
when he knelt between her legs at the foot of the small bed and gazed down 
hungrily at the sperm-glistening lips of her open cunt. Then, moments later 
when he ordered, "Put your legs up over my shoulders!" she did, and she felt 
a new thrill surge through her as he bent his head over her pulsing, 
still-moist pussy, and placed his hands on her cuntal lips. Carefully, in 
her German precision, he opened them, exposing the pink flesh to his 
lust-filled eyes. As his hot breath blew across Janice's cunt, still 
dripping from 

Hank's sperm moments before, she writhed in delight, then curled her legs 
and wriggled her toes with the sudden, exquisite sensation. Gunnar bent his 
head still nearer, and then his tongue lashed out, finding the tiny, narrow 
slit, and began to tease back and forth inside it. 

It was so good, Janice thought again. How could this be bad, when it was so 
good? The idea puzzled her and so she dismissed it from her mind and lay 
back, opening her thighs wider to his face and enjoying what was happening 
to her. Gunnar slaved over her, his tongue and mouth worming into the warmly 
quivering little crevice between her thighs. It followed the narrow slit 
from one end to the other, savoring every delicious taste as it advanced. 
Then Gunnar stopped and began slowly to lick the entire pubic curl-fringed 
length once more. But he paused when he reached the tiny bud of Janice's 
clitoris, and devoted his entire attention to rousing it into a taut 
erection. 

Janice thrashed and bucked under this lewdly exciting assault on her 
sensitive little cuntal mound, letting out sharp little screams of pleasure 
from time to time, that split the silent air like a knife. Gunnar's tongue 
flicked in and out between her legs, faster and faster now, making a wet 
sucking noise echo through the room as the young nakedly writhing woman's 
heart pounded like a hammer and her breath caught in her chest, then spurted 
out. 

Suddenly, the delicious sucking of her warm, moist pussy stopped, and Janice 
uttered a tortured cry of mixed dismay and disappointment. "Don't stop! OH, 
God don't stop! Go on, lick it. Lick it!" 

Oh, God, what happened? What was happening? Why had Gunnar left her lying on 
the bed, her legs still spread wide, her hungrily churning cunt exposed and 
waiting for the wonderful licking and sucking of his rough tongue. Janice 
turned, strained to see. Through the fog of drugs that clouded her mind, she 
somehow understood that everyone was looking at Charles, over against the 
wall where Theo guarded him. Something had happened to him, she thought. He 
was white as a ghost, and now he'd slumped down against the wall collapsing 
like a deflated balloon. 

Hank got up from where he sat against the wall to poke a foot into Charles' 
inert body, Charles didn't budge. Now he leaned over him, his head bent 
down, listening to his heartbeat. "He's okay," said Hank straightening. He 
grabbed Charles by his collar and pulled him to his feet, giving him a brisk 
slap across the mouth that seemed to wake him up again. "You changed your 
mind yet?" he sneered. 

Charles' head fell forward, onto his chest, and Hank jerked it up. "You 
change your mind yet?" 

Charles mumbled something Janice couldn't catch, and then Hank slapped him 
again. This time 

Charles lifted his head, threw his shoulders back, and gathered all his 
strength as he confronted Hank, looking every inch as aristocratic as his 
name implied, dirty and disheveled though he was. "No," he said clearly. And 
with a supreme effort, he answered coolly, fixing Hank with his stare. "I 
will never aid and abet you to escape the punishment you deserve." 

Hank shrugged. "I guess we'll have to try harder." 

Charles put his arm over his eyes, as if he could shut out forever what he 
had seen, and what he would yet see. Hank looked at him with contempt, then 
called Gunnar. 

"Let her have it.. . where it hurts!" he ordered. 

Gunnar looked at Hank, scratching his head, smiling. "Where it hurts, you 
say?" he asked and shot an evil glance at Charles, who covered his mouth to 
keep from screaming again. 

"Fuck her in the ass!" 

Gunnar, with a quick, deft movement, turned the blonde debutante over on her 
stomach on the bed. 

