SNM-116 FORCED INTO DAMNATION
[aka 'The Force Of Sex']
by Dan Webster


INTRODUCTION 

Fire is often said to be the one single discovery which led man to rise 
above the beasts and enabled him to distinguish himself as a ruler of the 
earth. But to a man standing on the sidewalk in his pajamas and watching a 
holocaust of orange flame destroying his home and with it everything that he 
spent his life accumulating, fire is a damnation-an evil invented by the 
devil for his persecution. 

And so it is with all the wonders of life on our planet. The rains which 
make our crops grow also make the rivers swell occasionally, drowning us 
without regard to our age, wealth or station in life. The electricity which 
powers our factories breaks loose sometimes, blackening the bodies of the 
unwary and terminating their stay on earth. Each and every force which makes 
life possible is capable of destroying it as well. 

In order to protect ourselves from the dangers that result from the abuse or 
excess of one of life's natural forces, we must educate ourselves and our 
children in their use. What would happen if the man who watched his house 
burn down reacted by teaching his children that fire was evil and that they 
should not only never play with matches, but also that they should never use 
them, look at a flame, or even think about fire? The result, of course, 
would be disastrous. For, since no one in contemporary human society can 
isolate himself from fire, they would inevitably come into contact with it 
at some point in their lives. And without the understanding that can only 
come with informed contemplation, they would have no means of protecting 
themselves against its dangers. 

This is a story about a woman who grew up with an unreasoning and 
unreasonable fear of another of life's vital forces-the force of sex. 
Because her mother had suffered the consequences of its abuse, she had been 
taught to eschew all sexual contact and to resist all sexual thought. The 
result, of course, is catastrophic. 

Connie Dresden is a lady cop-a woman who was devoting her life to the fight 
against the forces of evil and corruption. But because of her repressed 
upbringing, she's ill-equipped to deal with these forces. She's like a 
hunter who shoots at the first boar that he has ever seen. Because he has 
never had the opportunity to study or to contemplate the enemy, he empties 
his gun at the thick bony armor which protects the creature's skull, never 
realizing that its only vulnerable spot is between its front legs. Then, his 
weapon useless and empty, his is torn to shreds by the boar. 

Since sex has always been an unknown quantity to Connie, she's not prepared 
for it when she faces it for the first time-an encounter which was 
inevitable. Again and again she's attacked by the little-understood enemy, 
each attack adding to her knowledge of its nature. But by the time she has 
acquired enough knowledge to fight intelligently, it's too late, for she has 
been destroyed. 

The author's message is only too clear: that fear and ignorance lead to 
weakness. They propagate and foster the very evils from which they run. They 
corrupt as surely as corruption itself-honorable intentions a poor 
substitute for knowledge and understanding. And Connie Dresden stands as a 
symbol of the fear and ignorance which leads each of us to turn his back on 
the things that he should study most. 

Johnny Walker, the Black gang leader, is also a symbol-representing the 
mysterious evil in which each of us shrouds the things that he fears most. 
And just as Connie's encounter with Johnny and with sex, the nemesis of her 
life, is inevitable, so, too, must each of us face that from which he would 
prefer to run. And whether the encounter destroys us, tearing our bodies to 
pieces like a wild boar on a rampage, or it broadens us because we have 
learned to rise above it, will always be seen to depend on how hard we have 
worked at learning to understand ourselves and the forces which oppose us. 

And a reader who takes a lesson from Connie Dresden's mistakes, and from 
those of her mother, has already taken a long step toward that 
understanding. 

-The Publisher 


CHAPTER ONE 

Sheri reached behind her and undid the clasp of her lacy bra. She shrugged 
her shoulders and let the wispy white garment slide down the length of her 
arms, freeing her breasts from the confinement of its tightly constricting 
cups. Then she dropped the bra to the floor and shook her shoulders, letting 
her breasts sway from side to side. 

Although she was thin, Sheri's tits were big enough to fill the cups of her 
size thirty-six-C bra. She ran her hands over them lightly, feeling her 
silver-dollar-size pink nipples begin to pucker and harden. She held them in 
her fingers for a moment, turning them back and forth like the knobs of a 
radio. Then she dropped her hands to the waistband of her black pantyhose. 
Hooking her thumbs under the elastic she began tugging them downward slowly 
and deliberately. 

The John was lying on the bed watching her undress. He hadn't said a word 
since picking her up in the street and had stripped in silence as soon as 
they got into the room. Sheri could see his cock hardening as he let his 
gaze travel up and down the length of her near-naked body. With one hand he 
was idly stroking himself. 

After Sheri had lowered the pantyhose over her hips she stepped closer to 
the bed and stopped swaying her body sensuously. The John could see a few 
wisps of curling pubic hair poking out over the lowered waistband. He held 
his breath, waiting for her to pull it down all the way. He looked up at her 
face and saw that she was licking her lips. 

"Like what you see?" she asked. 

"Haven't seen enough," he responded. His voice was raspy and strident, as 
though he was trying to cover his nervousness. 

Sheri could see that she was turning him on. She liked to turn men on. It 
was one of the few things about her life that gave her any satisfaction at 
all. Every time a man gave her money, it was proof that he wanted her. And 
having men want her was all that she had left. 

She tugged the pantyhose down a little further, exposing her tangled bush of 
pubic hair. It was black, contrasting sharply with the platinum blonde wig 
that she wore. The John drew his breath in sharply at the sight of her naked 
crotch area. "I didn't think you were a natural blonde," he said. Sheri just 
laughed. 

"How about that birth mark on your chin?" he asked. "Is that natural?" 

Sheri laughed again. "No," she giggled. "I put it on with pencil. It's 
star-shaped. Do you like it?" 

But the John wasn't paying any attention to her words. He was staring at her 
lewdly displayed pussy and licking his lips. She suddenly remembered that 
time was money and stepped quickly out of the pantyhose, leaving them in a 
nylon puddle on the floor. She ran one of her hands obscenely up and down 
her exposed cuntal lips as she approached the bed. 

"Now, what would you like?" she asked in a soft voice. . 

"Everything that my ten bucks buy me," he answered. 

Sheri sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the rough woolen blanket 
scratching at the soft skin of her ass. Damn cheap hotel, she thought. With 
all the business I give them you'd think they could afford softer blankets. 
I mmt rent this fuckin' room ten times a day. 

She looked quickly around at the cubicle in which she spent so much of her 
time. The room was small, not much bigger than the sagging double bed which 
occupied most of the floor space. Next to the bed was a nightstand with an 
ashtray and an old lamp with yellowed shade. The ashtray was full of butts, 
some of them lip stick painted. 

Against the far wall was a club chair that looked like it was left over from 
before the flood. Its upholstery was threadbare in several places and the 
outline of a spring could be seen poking against the material of the 
cushion. The management of the Eighth Avenue Manhattan Hotel knew why its 
rooms were so popular. And they knew that their guests didn't rent them for 
sitting in. 

The walls were cracked, and the paint was peeling. The ceiling was 
crisscrossed with a series of cracks and blisters that spelled out "shit" if 
you closed one eye and turned your head to the side. Sheri ought to know. 
She spent enough time looking at it. 

"Hey," the John said. "Quit dreamin' and give me my money's worth, will 
you." 

Sheri turned to look at him, an automatic hooker-smile coming to her lips as 
she did so. "Sorry, hon," she said. "Now what would you like?" 

"Why don't you start with a blowjob," he said. 

Sheri flashed her fast, empty, hooker-smile again and bent over him. His 
cock was standing straight up from the tangled jungle of his matted, brown 
pubic hair. She could smell the aroma of the last cunt that he was in, mixed 
with the stale smell of his own sweat. 

Probably been two weeks since his last bath, she thought. 

Then, not allowing herself the luxury of further time wasted, she brought 
her lips lightly against the rubbery surface of his swollen purple cockhead. 
A glistening drop of dewy moisture oozed from the tightly drawn slit at the 
tip of his penis. Sheri snaked her tongue out and licked the pearly drop off 
with a quick flick of its warmly pink tip. She felt the John's hands groping 
for her tits and she turned her body to make it easier for him. 

Whatever turned him on was all right with her. As long as she turned him 
fast. She had finished daydreaming, and now she was all business. The faster 
she could turn this trick, the faster she could get back onto the street for 
another. It was early and there was still time to make some real money if 
she stopped mooning around. 

She opened her mouth, taking the throbbing purple bulb which capped his 
prick between her lips. She ran her tongue over it in a series of quick wet 
spiraling movements that made him gasp with pleasure. Then she lowered her 
head, taking the entire length of his quivering organ into the warmth of her 
oral cavity. She heard him moan softly and felt his fingers twisting her 
nipples frantically. 

With one hand she cupped his balls and began massaging them slowly. With a 
little imagine finger-work, she thought, maybe I can bring him off without 
even balling him. She felt her mouth filling with a mixture of her own warm 
saliva and his free-flowing lubricating fluid. She knew that it wouldn't be 
long before he popped his load down her throat. Another suck, another buck, 
she thought. 

But suddenly the John arched his back, pressing his hips down into the 
spongy mattress as he pulled his prick from her dripping mouth. "In your 
cunt," he said. "I want to put it in your cunt." 

Sheri shrugged mentally, disappointed by his sudden awakening, and stretched 
out on the bed beside him. "Top or bottom, hon ? " she asked, her voice 
efficient and business-like. 

"You get on top," he answered in a commanding fashion. 

"Whatever you like, hon," she said. She rose to her hands and knees and 
straddled him, moving her cunt into position. She knew that she was dry and 
sore inside, but she hoped that his cock would be wet enough from the 
blowjob not to hurt too much when he entered her. One more trick and I can 
go get fixed, she thought. Then the rest of the day won't be so bad. 

As she positioned herself over the John, she could feel her nipples grazing 
the hair of his chest. They were puckered to semi-erectness and raked at his 
muscular skin. She reached down between their bodies, feeling her soft round 
tits pressing against her arm as she took his stiff cock in her fingers. She 
guided its throbbing length toward the dry lips of her pussy, ready to lower 
herself onto him. Then, just as the quivering cockflesh made contact with 
her cunt, there was a noise in the hall. Sheri sprang from the bed, 
instinctively alert. She began scrambling for her clothes. 

"Hey," stammered the John. "What the hell is going on?" 

"Didn't you hear that noise?" she asked. "I think it's the cops. Get 
dressed. Hurry." 

"What the hell are you talking about . . . " the John began. But his words 
were interrupted by a loud pounding on the door. 

"Police officers," called a voice. "Open up." 

Seconds later the door flew open and a man burst into the room, gun drawn. A 
badge was pinned to the breast pocket of his gray business suit. His jacket 
was unbuttoned, revealing a brown-leather shoulder holster hugging his 
armpit beneath it. 

Sheri stood naked in the center of the room holding her pantyhose in her 
hand. Now that the cops were in the room there was no point in hurrying into 
her clothes. But the John already had his pants on and was reaching for his 
shirt. 

"Finish getting dressed, mister," the cop said putting his gun back into its 
holster. "Then step outside, I want to have a talk with you." Then he turned 
to Sheri and stared for a long silent minute at her naked body. "You're 
under arrest, honey," he said. "Get your clothes on. Officer Dresden will 
stay with you until you're ready to go." 

The cop stepped back to the open door and called, "Connie, come in here, 
please." A tall slender woman stepped into the doorway. She wore the blue 
skirt, white blouse, and blue tie that were the uniform of a New York City 
policewoman. "Stay with Lady Godiva until she's dressed," the male cop said. 
"Then we can get her downtown." He closed the door behind him as he stepped 
out. The John followed him a moment later, his open shoelaces trailing along 
behind him as he walked. 

Officer Connie Dresden looked quickly at Sheri and then turned away, 
embarrassed by the prostitute's nakedness. From the pocket of her crisp 
white blouse she drew a small white card on which several paragraphs were 
neatly typed. She began to read it aloud. 

"It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest. You have the right 
to . . . " As Connie 

Dresden read the familiar phrases, her nervousness left her. It felt good to 
be doing the job that she was trained for. 

Sheri eased her still-naked body to a sitting position on the edge of the 
bed as the policewoman read her her rights. She paid no attention to the 
words. They had been read to her before. Many times. And they had been 
explained to her by the Legal Aid lawyers that the court had always 
appointed for her when she had been busted in the past. She knew the ropes. 
The John wouldn't testify and the case against her would have to be 
dismissed. She would be on the street again by the following morning. 

The little clock in her head was already beginning to calculate how long it 
would be before she could get a fix. Tomorrow morning, she thought. It won't 
be too bad. I've held out longer than that before. 

She took a long look at the policewoman who was still reciting her speech 
about constitutional rights in a mechanical monotone. Sheri had never seen 
this one before. She looked like anything but a cop. With those titties and 
with that ass, Sheri thought, she could be a hooker herself. 

Connie Dresden was tall and slender but her breasts and her behind were full 
and round and made her look more like a bathing suit model than a police 
officer. Her hair was dark and pulled back severely into a tight bun at the 
back of her neck. But Sheri was sure, from the thickness of the bun, that 
when free it would hang to her mid-back. The dark hair framed her lightly 
freckled heart-shaped face, making it seem as white as flour, by comparison. 
Her almond-shaped eyes were bright green in color and sparkled with the 
hopeful idealism of youth. Although she was twenty-four, she didn't look 
more than eighteen or nineteen. 

Still naked, Sheri rose from her sitting position on the bed and walked 
around Connie, looking at her from all sides like a butcher appraising a 
side of beef. "You know, you're not a bad-looking little piece of ass 
yourself," she said brazenly. "What's a good-looking chick like you doing in 
those fuzz duds?" 

Connie's eyes tightened to slits and her lips trembled in anger. Who does 
this pig think she is, talking-to me like that? she thought. She felt like 
slapping her, but restrained herself. 

"Just get your clothes on," she said. "And keep your opinions to yourself. 
This is no game, this is an arrest. And I'm not your friend. I'm a cop. 
You're the criminal and I'm the cop. And I'm bringing you in to be sent to 
jail where people like you belong. Now get dressed." 

She turned her face, averting her gaze from the sight of the naked 
prostitute who had begun to pull her pantyhose over her shapely legs. Connie 
fought to regain control over her emotions. At the police academy she had 
been warned repeatedly about letting a prisoner upset her. Lots of them try 
it, she had been told, hoping to provoke an incident which might lead to a 
charge of police brutality, thus becoming the basis for a deal. Well, this 
one won't be making any deals at my expense, she thought. 

Connie had only been on the police force for a short time and this was her 
first "prost" bust. But she was conscientious and had read the Penal 

Law. Fifteen days was all that the girl would get, but maybe it would be 
enough to turn her from a life of filth and degradation. And if fifteen days 
weren't enough to do the trick, there would be other arrests. And longer 
sentences. 

If animals like this can't be rehabilitated, the policewoman thought, at 
least they can be put safely away in a place where they can't soil and 
corrupt others. Connie Dresden had lived in New York City all her life and 
knew about the scum and the vermin that infested the city and corrupted the 
people who lived in it. 

She had studied the corruption in her police-science classes at City College 
and she had learned how to fight it at the Police Academy. She had learned 
about the vices-illicit gambling, illicit drugs and, worst of all, illicit 
sex-that were the causes of most of the city's crime. She had been graduated 
from the Police Academy six months before, determined to do her share in 
fighting those vices. 

So far, there hadn't been much of an opportunity to do anything more than 
tag along after the detectives and watch them wage war on the forces of 
evil. They usually brought her along whenever they were expecting to have 
female prisoners. Connie had done little more than search them and guard 
them after one of the detectives had made the arrest. But she hoped to 
become a detective herself. One day! Then she would really be in a position 
to fight crime and filth; to help rid the city of some of the scum which 
poisoned it. 

* * * 

Connie had grown up in a cramped and dirty apartment just a few blocks away. 
Although her . old neighborhood lay in the shadow of Times Square, the 
busiest intersection in the world, she had spent much of her childhood 
watching the numbers runners, the dope pushers, and the whores conducting 
their foul business openly in the street. Connie had learned to hate them at 
an early age-them and all that they stood for. 

"Scum" her mother had called them. "The scum of the earth." 

Connie's mother had become pregnant at the age of sixteen, having been 
dragged into an empty basement and raped by three of the neighborhood 
toughs. She had no way of knowing which of them was the father of her 
daughter and she didn't care. At the trial of her three rapists, the defense 
lawyer had convinced the jury, along with everybody else in the courtroom, 
that the sixteen-year-old girl had enticed the "youths" into the basement 
and seduced them. 

When the jury brought in its verdict of "not guilty," Connie's mother had 
walked from the courtroom shamed and humiliated. When she told her parents, 
later that same day, that she was leaving to live by herself, they hadn't 
objected. If anything, they had been relieved. They had no desire to bear 
the shame of the sinful acts by which their daughter had defiled herself. 
They never knew their granddaughter. 

Two months before Connie was born, her mother found a dingy little apartment 
on the corner of Forty-Third Street and Ninth Avenue. Ever since then it had 
been her private hell; punishment for the sin of her adolescence. And Connie 
she regarded as living proof of that sin. 

Connie's indoctrination began as soon as she was old enough to understand. 
"All men are criminals," her mother had said bitterly. "Rutting beasts 
capable of no thought other than the satisfaction of their own perverted 
desires. But you can't blame them for this any more than you can blame a pig 
for eating garbage." 

Connie understood. Men weren't responsible for their depravity since, after 
all, it was their nature. Sex was filthy. Sex was perverted. But the sin 
never fell on the soul of a man. It was the woman who encouraged him and led 
him on. Connie's mother recognized her own guilt and made certain that her 
daughter, too, recognized it. She hoped that Connie would learn from her 
mistake and avoid repeating her sin. 

"You must be on your guard at all times," her mother had warned. "It's going 
to be harder for you than it is for other girls your age. You are the 
daughter of sin; the product of a sinful union." 

Connie tried, all her life, to make her parent proud of her; to show her 
that she would never fall into the pit of sin and depravity which was her 
heritage. And, as her mother had predicted, it was harder for Connie than it 
was for the other girls. By the time she was twelve, her breasts had begun 
to develop and to push proudly against the fabric of the boy-cut shirts 
which she always wore in a vain attempt to hide them. 

By the time that she was thirteen, boys had really started to notice her and 
her budding figure. They scuffled for a place near her on the lines at 
school and were always finding excuses to bump into her, mauling her tits 
with their elbows and even with their hands. 

When she was fourteen, she began receiving invitations from older boys to 
everything from school dances to quiet weekends in the country-She was 
always swift and unhesitating in her refusals. Her knowing mother had taught 
her that even the most innocent hesitation could be misinterpreted by a boy 
and could lead to sin. 

But in spite of her open hostility, the boys continued to ask her for dates, 
continued to brush against her in the auditorium and on line, and continued 
to whisper indecent proposals in her ears. Even grown men ogled her and 
looked for ways to peek into her blouse whenever she bent over. When they 
talked to her they looked for reasons to touch her, to put their hands on 
her shoulder or on her knee in a phony fatherly way. 

Connie was always quick to shake off the over-friendly hands. Her mother had 
taught her to avoid doing anything which might make a man think that he 
could have his way with her. "Once they get started," she had warned, 
"they're too strong to be stopped. And if you don't stop them, it isn't 
their fault." 

Connie knew that there were plenty of girls who not only didn't try to stop 
the explorations of male hands, but who also actually encouraged their 
advances. And she was sure that these women were largely responsible for the 
decline in morality which characterized twentieth-century America. And that 
was why she had joined the police force-to prove to herself, to her mother, 
and to the world that a woman could dedicate her life to fighting sin rather 
than fostering it. 

* * * 

If only my mother had lived long enough to see me in my uniform, she 
thought. That would have proved that she didn't have to worry about me. But 
her mother had died two years before, poisoned by her own bitterness. 

Connie looked at Sheri, the blonde-wigged, star birth-marked prostitute, and 
an expression of contempt came over her face. The girl had pulled on her 
pantyhose and was zipping her skirt when she saw Connie looking at her. She 
detected the glint of hatred in the young policewoman's eyes and shuddered 
involuntarily. "I'm going as fast as I can," she said, anticipating Connie's 
command to hurry it up. 

Sheri's breasts bobbed as she bent to retrieve her bra from the floor. She 
slipped it over her arms and stuffed her tits carefully into the cups. "Will 
you snap this for me, hon," she said, turning her back to Connie. "I usually 
get the Johns to do it for me." 

"Well, you'll just have to do it yourself this time," Connie said. "I'm not 
your maid. I'm a cop and you're a criminal. Remember that." 

A shiver passed through Sheri's body as she reached behind her to snap her 
own bra. This bitch gives me the creeps, she thought. She acts like she 
doesn't have a cunt. She picked up her sweater and put it on quickly, 
anxious to be dressed and out of there. She had the feeling that the 
policewoman hated her enough to kill her and she couldn't imagine why. But 
it frightened her. 

"All right," she said. "I'm ready." 

Connie wondered for a moment whether she was supposed to put the cuffs on 
the girl. She didn't seem dangerous, but Connie wasn't sure. Just then the 
door opened and the detective with whom she had come popped his head into 
the room. "Everything all right?" he asked. 

"Sure," she answered. "But this one sure took her time getting dressed." 

"Nobody's in a hurry to get to jail," he answered with a grin. "Let's go, 
kid." 

Sheri walked to the door and Connie followed. When they got to the street, 
the detective opened the back door of the police car and assisted the young 
woman of ill fame into the back seat with an extravagant flourish of his 
arm. "Your coach, Milady," he said. 

Sex fiend, Connie thought. Without a word she walked to the passenger side 
of the police car and climbed into the front seat. She looked through the 
wire mesh which separated the front seat from the back and saw the detective 
hand the prostitute a cigarette and light it for her. Connie turned around 
to face front. Staring out the window, she rode in silence until the car 
pulled up in front of the precinct. 

She led the prisoner from the car and was about to escort her to the squad 
room for booking when the desk sergeant spotted her. "Hey, Connie," he 
called. "Better let someone else take the prisoner. Lieutenant Blumenthal 
wants to see you." 

"Me?" Connie asked, a faint look of worry coming to her face. "What does he 
want to see me about?" 

The sergeant shrugged and grinned. "He forgot to tell me," he said. 

Leaving her prisoner in the charge of another policewoman, Connie walked up 
the rickety stairway which led to the lieutenant's office. She knocked on 
the frosted glass of his office door and opened it at his musical "come 
ee-un." 

"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?" she asked, her voice serious. 

"Why, yes, Connie. Yes, I did," he said. Lieutenant Blumenthal smiled at her 
in a friendly fatherly way. He was a heavy set man of about forty-five with 
a ruddy face and a thick walrus moustache. Although his hair was gray, the 
moustache was a reddish brown. Connie thought that it gave him the 
appearance of a comic-book character. But she respected the lieutenant. He 
was the only man that she had ever met who didn't seem to be thinking about 
sex all the time. 

Connie sank into the soft-cushioned, overstuffed chair which faced the 
lieutenant's desk. He smiled again and said, "Understand you went out on a 
'prost' bust today. How did you like it?" 

"like it?" she said incredulously. "How could anyone like something like 
that?" Then, calming herself by a deliberate act of will, she added, "But at 
least I can take some satisfaction in knowing that that vile creature will 
be off the street for fifteen days." 

The lieutenant's face broke into a wide mirthful grin. "Fifteen days?" he 
said, echoing Connie's incredulity. "We'll be lucky if we can keep her 
fifteen hours." 

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What about the Penal Law? It says Class-B 
misdemeanor. Fifteen days." 

"Ah, yes, the Penal Law," Lieutenant Blumenthal said slowly. "Well, my dear, 
it may take you a while to learn this, but there's a big difference between 
the law and enforcing the law. Did you see her take any money?" 

"No, of course not," Connie said, a bit shaken. 

"And nobody else did, either. We haven't got a case." The lieutenant's sad 
expression told Connie that he was almost as displeased with the situation 
as she was. "But she's only a small fish, anyway," he continued. "If we 
tried to lock up every whore in New York City, there wouldn't be any room in 
the jails for the real criminals. And it's the real criminals that I want to 
talk to you about." 

"What do you mean?" Connie asked, uncertain of why she had been sent for. 

"Junk! Heroin! That's the real culprit," he said. "If we can't stop the drug 
traffic in this city we'll never be able to clean up the streets. Junk! It's 
everywhere. Have you heard about the rash of overdoses in Forest Hills?" 

"Yes," she answered. "Two kids died in the last couple of weeks, I believe." 

"Correction," said the lieutenant. "Three! The third one died this morning." 

"But what does that have to do with us ? " Connie asked. "Forest Hills isn't 
our precinct. It isn't even our borough. Forest Hills is where the rich 
folks live. We've got troubles enough down here." 

"Troubles, yes," said the lieutenant with a smile. "But troubles enough? 
Never. You see, when some ghetto-dwelling junkie overdoses down here, not 
too many people give a damn. But when it happens to a couple of smart 
college kids up in Forest Hills, a lot of people start getting 
uncomfortable. And one of them is the mayor. It seems that his telephone has 
been busy all day. Quite a few of those influential Forest Hills folks want 
to know what he's doing about 'their' problem." 

"Everybody's got problems, Lieutenant," Connie said, still not sure of what 
he was getting at. 

"But Forest Hills is something special," he continued. "The dope pushers 
don't do business in the streets up there like they do here in this 
neighborhood. And that makes them harder to find. That's where you come in 
Connie." 

"What do you mean?" she asked. 

"The mayor has asked for my help," the lieutenant explained. "He needs an 
undercover agent to infiltrate the Forest Hills youth culture. Someone young 
and relatively unknown. Someone who has never worked Forest Hills or any of 
the neighborhoods around it. And most important of all, we need someone who 
doesn't look like a cop. Someone who'll be able to gain the confidence of 
the kids. 

"And that's the hard part," he continued. "Finding someone who doesn't look 
like a cop. You see, most cops look like cops. I can't tell you what it 
is-perhaps the facial expression, or the way we walk-but there is something 
about a cop. Most of those kids can spot one a mile away. But you've only 
been on the force for six months, Connie. You haven't acquired that 'cop' 
look yet. You're still fresh and clean. You could be a schoolteacher, a 
college student, a nurse maybe. Anything but a cop." 

"What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?" Connie asked. It sounded like he 
was about to give her an important assignment and she wanted to let him know 
how willing she was to undertake it. 

"It's an undercover assignment, Connie," the lieutenant said. "If you manage 
to pull it off I can almost guarantee your transfer to the detective squad. 
I know you'd like that." 

"like it?" Connie interjected. "like it? Just tell me when I start and what 
I have to do?" 

"It's pretty simple, really," the lieutenant said. "But there is some 
element of danger. You'll move to Forest Hills and pose as an art student. 
Do your best to work your way into the confidence of the young drug users. 
You'll find that most of them frequent a place called the Glass Onion. It's 
a kind of a discotheque, but they use it as a hangout and meeting place. 
Then I want you to buy some heroin." 

"You want me to what?" Connie asked. Her eyes opened wide in surprise. 

"You heard me," the lieutenant said. "Buy some heroin. It's a lot easier 
than you might think. Chances are that any of the kids that hang out at the 
Glass Onion can get you a fix. But that's not what we're after. We want the 
supplier." 

"You mean you want me to buy a large quantity of it?" she asked. 

"It doesn't matter how much you buy," he answered. "The tiniest crumb is 
enough to get us an arrest warrant. Just make sure you buy it from someone 
who's in a position to sell a large quantity. Think you can handle it?" 

"I'm sure of it," she answered. "And thanks for your confidence." 

 CHAPTER TWO 

When Johnny Walker laughed, there was no mirth in the sound. To Johnny, 
laughter, like all other expressions of human emotion, was no more than a 
tool-an instrument of deception-to be used in the manipulation of people. 
While his soft, almost-hypnotic base voice might lull strangers into a false 
sense of security, those who knew Johnny knew him to be as cold and as hard 
as the knife that was his ever-present companion. 

Johnny was lounging on the raised black platform in the center of his living 
room, dressed comfortably in green double-knit slacks and a green-and-yellow 
smoking jacket. Around his neck was a white satin ascot, tied loosely and 
tucked into the front of the jacket. The stark whiteness of the material 
contrasted sharply with the coal-black color of his skin. 