At first Janice made no effort to resist. Everything had seemed so 
beautiful, so wonderful, she thought. Not Charles, of course. But then 
Charles never had been much fun at parties. And there was something wrong 
with him, he didn't look well. Perhaps he'd been working too hard again. 
Charles always worked too hard and didn't play enough . . . even his mother 
said so. She let her mind wander, just as she felt her legs being spread 
wide, as she felt Gunnar's tongue search out the tight, tiny hole of her 
puckered, brown-ringed anus. And then she understood what Hank had said, 
when was it? So long ago. It seemed she'd been born in this train, she'd 
been there so long. 

"Fuck her in the ass!" That was what Hank had said. 

And up her ass meant-sodomy! She was to be lewdly sodomized, right here in 
front of everybody, in front of Charles. Janice's drug befuddled mind 
whirled again, and even though the hazy bits and pieces of things she had 
heard came back to her. They couldn't do that to her. It wasn't legal. She'd 
seen that in one of Charles' law books, that she'd taken down from a top 
shelf where he'd thought she wouldn't find it. And now these people were 
going to do it to her, right in front of Charles, and Janice knew she could 
never let that happen. Never. She believed in the law, too, like dear 
Charles believed in it, and she had to fight against such awful things 
because Charles expected her to. And then she felt Gunnar kissing the lovely 
round orbs of her buttocks, nipping at them, flicking his tongue against 
them. Furiously, she kicked her legs, thrashing out to rid herself of this 
unwanted intrusion. But the strong German caught her ankles and pinned them 
to the bed, like a wrestler pinning his opponent on a mat. "Spread your 
legs," he ordered in a voice of steel. 

Janice did as she was told, opening them until she was afraid she would 
split in two. "Like that?" she gasped. 

"Not like that!" Gunnar said, giving her a swift slap on her firmly rounded 
young buttocks, leaving a red, angry print of his palm on them. Janice 
winced in pain and then screamed aloud as Gunnar took her by the thighs and 
forced her legs farther and farther apart. Janice screamed in agony, then 
gasped again as Gunnar's finger teased at it momentarily, then wormed its 
way deep into the little puckered orifice of her anus. In and out it ground, 
in and out, and Janice felt a terrible, terrible, searing pain that moments 
later, when her rectal walls had adjusted, turned to a dull, but strangely 
soothing pleasure, bringing an aching longing in her, a weird masochistic 
desire she knew in her heart to be wicked and evil. But she knew she could 
never resist, not when she felt such excitement and joy and sheer ecstasy in 
the act. 

She groaned and wiggled her hips salaciously back up to trap more of it as 
Gunnar's fingers prodded and probed inside her tightly clenched little anus, 
widening it, expanding it, bringing a pleasurable throb to it that made her 
gasp for breath. Then a second finger joined the first, forced in with a 
terrible thrust. Gunnar began to work the two fingers back and forth in the 
narrow hole, preparing it for the entrance of his already lust-swollen 
prick. He was almost ready, Janice knew, he was breathing hard, panting over 
her prone body, and his fingers thrust in and out as if he no longer had 
control of them, skewering Janice on the hard digits. And now Gunnar, like 
Hank, was demanding that Janice beg him, to perform this perverted 
outrageous act. "Want it?" he asked coldly, cruelly, as if she were no more 
than an animal to be debased for his pleasure. Janice hesitated, frightened 
by the sadistic tone of his voice. Gunnar, impatient, added another swift 
slap, and Janice cried in agony, "Ohhh! Yes!" 

"Yes, what? Tell me! Tell me what you want me to do to you," he commanded 
savagely. 

"I.. . I. . . " But Janice could not bring herself to speak the vile words. 
"I can't," she wailed. 

"Like Hell you can't," said Gunnar, giving her another slap. "Maybe you'd 
rather watch us when we cut off your boy friend's balls, or maybe you'd like 
to see his cock slit up the middle." 

"No, you couldn't!" screeched Janice. 

"Oh, but we would, if we have to." Another slap. "Now beg!" 

"Please . . . " she whimpered, trying to hold back her tears. "Please fuck 
me in the ass. Please." 

"Why?" Gunnar prodded, tormenting her still further. 

"Because that's what I like," Janice said pitifully. 