Johnny laughed again, flashing two rows of shiny white teeth. One of the 
upper centrals was capped in gold, the white tooth enamel showing through a 
heart-shaped cutout in the center of the cap. Gloria stared at it in 
fascination as Johnny's upper lip curled back to let the laugh out. 

Gloria was on her knees in front of the platform, tears streaming down her 
cheeks. "Please, Johnny," she begged. "Just one shot. Just one shot and then 
I won't ask you again. I'll kick it, I swear. Just let me have this one shot 
and then, so help me, I'll be through with heroin for the rest of my life." 

Johnny laughed again, shifting his six-foot-two frame to a more comfortable 
position on the foam rubber surface of the platform. He was broad and well 
muscled-built like the heavyweight fighter that he could have been if he 
hadn't found an easier way to make a living. A pink scar running from a 
point alongside his right eye nearly to his chin was evidence that things 
hadn't always come easy. 

Johnny Walker had been born in Corona, one of New York City's lesser-known 
slums. Although every bit as oppressive and as savage as New York's other 
Black ghettoes, Corona never received much attention from the City's 
sensation-seeking tabloids, perhaps because it was located in the borough of 
Queens, always less dramatic than Manhattan. As a result, Corona received 
even fewer city services than the better-known Harlem and Bedford-Stuyvesant 
sections. 

Ever since he was a kid, Johnny fought for everything that he got. At first 
his fighting was restricted to the crowded two-room apartment occupied by 
his mother and her family of twelve. Back then the victims of his fury had 
been his brothers, his sisters, and his cousins. And his rewards had been a 
few more inches of elbow room and a couple of extra forkfuls of hominy 
grits, stolen from someone else's plate when his mother wasn't looking. 

By the time he was ten, Johnny's fighting had moved on to the streets and 
into the yard of the broken-down old Corona school building that he visited 
whenever the mood was upon him. Children three or four years older than he 
were already learning to fear his quick temper and his flying fists. But 
Johnny didn't emerge completely unscathed from his fights. 

Having spent the early part of his life making enemies, it was only natural 
that some of them would look for a way to strike back at him. It happened 
one day when he was twelve years old. Johnny found himself cornered in one 
of Corona's garbage-strewn back alleys, surrounded by six of the young Black 
boys who had felt the force of his wrath in the past. 

After beating him for the better part of a half-hour, the boys had left him 
for dead, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood. But Johnny, who was 
tougher than they reckoned, had managed to drag himself home where his 
mother, using a darning needle and black button thread, sewed up the gash on 
his face and patched up hi: other injuries. 

Johnny stayed home for two weeks, licking his wounds and waiting for his 
strength to return. Then, borrowing a knife from one of his older brothers, 
he went after the boys who had attacked him. He was patient and cunning, 
waiting for an opportunity to get each of them alone. When Johnny's rampage 
of vengeance had ended, five of the boys wore facial scars like his own. The 
sixth was pronounced dead on arrival at Elmhurst General Hospital, the cause 
of death officially listed as "loss of blood." 

Johnny never bothered to return the knife to his brother, keeping it with 
him ever since. It was the only weapon he ever needed in a world in which 
only the strong survived and compassion was a weakness. Few people ever 
bested him in a fight, and those who did always lived to regret it. For 
Johnny believed that a reputation for making life unpleasant for anyone who 
tangled with him was the only kind of life insurance that would do him any 
good. It worked for him. 

By the time Johnny was sixteen, he had five girls turning tricks for 
him-standing under the lamp-posts at the corner of One-Hundred-Eighth Street 
and Northern Boulevard waiting for the "white trade" that drove down to 
Corona at night hoping to pick up some Black pussy and maybe change their 
luck. From each of the girls Johnny collected seventy or eighty percent of 
the take enough to pay for the imagine clothes that he had gotten used to 
wearing and for the rent on the apartment that he had been living in ever 
since his mother had thrown him out calling him "trash" and telling her 
daughters to stay away from him. He didn't spend any of the money on a car, 
though. Because it would be two years before he was old enough to drive. 

In return, Johnny gave his girls protection. And he gave them junk. It 
hadn't taken Johnny long to learn that junk was the key to manipulating 
people in the ghetto. And he had a hunch that it might be the key to 
manipulating them on the outside, too. At sixteen, he didn't know much about 
life outside the ghetto. But he meant to find out. 

To the police, Johnny Walker was just another neighborhood punk, making 
trouble now, but-likely to spend his more mature years as a porter or a 
bootblack or a taxi driver over in Forest Hills. Most of them didn't even 
know him by name. 

But to the men who profit by the police department's mistakes, Johnny Walker 
was distinguishing himself as a tough-but smart-young, independent 
racketeer. A kid who hadn't been to school but knew how to get his way with 
people. A kid who knew what made them tick. The men were especially 
impressed by the fact that, although Johnny had been dipping a finger in the 
small-fry dope traffic of Corona's back streets, he had been smart enough to 
stay off the stuff himself. Maybe he could even be relied upon. 

It wasn't long before Johnny was approached by these men, and a deal was 
made. And it wasn't long before Johnny added numbers running to his 
burgeoning criminal operations. Johnny Walker was a man on the way up. He 
had already started thinking about what color Cadillac that he would buy. 
Next year. When he was old enough to drive. 

When Johnny got his Cadillac a year later, he had already begun to outgrow 
Corona. He couldn't see any reason for staying out of Jackson Heights to the 
west or Elmhurst to the east. Color barriers meant nothing to him. Johnny 
had no prejudices. He hated everybody. 

Now, looking down at Gloria kneeling on the floor and blubbering like a 
baby, Johnny laughed again. Corona was a long way off and a long time 
before. He remembered that day, twelve years before, when he had bought his 
first Cadillac, paying in cash to the amazement of the high-talking white 
salesman. He had driven his new car straight to Forest Hills. Not more than 
two miles south of Corona via One-Hundred-Eighth Street, it had been a whole 
different world to him then-a world in which his new Cadillac didn't seem 
like such a big deal. He remembered stopping on Queens Boulevard to look 
around and resolving to settle for nothing less than the nicest apartment on 
the highest floor of the tallest building. 

And now, twelve years later, he had all the things that he had dreamed about 
as a kid. His penthouse apartment in the Silver Towers was probably the most 
desirable in Forest Hills. His living room had been designed by one of New 
York's leading decorators. There was no other like it, anywhere. The floor 
was done in white vinyl with big splashes of bright color scattered 
carelessly across it like the spots on an artists palette. All the furniture 
was of molded plastic and foam rubber, rising out of the floor in all manner 
of other-worldly shapes and designs, yet each piece was perfectly 
comfortable and completely functional. Each piece of furniture was colored 
to match the section of floor that it occupied, making the whole room appear 
to be a cohesively molded unit. 

In the center of the room was a black plastic platform, raised to the same 
height and serving the same purpose as a sofa. When Johnny was at home he 
occupied it, using the platform as his throne. All the other seats in the 
room had been carefully arranged so that they faced the black platform. The 
Forest Hills crime king liked his subjects to be attentive. Johnny liked the 
effect. It pleased him, as did the sight of Gloria, her dark face stained 
with tears, groveling at his feet. 

"Please, Johnny," she sobbed. "I'll do anything for you. Anything you ask. 
Just give me a shot. Please. Just one shot." 

Johnny smiled, flashing his gold-capped tooth. "Anything I say, huh?" he 
said, frightening her with his sudden affability. "Wait a minute, then. I 
want Foxy to be here." 

Then, turning away from Gloria and facing the back of the apartment, he 
called, "Foxy! Foxy, come on out here." Foxy was one of Johnny's henchmen. 
Along with the other two, Cobb and Edward, he occupied the rear section of 
Johnny's penthouse, converted from what had formerly been two apartments. 
Foxy was Johnny's closest associate-though not his friend, for he had none. 
He was the muscle that Johnny used for his dirty work now that he had risen 
above soiling his own hands. If Johnny Walker was Forest Hills' vice king, 
then Foxy was his Captain of the Guard, his enforcer, carrying out the big 
man's orders and seeing to it that all his underlings did the same. 

A moment after Johnny called him, Foxy entered the room, his white skin 
appearing almost yellow, a result of the fact that he rarely went outside in 
daylight. He was short-about five-foot-six-and built like a bullet. Even his 
head was bullet-shaped, coming to a bluntly rounded point at the top. His 
gray-nearly white-hair was cropped close to his head, the bristly covering 
accentuating his bullet-shaped skull and making him look like a gnome. 

Foxy was dressed in a stained leather vest and equally stained leather 
pants. The bulging muscles of his shoulders, back and biceps threatened to 
tear the vest apart at the seams. His pants, fastened at the front with a 
leather thong, gaped open, revealing the curling growth of silvery hair on 
his belly and loins. 

"Foxy, you know Gloria, don't you?" Johnny said, his voice taking on a 
mockingly courteous cadence. 

"Yes, I believe I do," Foxy answered, sensing the game that his boss was 
playing. Foxy's voice was gruff, as though hoarsened but not quieted by a 
permanent case of laryngitis. 

Gloria began to sob again. "Oh, come on Johnny," she wailed. "Don't tease 
me. Foxy knows me as well as you do. I've been living in your bedroom for 
the past three months." 

Johnny looked angry. "Shut up, bitch," he spat. "You said you'd do anything 
for a shot. Now's your chance to prove it. Take off your clothes." 

Gloria looked up at Foxy and her eyes opened wide. Then she turned back to 
Johnny. "Oh, come on, Johnny," she said, her voice falling to a whisper. 
"Not in front of him. I'm your girl. Yours alone. Please, Johnny. Don't make 
me do this. I'm your girl." She began to cry and the rest of her words were 
swallowed in her sobs. 

"Then do as I tell you," Johnny responded coldly, his lips drawn tightly 
across his flashing teeth. "You want a shot. Now take off your clothes." 
Then, changing his tone to a friendlier one, he added, "I just want Foxy to 
see your tracks-your needle marks-so he'll know how badly you need the fix. 
You're still my girl." 

Gloria brought her sobbing under control although the tears continued to 
fall. "If you say so, Johnny," she said hopelessly. She rose from the floor 
without using her hands to assist her. Her lean body was lithe and sinewy. 
Before meeting Johnny, she had been a dancer, working whenever she was lucky 
enough to get an occasional chorus part in an off-Broadway show. 

But her legs trembled as she stood before Johnny trying to compose herself 
so that she could do as he had ordered. Johnny looked at her without saying 
another word. Her skin was brown, the color of chocolate milk, and her hair 
was done in an Afro that stood out three or four inches from her head. Her 
thin face, high cheekbones, and long, narrow nose was evidence of the 
American Indian blood which had run through the veins of her maternal 
grandfather. Her eyes, round and very dark, were framed by long curling 
lashes and perfectly formed eyebrows. She hadn't been a heroin addict long 
enough to lose her beauty. But it wouldn't be much longer now. 

Gloria's tits were small, barely disturbing the lean curve of her body under 
the soft, black, long-sleeved sweater that she was wearing. Her nipples 
poked juttingly against the material. But her dancer's legs were muscular 
and her ass full, round, and well developed. It had been her ass which had 
first drawn Johnny to her three months before at a party given by the 
producer of an off-Broadway musical. Now he was tired of her, and impatient 
with the addiction which he had given her and which now had robbed her of 
her last vestige of pride. 

"Come on, girl," he said. "Foxy hasn't got all day." His voice was soft but 
menacing. Gloria shuddered, her need for junk having not quite blocked the 
realization of what Johnny Walker had helped her to become. 

Resigned to her lack of choice she reached for the buttons at the front of 
her sweater and began to undo them, one by one. When she opened the third 
button, the sweater fell open, revealing the soft curve of her petite tits 
and allowing the air of the room to caress the firm black nipples, bringing 
them to turgid erection. She finished unbuttoning her sweater and shrugged 
out of it, her pert little titties quivering from side to side. 

"Rub 'em," Johnny ordered. "Rub your titties so that Foxy can see how nice 
and firm they are." 

Gloria's lower lip began to tremble as she reached up to comply with 
Johnny's command. She had lived with him for three months now, and had been 
happy to satisfy his every sexual whim in the privacy of his bedroom. He had 
often asked her to caress her own body, while he watched, but he had never 
humiliated her this way before, making her perform for another man. 

She cupped her tits in her hands, rolling them from side to side and 
brushing the tips of her fingers across the stiff nipples. From the corner 
of her eye she could see Foxy licking his lips as she stroked the small, but 
firm, cone-shaped mounds of brown flesh. 

"Take everything off," Johnny said. "I want Foxy to see your ass." 

Without hesitation, Gloria dropped her hands to her waist and undid the snap 
which closed the waistband of her flare-bottomed yellow pants. She unzipped 
the front and began working the pants down over her full round hips. She was 
numb to her own humiliation now, thinking only of the heroin that Johnny 
would give her when he would have finished tormenting her. Thinking about 
the way everything would suddenly be all right, when the needle slipped into 
her vein, was almost enough to make her degradation bearable. 

Gloria dropped her pants to the floor and stepped out of them. She wore 
nothing but the black lace panties which clung to her hips and stretched 
snugly across her ass. She could feel Foxy's eyes boring right through the 
flimsy material. She was about to remove them when Johnny spoke. 

"Come here, Gloria," he said. She stood in front of him her thumbs hooked 
into the elastic waistband of her black drawers. "Bend over now," he 
ordered, gesturing with his hands. like an automaton, Gloria hastened to 
obey him, bending forward, and resting the palms of her hands on the 
platform in front of her. 

Johnny, who was sitting off to one side, leaned forward and placed his hand 
on Gloria's hip. "Look at this, Foxy," he said. "See what a fine pair of 
legs she has." As he spoke, his long black fingers stroked the backs of her 
thighs, running lightly across their pocked surface. "But look at all these 
junk-tracks." His fingertips lingered at each of the dozens of needle scars 
that dotted the silky smooth skin of her shapely brown thighs. 

Then he suddenly took hold of the elastic waistband of her lacy black 
panties and pulled them roughly downward. Gloria could feel the material 
straining to hold together, and then parting with a loud rip. Johnny tore 
the panties from her in tatters, a scrap of material catching between her 
legs and bruising her cunt as he pulled. Now she was naked, her full round 
ass fully exposed to Foxy's gaze as she bent over the platform. Johnny 
reached between her legs with one hand and rubbed the puffed-up lips of her 
glistening pink pussy. 