Gunnar twisted around, leering obscenely, while Hank shrieked triumphantly. 
"Hear that, Charles! That's what your precious fiancee likes!" He poked 
Charles, who tried to cover his face with his hands, and now groaned with 
sheer horror. "Let that be a lesson to you," Hank went on. "If the two of 
you ever get out of here, and if you ever do get in the sack together . . . 
" he taunted. "Think you can get a hard-on, Charles, or is that too 
low-class for you?" he grinned evilly at Charles, poking him again. "Well, 
if you ever can, remember, that's what the little lady likes . . . gettin' 
fucked in the ass." 

His attention turned once more to Janice, lying on the bed while Gunnar 
pulled her naked young buttocks up to a kneeling position and mounted her as 
if he were a dog, and now he took his thick, swollen shaft and wrapped 
Janice's tiny fingers around it. "Put it in," he ordered, guiding Janice's 
hand down toward the hairless, rubbery little circle of her rectum. She, too 
terrified to resist, and with an overwhelming desire to comply at the same 
time, placed the tip of the stiff, blunt cock head against the tiny opening 
of her backside. With a quick, brutal thrust that this time brought a scream 
of pain from her, Gunnar popped the blood-filled head just up inside the 
small, tightly cringing orifice, then slowly pressed forward and forced the 
elastically yielding walls further and further apart until he was sunk deep 
up in the tightness of her bowels. 

He began to grind it back and forth, and the pain Janice had felt as he 
entered her suddenly blended with the intense humiliation she felt and 
slowly, but surely, turned to an oddly rising sexual stimulation. She moved 
experimentally back against him, arching her body, thrusting her buttocks up 
and outward, rotating them in tiny teasing circles, meeting Gunnar's forward 
movements. Oh, God, she thought again, as a helpless ecstatic moan rose deep 
in her throat, this was horrible, horrible . . . but at the same time, 
wickedly beautiful to be used and fucked in the ass like a common whore. 
There was agony and there was hell, but it all whirled together in one great 
sensual moment of bliss, and Janice thought, in spite of her initial 
revulsion, that the last few hours had been just that. . . wonderful and 
horrible. She had lived through the most sensually exciting moments of her 
life while poor Charles had experienced the worst. 

Someday, she thought, she would make it up to him, explain it to him, and 
she would let him do just this to her back in her rectum and would make him 
as happy as he'd been before. Now he was miserable, but there wasn't 
anything she could do about that. 

The man's sperm-bloated balls smacked hard down against the slavishly 
kneeling Janice's cunt as his thick cock sank deep up inside her rectal 
passage, pushing almost to her pelvis. He was ready to cum, holding back for 
just a moment to enjoy even more the climax in store for him. He withdrew, 
pulling his penis out almost to the tip, then with a loud grunt, he rammed 
it deep up into her bowels again, as she moaned aloud with the joy she felt. 

Then Gunnar began to jerk in a wild spasm of intense pleasure as the white 
hot sperm spurted the length of his thrusting, pulsing rod, to gush into a 
torrent into Janice's now openly accepting rectum. The now half insane young 
woman half-moaned, half-screamed as the boiling white liquid surged hotly up 
through her waiting bowels. She thought, Oh, my God, I'm cumming again. And 
then, mouth open wide, grunting heavily, she jerked her body backwards, 
bucking furiously to meet his rhythmically fucking movements and a great 
gush of pleasure filled her, filled her just as the man's thickly boiling 
sperm was doing to her at the same time. Oh God, all her joy seemed to 
overflow out of the tips of her lewdly jiggling breasts as Gunnar's sperm 
overflowed up inside her body and splashed back out again around his hard 
driving penis to run down the crevice of her wide-split buttocks to the 
sensitive open lips of her moistly throbbing pussy below. 

She felt the man's final withdrawal as he pulled his now limp penis from her 
rectum with a slight wet sucking noise that sounded as though a cork were 
being pulled, and then the two collapsed, completely exhausted. Gunnar 
panted for breath as he lay by her side-Janice covered with sweat, but weak 
and happy. 