In spite of her shame and humiliation, Gloria felt her cuntal lips beginning 
to pout and her cunt juices beginning to flow, moistening the pink folds of 
her pussy flesh. Johnny parted the hair-fringed lips and allowed some of the 
thick creamy moisture to ooze between them. Dipping his index finger into 
the cream, he spread it thickly over the length of her slit, smearing some 
of it into the wiry black hair which surrounded her cunt in a furry 
triangle. 

"Nice and wet," he said. "Here, have a taste." Pulling his hand suddenly 
from her cunt, he brought it to a position directly in front of her face. He 
held his index finger straight out under her nose and wagged it slowly from 
side to side. "Have a taste," he repeated. 

Gloria heard Foxy laugh as she snaked out her tongue and licked the juice 
off Johnny's finger. 

She couldn't see him, bent over the way she was, but she knew that he was 
somewhere behind her and that he was enjoying the sight of her obscenely 
naked ass and pussy, naked and lewdly offered for his amusement. She wanted 
to die! 

But Johnny had reached for her cunt again and was rubbing it gently up and 
down. In spite of her shame and humiliation, she felt her clitoris spring to 
erection. Johnny's finger was probing the little tent of cuntal flesh which 
sheathed it, probing in the cuntal juices for the pea-size pleasure button. 
When his fingernail began scratching gently at the little pearly erection of 
flesh, she drew her breath in sharply, unable to restrain the excitement 
which was building inside her body. She hated Johnny for his control over 
her, just as she had once loved him for it. 

"like that?" Johnny asked, his voice soft. 

"Mmmmmm, yesssss," she cooed, for a moment forgetting the presence of Foxy 
and imagining that she and Johnny were alone. 

"Then do it yourself," Johnny said, his voice suddenly hard and cold again. 

Hot tears of shame filled Gloria's eyes and began to run down her cheeks. 
How could he do this to her after all the time they had spent together? He 
was making her degrade herself in front of Foxy; he was making sport of her 
by holding back the shot of dope that he knew she needed so badly. 

Gloria's voice was racked with sobs as she whispered, a look of quiet 
desperation on her face, "Please, Johnny. Don't make me do that." 

Johnny smiled contemptuously, flashing his gold-capped tooth again. "You 
don't have to," he said. "Unless you want a shot." 

Leaning all her weight on her left hand, Gloria, still bent forward over the 
platform, reached between her legs and rubbed her own cunt. She stroked the 
entire moistened length with her fingers, conscious that the fleshy lips 
were flowering open excitedly. She dipped one long supple finger inside, 
moving it slowly around in the hot creamy warmth of her inner cunt. The 
little shocks of pleasure that were flashing through her body were somehow 
beginning to soothe the burning embarrassment that she had felt a moment 
before. 

She stiffened her middle finger and began driving it, cock-like, in and out 
of her drooling pussy. Johnny was toying with her, idly stroking her tits. 
Little electric tingles of delight were starting to emanate from the 
quivering nerve-endings which were concentrated in her nipples and were 
traveling downward to ripple into full scale tidal currents in her belly as 
they joined the pleasure-waves generated by the plunging finger with which 
she stroked her own pussy. Her hips began to move involuntarily, keeping 
rhythm with the fucking motion of her finger. She could feel the warm air of 
the room washing over her ass-hole as her firm round cheeks separated and 
came together in time with her movements. 

"Her ass is for you, Foxy," Johnny said, his voice hard and cold again. 
"And, Gloria," he added, "if you want that shot, you'd better not miss a 
stroke with your finger." 

When Gloria heard Johnny's words, her blood ran cold. He was offering her to 
Foxy, like some morsel of patronage passed along by a king to his prime 
minister. "Her ass," he had said. Gloria was about to protest when she 
remembered what he had said about not giving her a shot. Her need for heroin 
made her whip her finger even faster in and out of her cunt. In a few 
minutes this will be over, she thought, and then I can get my shot. 

She had too much invested to blow it now. And it wouldn't be the first time 
that she had been fucked in the ass. Johnny had been especially fond of 
doing that to her the past three months, and she had become a veteran in the 
time that she had lived with him. 

Gritting her teeth she tried to prepare herself for whatever was coming. 
Behind her she heard Foxy fumbling with the leather thong at the front of 
his pants. As she continued fingering her own pussy, she leaned forward a 
little further so that she could look back at him through her legs. 

Oh my God, she thought suddenly as she saw his pants drop to the floor. He's 
tremendous. His cock is too big. I'll never be able to take it in my 
ass-hole. Above her, she heard Johnny chuckling, as though something very 
funny was happening. She knew that he was laughing at her. 

Foxy was now moving toward her, his massive cock swaying from side to side 
as he approached. The sight of that mastodon terrified her. It was long and 
thick-as big around as the base of a beer bottle. The swollen purple 
cockhead was the size of a man's fist-thick and massive, engorged with blood 
and hardened by lust. She was sure that he would kill her with it. 

Although she knew that it was hopeless, Gloria couldn't keep herself from 
begging Johnny for mercy. "Please," she wailed. "I'll never live through 
this. Johnny, have a heart. Haven't I meant anything to you?" 

But Johnny's answer was clipped and curt. "Forget it, Foxy," he said. "She 
doesn't want that shot after all." 

"No, I didn't mean it." Gloria said imploringly. "I've got to have the shot. 
I'll do it. I'll do anything." 

"Well this is your last chance," he said. "No more complaints. You're liable 
to hurt Foxy's feelings." 

Foxy was right behind her now. She could smell his body as he approached. It 
smelled as though he hadn't washed in a month. Mechanically, she continued 
to piston her finger in and out of her pussy, afraid that if she stopped, 
Johnny would make good his threat to withhold the shot. She put all her 
weight on her left hand, leaning forward as far as she could until her face 
pressed aeainst the cool vinyl of the platform's mattress. Johnny had moved 
back for a better view. 

Gloria felt Foxy's ham-like hands on her fright-quivering body now, grabbing 
her hips and pinching the softly rounded cheeks of her ass. The flesh was 
firm and muscular from all the exercise that she had gotten as a dancer. Her 
inactivity of the past three months, lying in bed all day waiting for 
Johnny's pleasure, had robbed her thighs and buttocks of some of their tone. 
But they hadn't yet gone to flab. 

She could feel Foxy's hands pulling roughly at the soft mounds of flesh, 
separating the cheeks to reveal the tightly winking brown slit of her anus, 
nestled safely in the valley between them. She felt the heat of his breath 
on her ass-hole as he leaned forward and brought his face next to the 
pungent slit. Since she had been using junk steadily, Gloria hadn't bathed 
much herself. The fragrance that greeted Foxy's nostrils was heady and 
aromatic. It made his already-stiff cock throb painfully with desire. 

Hacking a gob of saliva from the back of his throat, Foxy spat onto the 
tight brown slit that lewdly lay offered up before him. He hit the mark, the 
thick ball of saliva thoroughly coating the puckered lips of Gloria's soft 
brown ass-hole. Then, jabbing at her with a stiff finger, he forced some of 
the lubricating moisture into her anal crevice itself, probing relentlessly 
against the opening until finally the pouting lips separated admitting his 
finger as far as the second knuckle. He twisted it one way and then the 
other, smearing the warm saliva around the inner walls of her clutching 
rectum. 

Then, with no further preparation, he straightened up and stepped into 
position, the thick bulbous head of his swollen prick nudging insistently at 
the tensely resisting lips of her glisteningly lubricated ass-hole. Gloria 
continued stroking her cunt automatically. Fear had stopped the flow of 
moisture and her probing finger irritated and bruised the dry inner walls of 
her twat. But Johnny's threat kept her hand working, moving her finger in 
and out. 

She knew that Foxy would drive his mammoth hard-on into her any minute now 
and tried to prepare herself for the searing pain that would follow his 
entry. But no amount of preparation could have readied her for the sudden 
agony of his penetration. like a powerful battering ram, Foxy's cock, 
swollen with lustful desire, plowed its way past the protesting lips of her 
tormented ass-hole and buried itself in her warmly clasping anal depths. 
Gloria couldn't contain the gasp of pain which tore from her lips as his 
relentless prick assaulted her brutally, punishing her anus and rectum with 
twisting, tearing in-strokes that seemed to reach her belly itself and with 
pulling, tugging out strokes that brought the inner walls of her anal cavity 
following his pistoning penis halfway out of her. 

But heedless of her agony, Foxy continued his buggering, feeling the walls 
of her lower bowel clasp tightly at his cock, milking it, squeezing it, 
stroking it in a series of spiraling contractions that threatened to swallow 
it like a snake might swallow a live mouse. He could feel the hair of her 
back turned pussy stroking at his heavily swinging sack of balls as he 
pumped his body forward and back, driving his cock yet deeper into her 
nether channel. 

Gloria had abandoned the stroking of her own pussy now and was using both 
hands to support her body weight. Cries of pain were tearing rhythmically 
from her lips as Foxy pounded her like a piece of tough meat, forcing his 
thick cock into the tunneling warmth of her anus, overcoming the weak 
resistance offered by her elastic ass muscles. He felt the curling silver 
hair of his pubic mound, dank with a mixture of sweat and sexual secretions, 
crushing against the chocolate-brown softness of the lobes of the girl's ass 
and knew that he had plowed her to the hilt. 

He drew his hips all the way back, moving them from side to side, until no 
more than the bulbous head of his punishing cock remained buried in her 
swampy anal depths. Then, just as Gloria was beginning to hope that he would 
withdraw completely, he rammed forward again, driving the thick pole of 
hotly palpitating flesh as far as it could go into the tightly constricting 
channel of her suffering ass-hole. An animal groan of satisfied pleasure 
escaped from his throat drowning Gloria's wail of agony. 

Foxy could feel a climax building in his swinging swaying scrotum. The thin 
muscular body of Johnny Walker's chocolate dancer was wrapped tightly around 
the shank of his meaty cock, pulling its thick collar of flesh up and down 
as he ass-fucked her. The fact that she had been Walker's girl for the past 
few months made her even more attractive to Foxy. Degrading her this way 
while Johnny looked on in amusement seemed to put Foxy on the same level as 
his boss and made him feel important. He knew that he rose a notch in 
Johnny's estimation for every tormented cry that his cudgel-cock brought 
from Gloria's tortured lips. 

Her ass-hole was wonderfully tight, and Foxy knew that it wouldn't be long 
before he pumped her full of his hot joy-juices giving her a thick gooey 
enema. He pumped faster and humped harder hearing Gloria's cries become 
louder and more agonized. He knew that no woman's ass-hole could ever 
stretch wide enough to accept his cock comfortably, and Johnny apparently 
knew it, too. For here he was using Foxy's cock as a tool in the subjugation 
of Gloria. 

This realization added to Foxy's mounting excitement and he felt his balls 
about to explode as he drove his burgeoning prick onward in the roiling 
depths of the girl's anus. In a moment, his climax was upon him. He felt his 
cock swelling and then spitting like a submachine gun, pumping pellet after 
pellet of thick hot semen into the wide open channel of Gloria's nether 
passage. 

The flood of hot sperm eased the friction of Foxy's penetration, greasing 
her rectum and allowing his swollen cock to slip in and out more freely and 
less painfully. Gloria knew that he couldn't stay hard much longer now that 
he was ejaculating. Soon it would be over and she would have her shot. But 
his stamina was incredible and he drove on and on pumping load after load of 
swirling hot scum into her burning belly. 

Then at last she felt the thick but deflating cock slip from her ass-hole, 
leaving the lips of her anus stretched, flaccid, and gaping open to allow a 
hot trickle of sperm to drip unchecked from inside. She slumped forward 
against the foam rubber surface of the platform and then slid to the floor, 
the pain in her ass slowly subsiding but not altogether disappearing. She 
could feel the thick juices of Foxy's orgasm sloshing around inside her, 
dripping from her anus and running down the backs of her needle-scarred 
thighs. 

She looked imploringly at Johnny Walker, shivering involuntarily at the 
snarl of hatred which distorted his lips. "Can I have my shot now?" she 
asked, her voice soft and strained. 

"I guess you've earned it," Johnny said contemptuously. "But it's the last 
shot you're ever going to get from me." Then turning to Foxy who had already 
pulled on his leather pants and was tying them at the front, the Black 
gangster said, "Give her a fix and get her out of here. I don't want to see 
her again." 

His words struck Gloria like a stinging slap. She knew, of course, that 
Johnny was finished with her now. Otherwise he wouldn't have treated her 
that way. But here he was talking about her like some kind of stray dog that 
had wandered in out of the street. She looked up at him through defeated 
eyes. If only he would say one kind word she thought, anything to 
acknowledge the good times we had together. 

But his words were cold and hard and full of hate. "Now take your shot and 
beat it," he said. "If you really shake your ass, you might be able to get 
down to Eighth Avenue and hustle enough money to buy your next fix by 
peddling your ass with the rest of the junkie whores. Your free-loading days 
are over." 

Then, yawning and stretching elaborately, Johnny headed for his bedroom, 
leaving Gloria with Foxy. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Connie looked around the living room of Fred Bergen's dimly lit apartment, 
hoping to spot a familiar face. But the cloud of thick blue smoke which 
filled the room made her eyes burn and she found it difficult to see 
anything clearly. Finding herself a cushion on the floor, she settled down, 
her back propped against a wall, to get her bearings for a moment. She had 
been at the party for at least fifteen minutes and, so far, she hadn't seen 
anybody that she knew. 

Connie had been living in Forest Hills for nearly a month, occupying a 
furnished studio apartment on One-Hundred-Third Street just off Queens 
Boulevard. The rental was high, but she had drawn expenses in advance from 
the Police Department Paymaster before going out on the assignment. She 
found the apartment on her first day out and had moved the suitcase 
containing all her civilian clothes into it at once. 

When Connie rented the apartment, she told the landlord that she was 
nineteen years old and a student at a downtown Manhattan art school. Her 
long hair, done in braids and tied with two thick pieces of brightly colored 
yarn, made her story easy for him to believe. When she added that her family 
lived in Connecticut and that she would be staying in Forest Hills only as 
long as she remained in school, the landlord had insisted on collecting two 
months rent in advance. Connie had accepted this as proof that her cover 
story was convincing and considered it her first victory as an undercover 
agent. 