Janice would have liked to fall asleep-just to close her eyes and sink into 
sweet oblivious slumber-but as she dozed off, a blood-curdling scream 
brought her back to reality. She raised her head wearily, and saw that it 
was Charles who had screamed, and now he had slumped forward again, all 
strength gone, a shadow of a strong and proud man. Again Janice wondered 
what had happened to Charles to make him behave so strangely. But she was 
too tired, too confused to think about it. She would sleep awhile, she told 
herself and, when she awoke, perhaps then she could talk some sense into 
Charles. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

Like a pathetically broken toy, Charles lay slumped to the floor again. Hank 
looked at him with disgust in his dark eyes, then chortled gleefully and 
called Lisa to his side. "We got any smelling salts?" 

Lisa hurried off to look, then came back with a bottle to revive their male 
hostage. As he opened his eyes, blinking with effort, Charles asked, 
"Wh-where am I?" 

"Back at the show, remember? Our star tonight is one hot little pussy by the 
name of Janice. 

Remember her?" he chided, passing the smelling salts beneath the 
aristocratic nose of Charles Edward Tarrington III. "Come on, man, don't get 
sick on us. We've got a long ways to go before you're finished." 

Charles shook his head, wondering what had happened to him and why. How had 
they forced Janice to put on this obscene exhibition for him? He had feared 
all along that Janice had some spark of the lascivious in her veins, and 
this proved it. More than proved it. What he had witnessed was beyond the 
wildest imagination of any horror writer. 

He felt his knees buckling under him and closed his eyes. If only he could 
shrivel up, melt away, and be gone. God, why didn't they just put a bullet 
through his brain . . . kill him, and Janice too? That would have been a far 
more noble means of degradation than this. Anything but this! He nodded, 
blinked, then shook his head. Hank was shaking him by the shoulder, asking 
him a question again. "Now will you drive for us, sir, or would you like to 
see more?" 

Charles' head spun. No, he couldn't give in, especially not now, or he would 
be conceding to their demands through his own weakness. Charles clung to his 
last shred of family honor when he shook his head. "No." 

Hank stood up, working his huge fists as if he had a rubber ball in his 
hand. "Okay," he said to Theo and Gunnar. "He wants to see more. If we're 
gonna have to spend the rest of our lives behind bars, we might as well have 
a good time gettin' there," he muttered defeatedly, getting in line first, 
unzipping his fly as he took one giant step. 

He bent over Janice and whispered, "Come on, girl, show 'em your stuff," and 
took her hand to guide it to the jerking length of his cock still hidden in 
his soft, cotton undershorts. "Take it out," he demanded, and Janice drew 
out his cock, feeling it stiffen in her hand. Blue eyes closed dreamily, she 
began to manipulate the foreskin, easing it back over Hank's now swollen 
prick, pulling it forward again. Then she ran her fingernail along the rigid 
flesh, along the vein that stood out beneath, her fingernails scratching 
gently over its surface to send shocks of joy through Hank's tense, 
expectant body. His spasms set off her own, and Janice rocked back and 
forth, massaging Hank's erect penis, thrills of rapture coursing through her 
quaking body at his pleasure as she responded to his every motion. Oh, she 
thought as she had before, I'm making him happy. I'm so happy, too. 
Everybody's having a good time at this party, except for poor Charles. 

That made her want to cry; she loved Charles, but Charles never wanted to 
have a good time . . . always had to remain the rational intellectual. She 
continued to stroke Hank's penis with one hand, while she wiped her eyes 
with the other. Someday, though, she'd teach him the true meaning of 
happiness and how to just let yourself go and do what you want to do, rather 
than what people expect you to do. Maybe that small miracle would happen 
when she and Charles were married. Someday, she solemnly vowed, she would 
make him as happy as she was making Hank right now. 

And Gunnar, too, she thought, looking up to see him standing near her. 
Without waiting to be asked, she reached out and herself unzipped his fly, 
drawing his thick cock out just as she had drawn out Hank's. With little 
mewls of pleasure, she caressed it, too, into a hard, erect mass of stout 
flesh. 

She struggled to sit up, but Gunnar pushed her back on the pillow, then 
knelt over her, legs straddling her shoulders. "Take this in your mouth," he 
ordered, as she continued to stroke his rigidly pulsating hardness. "Come 
on, baby, suck it!" 

Without a murmur, Janice opened her lips to receive the tip of his stiff, 
swollen cock, closing her mouth around it, clasping it, sucking it in, her 
cheeks hollowing as she worked. She ran her tongue around the throbbing 
head, felt the tiny opening there, licked at it gently at first, then more 
roughly as tiny droplets of a thick, pungent tasting fluid oozed from it. 
Janice ran her tongue over them, savoring their acrid taste before she 
swallowed them. Next, she ran her tongue along the ridge beneath the stout 
German's wetly burning penis, and an electric shock seemed to go through his 
body, jolting him convulsively. God, this little bitch sucks cock good, he 
thought. 

He arched his back, withdrawing his thick, piston-like rod, then with a 
sharp, sudden motion, rammed it deep inside Janice's mouth, thrusting it 
back almost to her throat. 

Janice gasped at the unexpected violence of the movement, then fought for 
breath. She caught it as Gunnar withdrew again, beginning to fuck in and out 
of her roundly ovaled lips, the short pubic hairs surrounding his loins 
tickling the tip of her perky nose, while his balls swung back and forth and 
smacked against her chin with a loud, resounding slap. Janice increased her 
sucking of Gunnar's cock, grinding down hard on the penis that filled the 
hot, wet cavern of her mouth. One hand snaked around his hips, slipped 
beneath the top of his pants, and Janice uttered a little cry of 
disappointment because he didn't have his clothes off, while she lay there 
without a stitch on, her slim, luscious body exposed to him and Hank, and 
Charles and everybody. 

Without stopping her feathery fingers on Hank's penis, she used her other 
hand to struggle with Gunnar's clothes and take them off. She slipped her 
free hand under his pants, wiggled them down as he rolled his hips to help. 
And then, as they slid low, she touched his bare skin, ran her hand lightly 
over it, slid it around to touch his balls, to tease them, cupping them, 
gently squeezing them. She slid her hand on, her fingernails tickling the 
base of his pulsing cock, running along the underside of his prick as he 
withdrew it on the backstroke while he continued all the while the rhythmic 
fucking of her open mouth. 

Gunnar could feel the boiling sperm building up in his scrotum, and a 
sideward glance at Hank's lust contorted face told him that his balls, too, 
were almost bursting, his loins aching with the excruciating excitement 
Janice's hand was giving to his ramming cock. She held it tighter and 
tighter now, a moving back and forth on it, manipulating it, drawing it down 
and then releasing it, teasing it, tantalizing it with an expertise Hank had 
never expected. He couldn't stand it any longer, he thought, bursting out 
with a weird, harsh cry. Janice felt his prick expand and contract in her 
hand, and then heard his helpless gasps of passion as the hot fluid spurted 
thickly and wetly in an arc, gushing onto her nakedly rippling stomach, then 
flowing down over the smoothness of her thighs, seeping hotly down between 
them like a searing stream of molten lava. . 

As Hank cried out, Gunnar's own grating shriek mingled with his voice, and 
his balls exploded, too, shooting their load of warm male semen into the 
soft, fleshy warmth of Janice's hungry mouth. The young blonde woman moaned, 
her body contracting and heaving rhythmically as her own moist juices seeped 
wetly from the walls of her pussy again, flowing to flood her pink cunt. 
Gulping to keep from choking, she sucked and swallowed the churning semen 
that flooded her mouth, groaning with pleasure as she did so, fighting to 
hold every drop of the pungent liquid in her mouth, licking at the few drops 
that trickled lewdly from the corners of her mouth. As Gunnar's penis went 
limp and Hank's collapsed in her hand, Janice lay back, sperm smeared, 
still, satiated. Her eyes were closed now and she lay motionless. 

From feet away, Charles had stared at the whole lurid scene with a disbelief 
so overwhelming it actually blotted out his disgust. His pale gray eyes 
bulged from their sockets, his face was red and blotchy. The world whirled 
around him, making him feel dizzy, sick, as if he were balancing on the edge 
of a dangerous precipice. His fingernails clawed at the palms of his hands 
as he clenched his fists in revulsion and pain, and now he looked down to 
see red claw marks on his hands. That didn't matter; nothing physical could 
hurt him. But his spirit had been withered by the disgusting things he'd 
been forced to see. He wasn't even sure he wanted to live. 

When Hank ambled over to him to stare into his blank, unseeing void, Charles 
turned his head. Then with renewed hatred, he realized he did want to live, 
if only to rip apart these inhuman beasts who'd forced him to suffer through 
the last hours with agony. "Had enough, Charles?" 