She told the same story to all the kids that she met at the Glass Onion, 
which she began to frequent almost as soon as she moved into the 
neighborhood. She made it her business to drop in at the Forest Hills 
discotheque every night-except Tuesdays when it was closed-even if only for 
an hour. At first she just ordered a drink and sat at the bar sipping it 
slowly while she gave all the regulars a chance to get used to seeing her 
around. 

But it wasn't long before the young crowd that had made the discotheque 
their hangout began to notice the new face. About a week after she had begun 
dropping in, Connie started receiving the friendly nods and occasional 
greetings of many of the regulars. She always returned the greetings with a 
casual smile or a simple "Hi", not wanting to appear anxious to crash any 
gates. 

The young people who frequented the Glass Onion were a friendly bunch, most 
of them feeling that the "new culture" to which they belonged required the 
quick acceptance of strangers-so long as the strangers looked and dressed 
the same way they did. Connie's braids and her jeans were enough to convince 
the Glass Onion crowd that she was "all right." She soon became friendly 
with several of them, sitting with them at tables in the evenings and going 
out of her way to greet them whenever she happened to run into them on the 
street during the day. 

In her conversations at the Glass Onion, Connie heard many vague references 
to drugs, quickly learning the meanings of slang words like "grass" and 
"stuff" and "shit" and "junk." But so far she hadn't seen or come into close 
contact with anything stronger than Gordon's gin and Schweppes. Nevertheless 
she was satisfied with her progress considering the short time that she had 
been in the neighborhood. And she was certain that no one suspected her true 
identity. 

When Fred Bergen, a young long-hair with a well-trimmed beard and intense 
look in his dark eyes invited her to a party at his "pad" on Tuesday night, 
Connie knew that she was coming closer to accomplishing her objective. She 
had been sure that there would be drugs at the party and that she would have 
an opportunity to get some of the information that she was after. But 
although many of the people in Fred's living room looked like they were 
stoned on something or other, she hadn't seen anything being used or even 
smelled the familiar acrid aroma of marijuana smoke. She wondered whether 
this party was going to turn out to be a waste of time. 

Shifting her weight from one buttock to the other, Connie tugged at the hem 
of her yellow miniskirt in a vain effort to pull it to a more respectable 
level. Although she had been practically living in jeans since coming to 
Forest Hills, she had decided that the skirt would be more appropriate for a 
party. With it she wore a red blouse with puffy sleeves and a neckline that 
was open, but not low enough to be immodest. But now, as she tried to find a 
more comfortable position on the cushion, she felt her short skirt sliding 
up again, revealing too much of her bare thighs and wondered whether it had 
been a mistake. She looked quickly around her to see if anyone had noticed 
and was relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to her. She was 
thinking of getting up and looking for another seat when Fred Bergen 
suddenly appeared in front of her. 

"Hi, Connie," he said, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor beside 
her. "Why are you sitting all by yourself?" 

"I just got here a little while ago," she answered. "And I haven't seen 
anybody I know." 

Fred laughed. "Don't wait for formal introductions," he said. "This is a 
casual party. I don't know half the people myself, and it's my house. But 
we're all friends, anyway. Here I'll show you what I mean." 

He suddenly turned toward a girl who was sitting against the other wall, her 
eyes closed, her lips mouthing the words of the Rolling Stones record that 
was being played. "Hi," he said, raising his voice to rouse her from her 
apparent trance. 

The girl's eyelids fluttered open. For a moment she looked lost, turning her 
head quickly from side to side as though trying to find a landmark. Then, 
seeing Fred smiling at her, she smiled back and answered, "Hi." 

"I'm Fred," he said. 

"That's nice," she answered. "I'm Bella." 

"Bella," he said, his voice taking on a playful air of formality, "meet 
Connie. Connie, Bella." 

Bella smiled and nodded at Connie. "Hi," she said. "See ya." Her eyes 
drooped shut and her head nodded as her body began to sway once more in 
rhythm to the music. 

Fred laughed. "Stoned, it looks like," he said. Connie's ears perked up at 
the word. "I was going to call Lionel and ask him to bring some dope to get 
the party going," he continued. "But I've been having some trouble with the 
landlord and I figured it would be cooler to stay clean for a while. So if 
you want to get stoned, I'm afraid you'll have to do it somewhere else. 
Looks like most of the kids got high before they came. Sorry I can't be a 
better host." 

"Oh, that's all right," Connie said. "I can live without it for one night, I 
suppose." Fred smiled. Then, trying to sound casual, she asked, "Lionel? 
Lionel? I'm not sure I know him." 

"Oh, you must," Fred answered. "Everybody knows Lionel. He's everybody's 
connection. Haven't you met him yet?" 

"No, I don't think so," she answered. 

"Well, you'll get a chance tonight," he said, "Lionel promised he'd be here 
a little later. Can I get you a drink? At least there's no law against 
booze." 

"Yes, I think I'd like a drink," Connie answered. 

"Be right back," Fred said, rising from the floor and walking toward a table 
on which stood some whiskey bottles and a few glasses. Connie watched him 
pour a drink from one of the bottles and then start towards her. But he was 
stopped by a girl who was wearing tight hip-hugging pants and a see-through 
top with nothing underneath it. Fred shot Connie a "be patient" glance as he 
stood talking to the girl. 

Connie took the opportunity to look around the room. Her eyes had become 
accustomed to the dim light, and the burning sensation caused by the excess 
of cigarette smoke in the air had subsided. The room was rather large and 
Connie estimated that there were about twenty people in it. Most of them 
were sitting on the floor or standing around holding drinks and chatting. 

Then she noticed Peter and Eleanor, two of the kids that she knew from the 
Glass Onion. They were sitting on the floor at the other end of the room. 
Connie was about to get up and go to them when Peter put both arms around 
Eleanor and began kissing her on the lips. Connie wanted to turn away, but 
found herself staring at them, watching them kiss. 

Peter's hand was moving over Eleanor's back, caressing her through the 
loose-fitting sweater that she was wearing. Then, without breaking lip 
contact, he slipped his hand inside the back of her sweater. His motion 
pulled the garment tight across the front of Eleanor's chest and Connie 
could see that she wore no bra. Her nipples were outlined clearly against 
the tautly drawn knit material of the sweater. 

Connie found that she couldn't take her eyes off the lewd spectacle. Peter's 
hand had come out of the sweater now and had slipped around to the front of 
Eleanor's body. He began cupping the girl's large round breasts right 
through the sweater. Connie watched the expression on Eleanor's face change 
from one of contented pleasure to one of passionate excitement. The girl's 
body was beginning to move lasciviously, as though what Peter was doing to 
her actually felt good. 

Connie felt that it was wrong for her to watch, but found herself fascinated 
by the sight. And, anyway, if she was going to win the confidence of these 
kids, she would have to understand what made them tick. Observing Peter and 
Eleanor was all in a day's work, she told herself. She shifted her weight on 
the cushion again, trying to straighten the skirt which had ridden halfway 
up her thighs. She felt very warm, as though someone had turned the heat up 
full-blast. 

Peter's hand was inside the sweater again, only this time in the front. His 
movements were clearly outlined against the material of Eleanor's sweater as 
he stroked her swelling tits. Eleanor's eyes were tightly shut and she 
seemed to be laboring for breath. Connie pitied her, recognizing, from the 
expression on the poor girl's face, that she didn't stand a chance of 
holding off the lustful explorations of Peter's wandering hands. But the 
young policewoman also knew that she was powerless to help her. Eleanor had 
gotten herself into it. Now it was her problem. 

Peter was kissing her throat now, and moving both hands sensuously over her 
body. Eleanor's sweater was inching higher and higher, exposing a wide 
expanse of the girl's bare belly to Connie's view. Then, to the young 
policewoman's shock, Peter pulled it up all the way, completely uncovering 
Eleanor's rounded tits. 

Taking a quick furtive look around her, Connie was pleased to find that no 
one else in the room had taken notice of what the couple in the corner was 
doing. She looked toward them again, just in time to see Peter taking one of 
Eleanor's ripe white mounds of breast flesh in his hand, squeezing it gently 
until her rosy nipples puckered to turgid erection. As he began to roll the 
quivering pink caps around in his fingers, tweaking and plucking at them to 
Eleanor's apparent enjoyment, Connie felt her own nipples hardening inside 
her bra. 

She didn't understand what this meant, although it wasn't the first time 
that it had happened to her. She knew, of course, that her nipples puckered 
and hardened when she was cold or wet. But she certainly wasn't cold now. 
The same thing had happened to her several times in the shower, as she 
washed her breasts. When she rubbed the soapy washcloth gently over their 
smoothly rounded surfaces, her nipples would begin to tingle and then they 
would become turgid and erect. The first few times that this had happened, 
it frightened her. But after a while she had learned that she could avoid it 
by being quick, brisk, and business-like when washing her breasts. 

Watching it happen to another woman's nipples was certainly interesting. It 
seemed that the more 

Peter stroked the firm quivering nipples the harder they got. And the better 
Eleanor seemed to like it. Her whole body was in motion now. She had leaned 
back against the wall and was trembling all over as her boyfriend's hands 
explored her body shamelessly. Connie thought that she could even hear the 
girl's sighs of pleasure from across the room. 

Connie's breasts had begun to tingle now, and a warm persistent itch, with 
its center somewhere in her groin, was beginning to annoy her. She was sure 
that it would go away if she could only bring herself to tear her curious 
eyes from the lewd scene on the other side of the room, but her fascination 
with the unknown was getting the better of her. 

Suddenly Fred dropped to the floor beside her and handed her a drink. "We 
may be short on dope," he said, "but we're long on erotic entertainment." 

Connie felt her face flushing crimson red as she realized that Fred had seen 
her looking at Peter and Eleanor. "I . . . I . . . I just noticed that . . . 
" she stammered, but Fred cut her off with a laugh. 

"Oh, that's all right," he said. "I like to watch, too, sometimes. And Peter 
and Eleanor certainly don't mind. This is standard operating procedure for 
them at parties. And you ain't seen nothing yet. If they're at all true to 
form, they'll both be rolling around naked before long. Get an eyeful if you 
like. We're all friends here." 

Connie wanted to explain that she wasn't watching for her entertainment, 
that she was just trying to get as much information as possible about the 
kids of Forest Hills. But she didn't see how she could explain without 
blowing her cover. And after Fred's promise that Lionel, an apparent dope 
pusher, would show up later, blowing her cover, was the last thing in the 
world that Connie wanted to do now. 

Anyway, Fred didn't seem to think that there was anything wrong in watching. 
And neither did Peter and Eleanor. Although she faced Fred now, Connie could 
still see the necking couple out of the corner of her eye. Eleanor was 
stretched out on the floor, totally naked from the waist up. Peter was bent 
over her, his mouth sucking hungrily at one of her distended nipples. Connie 
drained her glass quickly, the liquor burning her throat on the way down. 

She tried to stop herself from coughing by taking a long deep breath. Then 
she smiled. "That's good," she said. "But a little strong. What did you put 
in it." 

"Straight scotch," he answered. "You didn't tell me what you wanted so I 
decided to play it safe with scotch. I hope it's all right." 

"Oh, it's just fine," Connie answered. "In fact I think I could do with 
another." The drink had given her something to do and taken her mind off the 
lascivious spectacle on the other side of the room. Fred reached for her 
glass but she held onto it. "I think I'll get it myself," she said. 

As she rose from her seat on the cushion, her short skirt hiked quickly up, 
exposing a long stretch of white thigh and a wide open view of the crotch of 
her lacy white panties. Before she could tug the skirt down again, she saw 
Fred's eyes focus on her cunt, the lips of which were pouting against the 
filmy material of her panties. She turned quickly, pulling at her skirt as 
she did so, quick to smooth it down around her thighs as soon as her back 
was to him. Connie was careful to avoid locking in the direction of Peter 
and Eleanor as she threaded her way carefully across the room to the table 
with the liquor on it. 

Francine, a girl that she knew from the Glass Onion, was standing at the 
table pouring herself a drink. "Hi, Connie," she said when the mini-skirted 
policewoman stepped up alongside of her. Francine was dressed in 
paint-stained jeans and a loose-fitting sweatshirt with the words WATERGATE 
BUGGING TEAM printed across the front. Connie was beginning to feel 
overdressed. 

"Hi, Francine," she answered. "You're one of the first friendly faces I've 
seen at this party." 

"Well, Fred's around somewhere," Francine answered. "I saw him a few minutes 
ago. And Peter and Eleanor are over there." She gestured toward the necking 
couple with a quick movement of her head. 

"Yes, I saw Fred," Connie said. "And Peter and Eleanor look like they're 
kind of busy." 

Francine laughed. "Well, you know how Peter and Eleanor are," she said, as 
though this was enough to explain their obscene conduct. "But it doesn't 
matter. Most of the people here are strangers to me, too. Just hang loose 
and before you know it everything'll fall into place." 

Connie had noticed, in the short time that she had spent mingling with the 
young people of Forest Hills, that all of them seemed to have great 
confidence that everything would work out by itself if they left it alone 
and "hung loose." It seemed to be characteristic of the new philosophy that 
they all espoused. "I guess I just never learned to hang loose," she said, 
forcing a smile. 

Francine took a long swallow of her drink, taking an ice cube into her mouth 
and rolling it around for a minute. "It's easier than you think," she said, 
the cube clinking against her teeth as she spoke. "You ought to check out 
the sensitivity session they're having in the next room." 

"What's a sensitivity session?" Connie asked, pouring herself a generous 
shot of scotch and then adding club soda to fill the glass to the top. She 
didn't ordinarily like to drink much, but she found that the drink Fred had 
given her had relaxed her and made her feel more social. Since her whole 
idea in coming had been to make contact with someone who could lead her to 
heroin, it would be best if she let herself become part of the party. The 
liquor seemed to be helping her to do that. 