Charles averted his eyes, refusing to answer. Hank grabbed him by the shirt 
collar, nearly tearing it off. "I asked you a question, mister," he snarled, 
his white teeth clenched through the wiry black mustache and beard hiding 
his heavy set jaw. 

When Charles refused to answer, Hank flew into a rage. "Are you going to 
cooperate or not?" 

Charles turned his head and said, "No." 

Hank tore at his hair in fury. "Okay, mister, from now on anything goes. 
We'll bang that pussy until there's nothing left but a piece of pulp." He 
turned to Theo then, who'd been quietly guarding their male hostage. "Your 
turn, Theo, give her a piece of meat she won't forget!" 

Theo, pale, frightened, stood limply by, not hastening to take his assigned 
position between Janice Quincy's milk white widespread thighs where she lay 
eager and waiting on the bed in the sweltering heat of the single sleeping 
compartment, barely large enough to accommodate one person, which now, in 
the mad fiasco of the orgy, bore the unbelievable burden of six sweating 
bodies. Theo leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, dizzy 
from the tension and high-strung emotions vibrating in the room, nearly 
bouncing around the room in nearly visible flashes of color.. . like 
lightning bolts storming night skies. He wanted no part of it.. . not even 
the luscious, naked body of Janice Quincy . . . not if it meant he must pay 
for it later. 

He'd had enough pain in his life, and he'd paid dearly for every small favor 
life had afforded him, which wasn't much, he thought, glancing around the 
room as if coming out of a deep trance, hearing his name being called from 
somewhere close by. Was it Hank? Lisa? His mind had been wandering years 
back, tracing the steps that led him to the impossible inveiglement now 
facing him.. . prison.. . and he thought about his father who'd drowned when 
the sea swallowed up he and his fishing boat, and he thought of his cruel 
stepfather who'd turned Theo out on the streets, like some old dog nobody 
wanted, to make his own living, and he thought, too, about that blonde girl 
in Amsterdam who'd taught him the joys of sex and the highs of drugs. She 
had been the only sparkle in his whole dreary existence . . . and that too, 
had been taken from him. Not since then had he wanted a woman. Not perhaps, 
until he'd laid his blue, moody eyes on Janice Quincy's nakedly voluptuous 
curves. 

He felt someone tugging him by the shirt sleeve, then, and he turned to 
stare into the bearish face of Hank, who snarled his demand. "Come on, I 
said fuck her!" 

With a supreme effort, he placed one foot in front of the other and 
bewildered, he stared down at the blonde feast awaiting him, wondering if 
this was another him, wondering if this was another of life's cruel jokes or 
a feat of martyrdom . . . giving him a taste of something beautiful, only to 
have it snatched away from him. Anna . . . like his dear Danish Anna. 

Softly, he stood over the reclining figure of Janice, smiling down at her. 
And then he squatted down on Janice's bed, leaning over her, spreading her 
full, sperm drenched thighs apart with his rough, calloused hands. The pink 
slit of her cunt was exposed to full view, now, quivering and unbelievably 
coming to life again along its full, hair-fringed length. Theo drew his 
finger slowly, carefully, along the line of it, stroking it gently, 
searching out the bed of her clitoris, bringing it to a full erection. 

Janice gasped in delight at the welcome pleasure that sent little 
feather-like twitches spinning through her vagina, and Theo felt her 
response and smiled up into her face, a far off dreamy expression spreading 
across the fine cheek bones of his handsome face. 

"Ohhhhhh," moaned Janice, knowing nothing but her mad desire for more sex. 

And then Theo plunged his forefinger deep inside Janice's warm, moistly 
palpitating womb, worming it into the hilt, with drawing, plunging again. 
OH, God, it felt good, she thought, it felt so good she wished everybody in 
the room could feel as good as she did then. Especially Charles. Then she 
opened her eyes and looked up and she gasped to see that Charles' wasn't 
frowning anymore . . . rational, intellectual Charles had joined the party! 

While Theo's finger moved in and out of her tight little pussy, 
finger-fucking her, Lisa was on her knees before the unresisting Charles, 
unzipping his pants, poking her hand inside them, feeling under his shorts 
and finding his soft penis. She began to stroke it gently at first, then 
more vigorously, nursing it to life, until it sprang into full erection and 
jerked upright. 