"Sensitivity sessions are a form of encounter therapy," Francine answered. 
"The idea is to lose your inhibitions. To learn to express yourself without 
fear or embarrassment. Come with me. I'll show you." Francine took Connie by 
the arm and began leading her to a room in the back of Fred's 
apartment-probably Fred's bedroom. Suddenly remembering Fred, Connie turned 
to see that the girl in the see-through top had joined him on the floor and 
that both of them seemed to be looking directly at Peter and Eleanor-still 
necking shamelessly on the other side of the room-and were whispering 
animatedly. Connie turned back to Francine and followed her, curious to see 
what this "sensitivity session" was all about. 

There were about a dozen people in the room, all kneeling or squatting in a 
circle on the floor. They were huddled around something in the middle of the 
circle, but Connie couldn't see what it was at first. Francine led her to 
the perimeter of the circle and tapped a kneeling girl on the shoulder. 
"Move over," she said. "Make room for Connie and Francine. I'm Francine. 
This is Connie." 

"Hi," the girl answered, looking up as Francine spoke. "I'm Greta. Join the 
encounter." 

Francine dropped to her knees beside Greta and patted the floor next to her. 
Connie knelt beside her and then looked, for the first time, at the object 
of everybody's attention. In the middle of the circle of kneeling people was 
a water bed. And on it was a naked girl. She was lying on her back, her eyes 
closed. Her arms and legs were spread-eagled, her feet and hands pointing to 
the four corners of the rippling mattress. 

The girl was short and slim, but her naked breasts were huge. They rolled 
about as the rippling water bed made the girl's body undulate sensuously. 
Her nipples were the size and color of strawberries. Her platinum hair was 
cut in a short pixie style, but her exposed bush of pubic hair was dark and 
thick. She was smiling, an expression of peaceful serenity on her face. 
Connie was speechless, unable to comprehend this strange ritual. 

Then one of the people in the circle said, "All right, now, let's all 
concentrate on making Hank feel good. Just our minds at first. No hands." 

The people in the circle closed their eyes and took on expressions of 
intense concentration. Someone began chanting a long low plaintive sound. At 
first Connie thought that it was the word "home." But as more people joined 
in the chant, she realized it was "om". She had read somewhere that there 
were people who said that om was the sound made by the creation of the 
universe. 

In a moment, all the people in the circle were humming the resonant 
monosyllable word. Connie, not wishing to attract attention to herself, 
joined in, shutting her eyes tightly and humming the mysterious term. It 
made the back of her throat tickle and she couldn't help smiling. She opened 
her eyes for a moment and noticed that the others were smiling, too. 

"All right now," someone said softly. "Time for the laying on of hands. And 
remember! This is a sensual encounter. Not a sexual one." 

Connie couldn't imagine what they were talking about. She opened her eyes 
and then stared in wide-eyed disbelief as members of the circle, boys and 
girls a-like, began to touch Janie's naked body with their palms and 
fingertips. At first they stroked her arms and legs only. Connie saw one 
girl running her fluttering fingertips up and down the length of Janie's 
shapely leg with little circular motions that brought her fingers closer and 
closer to the naked girl's crotch. One of the boys was kneading the flesh of 
Janie's upper arm, running his knuckles up into her armpit and grazing the 
curving skin of her tit with the back of his hand. 

Soon all hands but Connie's were on Janie stroking, petting, rubbing, and 
caressing every part of her naked body. As the exploring pairs of hands 
moved across her smooth white belly and firmly swollen tits, Janie began 
making soft sounds of pleasure in the back of her throat. Connie saw one of 
the girls in the circle take one of the naked girl's nipples between her 
fingers and roll it gingerly, first one way and then the other. At the same 
time, one of the boys began twining his fingers in the girl's thick bush of 
dark and wiry pubic hair. Connie couldn't believe her eyes. 

Francine, whose hands were caressing the inside of one of the girl's naked 
thighs, looked up at Connie and smiled. "Don't be afraid," she said. "Join 
in. Once you get started, it feels almost as good to be in the circle as it 
does to be in the center. Just touch her. Any place." 

Connie, afraid that Francine's words might draw attention to her 
non-participation, reached out and touched the naked girl's hand, stroking 
it lightly with her fingers. She hoped that this would satisfy the perverse 
requirements of their depraved little game. 

Gentle hands were everywhere on Janie's body, exploring her nudity with 
completely uninhibited freedom. She had begun to writhe and squirm in 
response to the action of the erotically stimulating hands. She bent her 
knees and raised them, positioning the soles of her feet flat against the 
surface of the water-filled mattress. Then she moved her knees away from 
each other, bringing them closer to the surface of the rippling bed. This 
spread her thighs and formed them into a large vee, at the vertex of which 
glistened her cunt, with its lips obscenely stretched open, inviting the 
gaze of all who knelt around her. 

A boy and a girl who knelt at the foot of the bed leaned forward at the same 
time to stroke Janie's shiningly moist pussy, the boy stiffening his finger 
for insertion in the pink inviting slash. Connie was aghast. She wanted 
nothing more than to get out of the room as quickly as possible. But she 
didn't see any way of leaving gracefully. 

She noticed that Francine was concentrating her attention on the inside of 
one of Janie's thighs. As her hands moved lightly up and down the expanse of 
satiny-smooth white skin, they came closer and closer to Janie's throbbing 
cuntal slit and the two pairs of hands which labored lovingly at it. Janie 
was writhing and moaning deliriously as the unknown hands stroked her and 
the unknown fingers fucked her. She humped her hips slowly up and down in 
the unmistakable rhythm of sexuality. Connie couldn't imagine where it all 
would lead, but was sure that it was the most sinful spectacle that she 
would ever be-likely to witness. Combined with the liquor that she had 
consumed, it was beginning to have a dizzying effect on her and she longed 
for an opportunity to beat a graceful retreat. 

She thought, for a moment, of closing her eyes so that she could at least be 
spared the sight of the shameful happening. But, as much as the encounter 
game disgusted and horrified her, she couldn't tear her eyes from it. 
Francine's hands had abandoned themselves completely to Janie's crotch now. 
And although Connie couldn't see too clearly, it looked as though Francine 
was rubbing the little button of flesh at the upper end of the naked girl's 
cuntal slash while the other two pairs of hands concentrated on the vaginal 
opening itself. Connie shuddered at the very thought of it. 

Suddenly she felt a slight pressure from behind, as of someone's knees 
pressing gently against her back. She looked up to see a tall muscular youth 
smiling down at her. His long blond hair was tied back into a loosely held 
pony tail and held in place by a scrap of white ribbon. He dropped a 
friendly hand to her shoulder as she looked up at him. "Got room for 
another?" he asked. A silver-and-turquoise medallion which hung from a chain 
around his neck caught the light as he spoke. He wore a bracelet which 
matched it on his left wrist and a silver and turquoise ring on the little 
finger of his right hand. 

Seizing the opportunity, Connie rose quickly to her feet. "Here," she said. 
"Take my spot. I'm ready for another drink." 

"Mind if I join you?" he asked. "That drink sounds a lot better to me than 
this group grope session." He followed Connie toward the door which led back 
to the living room. Although the living room seemed more crowded than it had 
been when she left it shortly before, the blond youth had no trouble 
elbowing a path to the liquor table. "What are you drinking?" he asked. 

"Scotch" and soda," she answered, wincing inwardly as she realized that 
nothing could possibly sound more "establishment" than that old executive 
favorite. But he didn't seem to think so at all as he poured her the drink 
that she had requested and then mixed the same thing for himself. 

"I'm Lionel," he said. "And you must be Connie." 

"How did you know that?" she asked, fearing for a moment that her identity 
had been discovered. 

"Simple process of deduction," Lionel answered. "You're the only chick here 
that I don't know. And Fred told me that there was a gal named Connie here 
who was dying to meet me, so I put two and two together." 

"Did he really say that?" Connie asked, her face flushing with 
embarrassment. 

"No, not really," Lionel answered, putting her at ease immediately. "But he 
did tell me your name." Then, tactfully changing the subject, he added, "You 
didn't look like you were enjoying the little sensitivity session in the 
bedroom." 

"To tell you the truth, I wasn't," Connie answered. Something about Lionel's 
confident voice and easy manner made her sure that he would understand her 
feelings. "In fact," she added, "I thought it was awful. Does that make me a 
square?" 

"No," he responded. "Not in my book, anyway. All it means is that you 
haven't been taken in by all that newspeak bullshit about self-discovery, 
free-expression, and body-awareness. I've always considered it kind of a 
lame excuse for group sex." 

"Well, I'm glad someone agrees with me," Connie said. "I was beginning to 
feel like an oddball in there." 

"Then why did you stay?" Lionel asked, with the directness of his question 
startling her. 

"I don't know," she said. "I guess it isn't easy to walk out on a group." 

"I've never had that problem, myself," Lionel said. "I walk out on groups 
all the time. In fact 

I'm thinking of walking out on this one any minute. Dullest fucking party 
I've ever been to. Not a crumb of dope in the whole fucking apartment." 

His use of the obscenity shook Connie, knocking her off balance for the 
moment. She took a long swallow from her glass in an effort to regain her 
composure. She was sure, from the casual way that he had said it, that his 
intention hadn't been to offend. She decided to ignore it. 

Trying not to show her discomfort at his choice of words, Connie said, "Fred 
said something about keeping clean because of landlord trouble. That's why 
there's no dope. I was a little disappointed myself." She was hoping to 
steer the conversation around to drugs. Fred had referred to Lionel as 
"everybody's connection" and it was just possible that Lionel was the one 
that she was looking for-a dope pusher who had access to large quantities of 
heroin. Maybe, with a little luck, she could complete the assignment that 
night and get back to her own precinct in Manhattan. At least the whores 
there were honest enough to say that they were turning tricks instead of 
attending sensitivity sessions. 

"Would you be interested in scoring some dope?" Lionel asked, as though he 
had read Connie's mind. 

"I might," she answered guardedly. 

"Then why don't we split this place?" Lionel said. "We can drop in at the 
Glass Onion for a drink if you like. At least it's quiet there. We can talk 
it over." 

"I'm with you," Connie answered, almost as glad for an opportunity to escape 
from the party as she was for a chance to get to know "everybody's 
connection." 

Shouldering their way through Fred's crowded living room, Connie and Lionel 
headed for the door and out into the relative quiet of Queens Boulevard. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

"Scotch?" Lionel asked, pouring a drink for Connie from the bottle that he 
kept on the shelf next to his stereo tuner. Connie nodded, accepting the 
glass from him as soon as he finished filling it. She still felt a bit 
nervous about being alone with him in his apartment, and sipped at her drink 
in order to avoid his eyes. 

They had walked about half-way to the Glass Onion when Lionel remembered 
that it was Tuesday and that the discotheque would be closed. He persuaded 
Connie to come with him to his apartment by reminding her about the drugs 
which they had set out to discuss. Although her first impulse had been to 
refuse, she overcame her initial discomfort by remembering that she was a 
policewoman on an important assignment. But the alcohol which she had 
consumed at the party was making it increasingly difficult for her to 
remember anything. 

The scotch went down easily, her throat having become numb to the burning 
sensation that it usually caused. Before she knew it, her glass was empty 
and she handed it back to Lionel. Refilling it immediately, he returned it 
to her. 

When Lionel had first suggested going to his apartment, Connie was hesitant, 
fearing that her agreement to go with him might too easily be misunderstood. 
Her mother's teachings kept running through her head. Woman had been leading 
man on ever since Eve fed Adam the forbidden fruit. And man couldn't help 
his lustful ways. But remembering that Fred Bergen had referred to Lionel as 
"everybody's connection," she had finally agreed, certain that her Police 
Academy training had equipped her to handle any trouble that might arise and 
afraid of losing a perfect opportunity to accomplish her assignment. 

Now the liquor was helping her to forget her nervousness. And Lionel's easy 
casual manner was restoring her confidence. She looked slowly around his 
apartment, still trying to avoid glancing directly at him. 

The room was large-about twelve by twenty-with a high ceiling. All four 
walls were covered in black felt as was the ceiling. A black carpet on the 
floor completed the macabre motif. The room was practically bare, the only 
furniture being Lionel's elaborate stereo set and an oversized mattress 
which occupied a corner of the floor at the far end of the room. The 
mattress was covered with a black fitted sheet and a thin black blanket was 
thrown carelessly across it. 

All illumination came from a pole lamp in the center of the room. Each of 
the three spotlight-type fixtures on the pole contained a different color 
bulb and was pointed in a different direction. The overall effect was eerie. 

"Have you ever seen a light organ?" Lionel asked, reaching for Connie's 
glass and filling it to the brim. 

"No, I don't think so," Connie said. The whole room seemed to be in motion 
and it was becoming harder and harder for her to keep her feet. 

"Come over here and join me on the couch," Lionel said. "I'll show you. I 
built it myself." He walked toward the mattress and dropped to a sitting 
position at its edge. Hearing him refer to the mattress as a couch seemed 
somehow funny to Connie and she laughed as she eased herself down on it. She 
felt her yellow miniskirt sliding up her thighs as she sat on the mattress 
trying to balance her brimming drink in her hand. 

For a long confused moment, she didn't know what to do about her skirt. 
Then, emptying her glass in one long swallow, she placed it on the floor 
beside her and tugged at the hem with both hands. The entire room was 
spinning, and Connie found herself giggling as she battled futilely with the 
errant garment. The harder she struggled, the more stubborn her miniskirt 
became, and she was aware that her movements were driving it up even higher. 

Lionel watched the struggle with amusement, his eyes opening wide as her 
lace-covered crotch winked at him. Then, seeking to put her at her ease, he 
rose from the mattress and turned his back to her as he walked back toward 
the whiskey bottle, taking her glass with him. Things are going just fine, 
he thought, filling her glass again. She's already on the mattress and so 
loaded she doesn't know whether she's coming or going. Time to turn on the 
light organ. He flipped a switch on the cabinet of the stereo tuner. The 
ceiling above the mattress was immediately illuminated by a series of 
flashing red, blue, and yellow lights. 

When Lionel returned to the mattress, Connie was sitting with her legs 
tucked under her and her skirt pulled over her knees. He put the drink in 
her hand and sat next to her as she sipped it tentatively. Slipping his arm 
around her shoulders, he tipped her back so that she found herself looking 
up at the flashing lights on the ceiling. She drained her glass to avoid 
spilling any of the amber liquid onto her red blouse. 

"See," Lionel said, his voice softly seductive. "The lights change in color 
and intensity to match the changes in the music. They get brighter when the 
music is loud and dimmer when it's soft. Red goes with the treble notes and 
blue with the bass. Isn't it far out?" 

"It's beautiful," Connie said. The flashing lights were filling her 
consciousness completely now. She felt hypnotized by them-carried off by the 
marriage of visual and auditory stimulation as the musical crescendos 
blended with the flashing splashes of colored light to dim all awareness of 
her surroundings. She leaned back for a better view, feeling the softness of 
the mattress envelop her body as she lay back on it. "Simply beautiful," she 
repeated. 

"So are you," Lionel said, suddenly holding her face in his hands. Connie 
wanted to shake her head and throw his hands from her, but was unable to 
muster the energy. It felt so good to lie there watching the pretty lights 
flash and listening to the music. And Lionel's strong hands on her face felt 
comforting and secure. 

His face was directly over hers now, blocking her view of the brightly lit 
ceiling. At first she tried to look past him at the lights. But then she 
took a good look at his face. It was a nice face-lean and strong looking. 
His long blond hair fell around it in loose curls, making her think of an 
ancient Greek statue that she had once seen in a museum. 

His penetrating eyes were deep blue and very clear, and his face was 
clean-shaven. Connie thought that he was remarkably handsome for a 
long-hair. He was staring at her now, his eyes moving slowly over her face, 
examining each of her features carefully. Connie was flattered by the open 
look of admiration on his face as he studied her. 

His face moved slowly toward hers, coming closer and closer, until his hot 
breath warmed her skin, making it tingle comfortably. Then he leaned further 
down and brought his lips gently against her cheek, brushing it with the 
lightest of kisses. Connie felt her whole body tingling in response to the 
tender contact. Something told her that she should stop him before things 
got out of hand, but there was a part of her that resisted, wanting to savor 
the pleasure of his touch for just a moment longer. 

In a moment his lips were on hers, grazing them lightly at first and then 
steadily increasing the pressure. She closed her eyes as he kissed her, 
trying to remember the reason that she shouldn't enjoy the pleasurable 
sensations that were beginning to undulate across her body. Kissing is so 
unsanitary, she thought drunkenly. But alcohol kills germs, doesn't it? She 
knew that there was something that she was supposed to talk to him about, 
but she just couldn't remember what it was. 

He was kissing her more insistently now, his lips nibbling lightly at hers 
as he turned his face slowly from side to side. She had never been kissed on 
the lips before, not even by her mother. When she saw leading ladies being 
kissed in the movies, she had always wondered how it felt. But until now, 
the thought of ever finding out was completely foreign to her. 

It felt wonderful-un-like anything that she had ever experienced before. For 
a fleeting instant, she remembered her mother's warning that kissing could 
lead to sin. But in her present state, she couldn't see how anything that 
felt so good could be sinful. 

Lionel's tongue was darting out between his teeth now, jabbing delicately at 
the moist warm flesh of her lower lip. She allowed her lips to part 
slightly, surprised when his tongue slipped between them to explore her gums 
and the surfaces of her teeth. The same tingling itch which had disturbed 
her at the party earlier was beginning again in the pit of her groin. It 
felt like a million tiny shocks of static electricity were sparking all over 
her body. And she liked it! 

When Lionel's tongue began to engage her own in battle, she was reluctant to 
meet its playful thrusts. Tongue kissing was something that she had heard 
about but didn't really understand. Whenever she thought about it in the 
past, it had seemed disgustingly intimate. But now that Lionel's tongue was 
exploring the innermost recesses of her warm oral cavity, it didn't feel 
disgusting at all. In fact, it felt damned good! 

Without consciously realizing what she was doing, Connie began to fence with 
Lionel's tongue, stabbing at it with her own and following it back into the 
warmth of his mouth when it retreated before the onslaughts of her thrusts. 
Although her eyes were closed, the colored lights on Lionel's ceiling 
continued flashing in her head. She was floating on a pink cotton-candy 
cloud, mesmerized by her first kiss and transported by it to a plane on 
which right and wrong were forgotten in the face of never-before-experienced 
pleasure. Almost involuntarily, her arms snaked around Lionel's neck, 
pressing his lips even harder against her own. 

Lionel felt his cock stiffening in his pants. From the way that she was 
reacting to his kisses, it was obvious that this was a chick who hadn't had 
much sexual experience. He liked that. It meant that her cunt would be good 
and tight. Not like the usual Forest Hills broad, all stretched out from 
fucking everything in pants. She's hotter than an iron, he thought. Probably 
hasn't been getting much cock lately. Maybe that's why she was so willing to 
come up here. 

Even the more-experienced Forest Hills girls usually put up a token fight 
before letting him lure them into his famous den of seduction. But this one 
had agreed right away. She must be dying for a good stiff prick, he thought. 
Well, I've got just the thing for her. 

As Lionel kissed the young undercover agent, he let one of his hands slip 
casually to her upper arm, running his fingers softly up and down the 
goosefleshed skin as he drove his tongue deeper into her warmly moist mouth. 
The movement brought his knuckles into light contact with the rounded curve 
of her swollen breast and he stroked it gently with the backs of his 
fingers. The soft mound of resilient titflesh felt big and round through the 
material of her red blouse. He longed to cup its quivering fullness lovingly 
in the palm of his hand, but held back, careful not to frighten her off with 
too much too soon. 

Connie was acutely aware of the light touch of his fingers on her breast. 
She had never felt anything so wonderful before in her life, but she knew 
that trouble would result if she didn't regain control of herself quickly. 
At first she told herself that the contact was unintentional and that moving 
his hand away would only draw unnecessary attention to it, causing 
embarrassment. But as the pressure of his stroking fingers increased, she 
became certain that he was purposely touching her. 

She felt her nipple harden, pressing insistently at the white fabric of her 
bra-cup. She knew that she should brush his hand away from her tit with a 
quick, unequivocating movement, but feared that if she did so he would stop 
kissing her. And she didn't want the wonderful kiss to end. Yet! 

His tongue was exploring the inside of her mouth uninhibitedly and his teeth 
were nibbling gently at her lips, making her whole body tingle. Perhaps if 
she held his hand in hers she could stop him from touching her breast 
without breaking the kiss. 

She reached for his hand and held it gently in her own as he continued 
kissing her. He allowed her to move his hand away from the curving swell of 
her ripe young tits for a moment, contenting himself with the exploration of 
her mouth with his tongue. Then, her hand clinging gently to his, he 
returned to the luscious hillocks of her breasts. This time he placed his 
hand over her blouse-covered tit, cupping its firm softness in his palm and 
kneading it gently with his fingers. He could feel her nipple pressing 
against the palm of his hand, hard as a pebble inside the tightly 
constricting cup of her bra. 

Connie drew her breath in sharply when she felt his hand settle down 
confidently over the untouched mound of her tit. Her body was on fire, 
flames of passionate desire threatening to consume her. The scotch that she 
had consumed was muffling the alarm which was ringing inside her head. She 
told herself that she could stop him any time that she wanted to. But, for 
now, she was sure that she didn't want him to stop. Just another minute, she 
resolved. And then I'll sit up, smoothen my skirt, and have another drink. 

But Lionel's hand was moving from one tit to the other now, bringing both 
her nipples to painful erection. The liquor which had weakened her 
resistance wasn't dulling her senses in the least. Every movement of his 
fingers reverberated through her body with the force of a cannon shot. She 
clung desperately to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, as he 
stroked and titillated her with his adept fingers. 

Lionel moved his lips from her mouth and began kissing Connie's neck, his 
lips nibbling gently at the taut white skin. Her breathing had become 
labored and raspy, and he heard her gasping for breath in the face of the 
intense stimulation of his kissing lips and stroking fingers. Her mouth was 
open, and little moans of pleasure were coming from her throat. But she 
didn't hear them, her ears filled with a resonant buzzing sound which 
threatened to rob her of her sanity. 

She felt him kissing her breasts through the red material and knew that she 
had to act instantly or risk the complete loss of control. As he kissed her, 
his fingers fumbled expertly with the buttons of her blouse. She thought 
that she felt him open one and then the other. She wanted to reach for his 
hand and pull it away from the front of her blouse, but found herself 
paralyzed by the combination of liquor and stimulation. 

Her blouse was completely open now and his lips were trailing a line of 
moist kisses across the swelling tops of her breasts where they overflowed 
the cups of her bra. Her entire body was in motion, her hips grinding up and 
down as Lionel's hands and lips worked expertly at stimulating her. She felt 
one of his hands slipping under her back to work at the catch of her bra. 

As the clasp opened and the straps of the lacy undergarment loosened, she 
felt her blood run cold. He was undressing her. I've got to stop him, she 
thought. 

"No!" she said, a hint of panic in her voice. "No! You mustn't." 

But Lionel kissed her on the lips again, silencing her protests. As he 
kissed her, his tongue stole inside her mouth for a slow and thorough 
exploration, and she felt the tingling in her groin spreading to her whole 
body. She continued to struggle for a minute, turning her head from side to 
side in an effort to free her mouth so that she could speak, so that she 
could beg him, command him to stop. She wanted to scream at him, to demand 
that he take his hands off her and leave her alone. But as his tongue jabbed 
and retreated, she found herself returning his kiss, all her volition 
drowned in desire. 

Lionel pulled gently at the brassiere, slipping the straps over her 
shoulders and down the length of her smooth arms. Then he tossed it away, 
anxious to return his hands to the now-naked softness of her tits. He cupped 
first the left one and then the right, holding each of them gently in his 
hand and letting his fingers trail across their silky surface in a spiraling 
motion which brought her nipples to quivering rigidity. 

Connie felt the warm air of the room wash over the bare skin of her soft 
mounds of titflesh. She never imagined that anything could feel this good. 
She had lost consciousness of everything but the intense flashes of pleasure 
that were sweeping across her tingling flesh. Lionel's lips were again 
trailing wetly across her soft white throat, working their way further and 
further down until at last they found the softly curving swell of her tits 
where they lingered sensuously, kissing, nibbling, and licking delicately at 
the palpitating skin. 

Her body trembled as his lips caressed the lush contours of her hard-nippled 
tits, exploring the rounded curves and savoring the taste of her skin in 
places where no one had ever been before. She realized that the upper part 
of her body was naked, completely exposed to his vision, to his touch, and 
to his kisses. And while the thought would have horrified her a few short 
moments before, she found that it excited her now, raising the temperature 
of her body to the fever level and beyond. 

Rivulets of perspiration formed in her armpits and in the hollow of her 
throat, rolling down her body, titillating the skin in their path and 
wetting Lionel's long blond hair. His face was buried in the valley between 
the swollen mountains of her boobs. He inhaled deeply of the delicate 
fragrance of her body as he kissed and licked the smooth skin. 

Her nipples were so hard that they ached. The sensation was almost more than 
she could bear and her body thrashed feverishly about on the bed, her legs 
scissoring apart and together as though she was swimming. The frantic 
movements brought her skirt riding high up around her waist, but she was 
completely unaware of her dishabille, all thought lost in the rushing wave 
of never-before-felt pleasure that Lionel's adroit lips and fingers were 
bringing her. 

Then suddenly, Lionel's head was hovering over the pink capped tips of her 
white marshmallow-soft tits. He blew his hot breath across the quivering 
face of one puckered red nipple for a moment, bathing it in the heat of his 
passion. 

Then, snaking his tongue out quickly, he licked at the rubbery nubbin. 
Connie gasped as the pointy tip of his tongue traced a wet little circle 
around the rosy disc of her aureola. The turgid center of her nipple stood 
up hard and firm, forming a rosy cylinder half an inch across and three 
quarters of an inch long at the crest of her snowy-white tit. 

Lionel licked the quivering pink button slowly, working the tip of his moist 
tongue around the stiff knob until it was completely coated with his 
glistening saliva. Then, parting his lips, he took the thick wet nipple into 
his mouth, sucking gently on the soft erection and sweeping across its 
surface with the broad blade of his tongue. Connie groaned in uncontrollable 
pleasure, all thought of stopping him forgotten in the hot tingling rush of 
passion which enveloped her. 

Lionel's hands were cupping her breasts tenderly and holding them up for his 
lips which moved from one nipple to the other, kissing, sucking, and nipping 
gently at the puckered morsels. He allowed the tip of his tongue to trail 
wetly across the satiny surface of her tits. The little animal sounds of 
pleasure that were bubbling from her lips pleased him and brought his prick 
to palpitating erection. He felt the thick rod of flesh straining inside his 
tight jeans. 

As he licked and sucked at her nipples, he let one of his hands stray 
casually across the flat plane of her belly. Connie could feel his 
fingertips working their electric magic on her bare skin, making it ripple 
and undulate to his touch. Her hips were rolling about on the mattress, as 
though trying, by moving quickly, to cool the ardor which was building in 
her pussy. 

Lionel's fingers encountered the material of her short miniskirt, bunched 
uselessly up around her waist. He moved his hand quickly across the wrinkled 
garment, slowing when he made contact with the crisp white lace of her 
panties. He could feel the soft cushion of her pubic hair through the flimsy 
garment, his fingers stroking the furry mound of her sex idly as he 
continued rolling her nipples around in his teeth and lips. Carefully, so he 
wouldn't break the mood, he worked the tips of his fingers under the elastic 
waistband of her panties, sliding his hand across the smooth white skin of 
her flat little belly. 

Connie gasped when she felt his hand inside her panties. He was just inches 
away from her cunt, about to violate the privacy of her body--a privacy that 
she had vowed to maintain. Not even the haze created by the scotch that she 
had imbibed could dull her to the knowledge of what would happen if she 
didn't act quickly. My God, she thought, I'm about to lose my virginity to 
this long-haired dope pusher. And I'm not even putting up a fight. 

The realization galvanized her to action. She snapped her long shapely legs 
together and wriggled away from his exploring hand. At the same time she 
tangled her fingers in his long blond hair in an attempt to pull him away 
from her swollen tits and turgid nipples. "Stop," she said. "This has gone 
far enough." She tried to twist away from him, to free herself from his 
lascivious grasp. 