Lisa drew it out then, holding Charles' cock in her hand, and then began to 
tease it, forcing the foreskin back, then running her finger along the 
tender underside of it. Janice saw her future husband's prick swell to 
enormous proportions. Was that her party-pooper Charles? she wondered in 
amazement. Then she saw him begin to respond to Lisa's manipulations, moving 
back and forth as she clasped him tight, just as Hank had done when Janice 
had held his organ in her own hand. And now Lisa was bending her head, 
taking Charles' cock into her wide-open mouth, closing her lips around its 
tender flesh, sucking on it, her cheeks working madly as Charles' shaft 
became rock-hard, and began to plunge in and out of Lisa's widely ovaled 
mouth, shooting forward almost to her throat, withdrawing, then plunging in 
again. The fear and anger he had felt such a short time before seemed to 
fade away, and Charles began to feel nothing but the wonderful joy that Lisa 
brought to him. He shook his head, trying to work things out for himself. 
For a moment he thought he understood it: He, Charles Tarrington, was 
indulging in perverted pleasures. But it wasn't really perverted, was it? 
No, he decided and relaxed and his pulsing cock moved in and out of the 
young girl's warm buttery mouth, and he felt the churning in his loins, the 
dull, throb, and knew that this was perhaps the most important, the most 
wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. 

He looked over at his fiancee, and saw that she was doing just what Lisa was 
doing, sucking the desire-swollen cock of some man. At the same time, 
Charles saw that Theo was between Janice's legs now, his thick hard cock 
moving against her pussy, parting her softly curling pubic hairs, and then 
that Theo had taken his cock in his hand and was guiding it forward, using 
the rubbery head to open the full lips of her cunt. Now the tip slipped 
through the tight opening, sliding along the smooth, moist cuntal hole, 
sinking in farther and farther, while Janice opened her legs as wide as she 
could and pulled her thighs back to take this hardness deep up inside her 
belly. 

Charles plunged forward into Lisa's mouth, withdrew, plunged in again, while 
shivers of ecstasy rippled over his whole being, and a strange, uninhibited 
wave of joy washed over him that he had never believed possible. 

Charles glanced at Janice again, and saw that Hank was kneeling beside her 
and had inserted his finger deep into Janice's nakedly twitching anus, and 
that she was swiveling around it, her hips rotating. She groaned as he 
thrust a second finger into the soft, warm buttery depths, and then, as she 
became accustomed to the intrusion, rammed his thick cock into her rectum as 
she began to moan with insane sounding pleasure. 

Charles quickened his thrusts into Lisa's ovaled mouth, fucking into it hard 
and deep, his cock boring in to touch her throat, so that the girl choked 
and fought back; yet Charles plunged on and on, aware that never in his life 
had he felt such thrills, such excitement. And Janice was dazzled and 
delighted as Charles watched the three men who invaded her body in such 
diverse ways, screwing back against their fingers, their tongues, their 
cocks. He watched her as she began to sway and rock in erotic abandon, and 
realized that he, too, was caught up in the same mad passion. 

The ache in his loins became intolerable, the throbbing length of his rigid 
cock harder than he imagined it could ever be, and then, he heard 

Janice's wild groans: "Oh, God, I'm cummming.. . I'm cummmmmmmming!" And he 
heard the wild cries of the three men as together they shot their hot, 
sticky semen into the openings of her young body. As they did, Charles could 
no longer hold back, and he, too, cried out as all of his boiling, white 
sperm spewed into Lisa's open, sucking mouth. 

It seemed that everyone went limp at the same time, lying back, while the 
heat and pungent smell of sex permeated the room like a low hanging cloud. 
Charles was the first to roust himself to look at the others, to examine the 
situation. Defining this situation was not easy, for everything had changed. 
He stared at the others, his eyes roving over their exhausted bodies. They 
were still a bunch of no-good smugglers, dope peddlers, he told himself. Yet 
they had taught him something they had taught him that he need not be 
ashamed of his passion, that there was no need for guilt, and that what he 
had just felt with Lisa was the most wonderful experience he'd ever had. 

Charles sensed that he owed these people something, that by crossing class 
lines he'd learned what life was all about and the true meaning of 
happiness. 

Then, he too, fell back to sleep. 

* * * 

Jorgerson chewed on his beefy lower lip, arms pulled back behind his back, 
thumbs twitching, eyes focused on the patch of ground where his black 
polished boots traced yet another dusty circle around his squad car. He'd 
watched apprehensively as the sky faded from robin's egg blue to pale pink 
and, now, a dull gray shade was covering the sky. 

Something had to be done before nightfall, but not even the blasted pleas 
from the bullhorn evoked a signal from the railroad car in plain sight, 
across the tracks. Janice Quincy had not been released, and there was no 
guessing what horrors had taken place inside that metal box. Had they ripped 
off her fingernails.. . ? Plucked out her eyebrows? Ruined that gorgeous 
face forever? And Charles . . . what had happened to him? Executed before 
the terrified eyes of his fiancee? One gunshot had been heard, but John 
Jorgerson, twenty-two years on the Amsterdam police force, knew what one 
bullet, one piece of metal, could do. He shivered. 

Deep in the grips of contemplation, he was circling his police car when the 
crackle of his radio made his thick eyebrows raise, and hastily he grasped 
through the open window to answer the call from headquarters. 

Ti Wong had been captured, this time with enough evidence to put him behind 
bars until his fingernails turned yellow. "Do not shoot, do not harm the 
hostages or smugglers," were the orders; they would be more useful as live 
witnesses against the one time kingpin of Amsterdam's underground drug ring, 
than they would bloodied with bullet holes. 

They'd closed in then, sneaking, crawling on hands and knees, faces caked 
with dust and fear-drenching sweat, hand over hand, they crept toward the 
car like prowling alley cats to find no resistance within . . . no 
resistance at all. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

Janice had disappeared into the bedroom of her hotel room, collapsing on the 
bed there, falling asleep at once. That had been hours ago, thought Charles, 
looking at his watch. She should awaken any minute. And then what would 
happen? 

The door opened, and Janice came in. Her hair was disheveled and she wore no 
make up. Yet she looked more beautiful than ever, thought Charles. She took 
a step into the sitting room of her hotel suite, scared of Charles, knowing 
what he would think of her. She was bracing herself for the verbal barrage 
that was certain to flood from his mouth. He had seen her in the most 
degraded, vile of situations, and he had witnessed, too, her reactions. 
Janice brushed a tear from her eyes, then lowered them, afraid to look at 
the good, kind man who was to have been her husband. Now she doubted that 
union would ever take place. 

Charles was the embodiment of decency, far above base temptation. Even 
though he had succumbed to Lisa's invitation, it had only happened one time, 
and men could be excused for that. But women.. . no, women shouldn't be 
forgiven for submitting to the excesses Janice had known. 

"Janice . . . ? " His voice was soft. 

She edged toward the wall, eyes carefully averting Charles', waiting for the 
scornful words she deserved. She glanced at him wondering, why was he acting 
like this? and she buried her face in her hands and wept. "Yes?" 

He ambled across the room and took her hands in his. "It's okay, Janice. 
Everything's changed now." 

"Oh, Charles, I'm so sorry, what can I say? I.. . " she stifled a sob. "I.. 
. I really love you." She sniffed. "I.. . I can understand if you don't want 
anything to do with me now. Oh, I can understand that.. . " 

Charles stroked her hair softly. "I've never been good with words, Janice, 
but I want you to know those people did me a favor. I've been a bore . . . a 
real party-pooper my whole life. Never could have fun, always thought of 
what was proper and right." 

"But what about what I did with those men . . . what about that?" she 
challenged. 

"If I'd had the balls, I would have done it myself . . . years ago," Charles 
groaned. 

Janice's blue eyes opened wide. "Charles, you mean you wanted to . . . to do 
it to me?" 

'That's right, Janice. I've wanted to fuck you for years, but there was 
mother and the family name to think about. But what do you say, my lady, 
would you like to make up for lost time?" 

"Oh, Charles!" 

Charles pushed her back towards the sofa. With two eager hands, he pulled 
off the robe she wore and touched for the first time the soft, pliant mounds 
of her firm breasts. 


THE END