But Lionel held her tight, refusing to relinquish his grip on her naked tit. 
His mouth worked hard at restoring the excitement that she had obviously 
been feeling a moment before. He whipped his tongue swiftly back and forth 
across the still-distended pink nipples and the soft warm mounds of her 
breasts. 

She was quickly bringing her passion under control, becoming more and more 
successful at conquering the lingering desire to let him go on kissing and 
petting her. Her body had betrayed her, allowing its bestial lusts to 
temporarily overpower her sense of morality, but she had come to her senses 
now and would fight him with everything that she had. 

But Lionel was stronger than she realized. His lips continued to work at her 
tits, kissing them tenderly and gently. And his hands held her in a grip of 
iron, holding her body down and pinning her arms at her sides. 

The little cock-tease, he thought. She-likes to play but won't go all the 
way. Well maybe she can get away with that shit with the boys from 
Connecticut, but this is the big city. I'll teach the little cunt a lesson 
she'll never forget. 

Pressing his lips roughly against hers, he silenced the cries of protest 
that she was uttering. Then, with a quick movement of his hand, he tore the 
lacy panties from her crotch, exposing her cunt suddenly to the warm muggy 
air of his apartment. When he had torn the wisp of lace from her, he held it 
to his nose inhaling the pungent spicy aroma of her excitement. She's hot to 
trot, he thought. She wants to get laid. In spite of what she says. Maybe 
she's just putting up a fight so she won't have to feel guilty when it's 
over. 

Well, that was all right with him. He would humor her. He would play her 
little game of "rape me" if that's what she wanted. If rough stuff is what 
turns her on, he thought, then I'll play rough. 

When she turned her head, trying to break from his kiss, he bit roughly into 
her lip. Connie grunted in pain, the salty taste of her own blood filling 
her mouth. Lionel's hands were becoming rougher, too. He mauled her tits 
now, squeezing and kneading them in his fingers, pinching and rolling the 
still-swollen buds of her inflamed nipples between thumb and forefinger. 

With his other hand he rubbed her cunt roughly, inserting one finger stiffly 
between the moist tender lips of her virgin pussy. She continued to fight 
him, rolling her hips away from his touch and protesting constantly with 
muffled grunts of anger and pain. But Lionel ignored her protests, his 
fingers searching deliberately in the curling jungle of her pubic hair for 
the entrance to her vulva. Her pussy lips flowered open to his touch, 
revealing the sticky wetness of her internal cuntal membranes. Gently 
running his finger up and down the fluid length of her drooling slit, he 
carried a drop of the warm moisture to the little hood of folded membrane 
which sheathed her clit. The little desire button was hard and erect and he 
rubbed it roughly with the calloused tip of one finger. 

Then, with a quick movement of his other hand, he opened his fly, freeing 
his stiff cock from the painful confinement of his tight jeans. Connie's 
blood froze at the sound of his zipper opening. "No, No, No, No, No," she 
tried to say, but his lips, still pressing against her own, muffled the 
words and made them sound like grunts of pleasure. Nothing could stop him 
now. 

She tried to hold her thighs together, but Lionel pulled them roughly apart, 
letting go of her arms to use both of his hands. As he mounted her, she 
drummed his back with her fists. But he ignored her, concentrating all his 
effort on prying her legs apart. Then, crawling between them, he pinned her 
to the mattress with the full weight of his body. His cock jutted obscenely 
from the gaping fly at the front of his pants and he jabbed insistently at 
her with it, trying to locate the slimy opening of her pussy. 

Unsuccessful at finding her wet cuntal opening with his prick, he separated 
the lips of her cunt with the fingers of one hand, then he directed the 
swollen tip of his throbbing hard-on to the tender folds of flesh which 
glistened wetly between her smooth thighs. As Connie felt the rubbery 
cock-head prying at the entrance of her virginal womanhood, she realized 
that all was lost. Gone was the pleasure of a few moments before. Her head 
was cold and clear, the alcoholic haze driven off by her terror and 
revulsion. 

Her mother had been right. It wasn't man's fault that he was no better than 
a rutting beast, snorting and growling in a nonstop attempt to bury his 
stiff cock in the trembling softness of a woman's cunt. Woman was to blame. 
Now it was Connie's fault. She had drunk too much and permitted the blond 
boy to take liberty with her body too freely. Now matters had gotten 
completely out of hand and she had no one to blame but herself. 

With a rending tearing searing stab of pain, she felt his stiff prick 
entering her, tearing the taut membrane which guarded the entrance to her 
virgin vagina. She resolved to resist him in the only way left to her-by 
denying him the satisfaction of conquest. Biting her lips to keep from 
screaming, she forced her body to go limp, fighting to control her natural 
desire to kick and thrash. She lay like a wet dishrag, neither moving nor 
reacting, as Lionel used her, driving his stiff cock to the hilt in her 
tightly clasping pussy. 

So lost was he in the ecstasy of his insertion that he wasn't even aware 
that he had deflowered a virgin, smashing her cherry in a blinding flash of 
agony. He pumped his hips forward rhythmically, feeling her pussy stretching 
tightly around his prick like a rubber collar, pulling at the flesh of his 
hotly palpitating cock, stimulating it, arousing it. He knew that he would 
soon be pumping a hot load of juice into her reluctant snatch. He humped his 
hips harder, anxious to get his rocks off quickly. 

He usually worked harder at pleasing the girls whom he fucked, but this 
prick-teasing little bitch deserved exactly what she was getting-to be used 
like an old wash bucket-a receptacle for the hot torrent of semen which was 
already finding its way upwards through the coils of tubing which led from 
his swinging swaying testicles to the throbbing purple head of his prick. 

And then his ejaculation was upon him, like a long curling wave crashing on 
the rocks of the shore. Spurt after spurt of hot whirling jism shot from his 
cocktip, spraying the back of her cunt like a bubbling geyser. The tip of 
his prick nudged insistently at the knob of her cervix deep within the 
nether depths of her pussy, the tightly constricting walls of her inner cunt 
becoming slimy with the fluids of his exploding climax and fitting tightly 
over his hard-on like a lubricated condom. 

Then, at last, the waves of pleasure began to subside and he slowed the 
motions of his hips. When Connie felt the hot flood of fluid inundating her 
cunt, she wanted to vomit. This vile dope pusher was filling her with the 
juices of life, after robbing her of her hymen in the most brutal of ways. 
She couldn't even find the strength to hate him, realizing that she was to 
blame and that if she hated anybody it should be herself. She tried to think 
about something else, but found her consciousness dominated by a lewd vision 
of his bludgeoning cock, long and hard, penetrating her pussy and filling it 
with his vile secretions. 

At last his cock softened and slipped from her cunt with an obscene plopping 
sound. He rolled off her, sighing deeply as he settled comfortably down on 
the mattress. She turned away from him, hot tears of shame and humiliation 
filling her eyes and overflowing them, running down her cheeks. 

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Lionel said at last. "But you had it coming. You 
can't tease a man the way you did and then think you can turn him off like a 
faucet." 

Connie was silent as she reached for her brassiere and put it on quickly, 
anxious to hide her nakedness as swiftly as possible. She tugged her skirt 
down over her hotly dripping cunt, unable to staunch the flow of hot tears 
running from her eyes. "I don't ever want you to touch me again," she said. 
"I'm not blaming you for what happened. I blame myself for that. But I don't 
ever want to see you again." 

"All right," Lionel said. "If that's the way you want it." Then, almost as 
an afterthought, he added, "But I thought you wanted to score some dope." 

Connie suddenly remembered who she was and why she had come to Lionel's 
apartment. She had allowed her personal feelings to get in the way of her 
assignment, not once thinking about her mission since entering Lionel's 
apartment. And now she was defiled and shamed, forever soiled because of the 
weakness of a moment. She had to get that heroin. It was the only way that 
she could redeem herself in her own eyes. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Connie shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other. Although the 
temperature had been in the nineties for the past few days, she shivered as 
she looked around the dusty abandoned warehouse. She had been waiting for 
almost half an hour and was beginning to wonder whether anyone was going to 
show up. 

She had been ready to run from Lionel's apartment in shame and humiliation 
the Tuesday before, until the mention of the dope reminded her of her 
assignment. Resolving not to let her personal hang-ups get ifi the way of 
her job, she had forced herself to stay, sitting at the far end of the 
black-sheeted mattress as they discussed the heroin. 

But when she told Lionel that she needed half an ounce, he had pursed his 
lips in a soundless whistle of surprise. "I don't know," he said. "I can 
score a bag of grass or a snort of coke every now and then. And I can even 
help you get a fix if you need one. But half an ounce of junk is out of my 
league. If it's weight you're after, I'll have to put you in touch with a 
friend of mine." 

* * * 

He called her a few days later, giving her the address of this abandoned 
warehouse on Queens Boulevard in Sunnyside, just a couple of miles west of 
her apartment. He told her to meet his friend there on Saturday night at 
eight. Although at the time she had jumped at the chance, now she wasn't so 
sure that she had done the right thing. 

The empty crates and piles of packing material that littered the floor of 
the huge one-room building cast long eerie shadows on the floor around her 
in the dim light which filtered through the dirt-encrusted windows. She held 
her watch up to her eyes and squinted at it, trying to make out the time, 
when the door opened and a man stepped in. 

For a moment she could see him outlined clearly in the light which came from 
the open door. He was short and stocky and shaped like a bullet-even to the 
top of his bluntly pointed head. When he closed the door behind him, the 
warehouse was again plunged into darkness. But he struck a wooden match on 
the concrete floor and touched it to the wick of a stubby candle that he 
held in his hand. Then he walked toward Connie. 

"Foxy?" she asked quietly, using the name which Lionel had given her on the 
phone. But the stocky man didn't answer. When he had gotten to within a 
couple of feet from her, he stopped and held out the candle, letting his 
eyes roam up and down her body. He stared silently at her, enjoying the way 
that her tight black denim jeans hugged the fullness of her hips and ass. He 
licked his lips suggestively as he examined the round swell of her tits 
filling the tight white sweater that she was wearing. 

"Understand you're interested in some weight," he said, his voice gruff and 
raspy. 

Connie looked at him in the flickering candlelight. His skin was pale and 
yellowish looking and his hair slivery gray and cropped close to his head. 
He looked like a specter of evil, lurking in the streets by night and 
haunting abandoned warehouses. He was dressed in a stained leather vest and 
dirty leather pants that were tied in front with a rawhide thong. His 
clothes looked as though he had been wearing them for months. Connie could 
smell the pungent odor of his body as he stood next to her. 

"That's right," she said. "Half an ounce. Can you do it?" She was glad that 
he had been direct, coming straight to the point. She didn't relish making 
conversation with a man such as him. 

The repulsive man laughed at her question. "I can do it, all right," he 
said. "It'll cost you seven-fifty. It's high, but it's pure." 

Connie tried to look like she was thinking it over. "It's high, all right," 
she said, willing to take Foxy's word for it. "But if it's good stuff, I'm 
willing to pay the price. I'll need a sample, of course. Do you have any 
with you?" 

Foxy laughed again-a cold, mirthless, bestial sound. Then he looked at her 
coldly. "What do I look like?" he asked, contemptuously. "Do you think I'd 
go to meet some broad I've never seen before with a bag of junk in my 
pocket? How do I know you're not a cop?" 

Connie felt her blood run cold at the question. Could it be that he 
suspected her? But no, that was impossible. He was just being cautious. 
"I'll be happy to show you my identification," she said, glad that 
Lieutenant Blumenthal had provided her with a Connecticut driver's license 
before sending her out on the assignment. 

"Eye-Dees mean nothing," Foxy said, his eyes traveling freely over her 
curvaceous body. "I got a million credit cards, all with different names on 
'em. And, anyway, cops don't always carry badges." 

Connie was flustered. "Well, how can I show you that I'm not a cop, then?" 
she asked, unwilling to let this minor detail frustrate her now that she was 
so close to accomplishing her mission. 

"If you're a cop you'll have a gun," Foxy said. "Got one?" 

"No," she answered, glad that she had taken the lieutenant's advice about 
not carrying her gun on this assignment. "I assure you that I don't have a 
gun. Wouldn't know what to do with one if I did. Here, I'll show you my 
purse." She started to open her purse for him to look inside, but he knocked 
it out of her hand with a brutal sweep of his arm. 

"How do I know you haven't got it on you?" he said. "I better check." He put 
the candle down on top of a packing crate and moved toward her. 

"Now, wait a minute," she said. "What do you think you're doing?" 

"I'm going to have to frisk you to see if you're packing," he said. "Don't 
move." 

Connie began to tremble as the foul-smelling man approached her. "Turn 
around," he said, "and put your palms flat on the top of this crate." 

"Keep your hands off me," she said, backing away from him. "I don't want the 
junk that badly." The evil glint in his beady eyes terrified her, and she 
wanted to put as much distance between herself and him as possible, even if 
it meant ruining her chances of completing the assignment. It had already 
cost her too much and she had resolved not to take any further chances. 

But Foxy sprang in front of her, his movements remarkably cat-like for so 
muscular a man. A folded pearl-handled switchblade knife glinted in his 
hand. Then she heard a click as his finger found the button and a long ugly 
blade sprang out of the handle. "If you want to get out of here alive," he 
said, "you'd better prove that you're not a cop." 

"Why don't we just forget the whole thing?" Connie stammered, desperate to 
be away from this gorilla. "You can forget you ever saw me and I'll forget I 
saw you." 

"But you have seen me," Foxy said. "It's to late for forgetting. Now prove 
you're not a cop. Put your hands flat on the crate, like I told you." 

He waved his blade menacingly under her nose, the threat clear. 

Trying to control the shaking of her knees as she turned to comply with his 
command, Connie spread her feet apart on the floor and leaned forward, 
resting her weight on the palms of her hands atop the packing crate. At the 
Police Academy she had been taught to make prisoners assume this position 
for frisk. She knew that it effectively exposed all parts of the body to the 
exploring hands of a searching officer. She tried not to think about it as 
Foxy stepped up behind her. 

Reaching around her with his right hand, he continued to hold the knife in 
front of her face. Then he began to run his left hand expertly over her back 
and shoulders, going through the motions of looking for a concealed weapon. 
As his fingers examined her body through the luxuriously soft material of 
her white sweater, Foxy felt his long thick cock beginning to stir. 

Then, reaching around in front of her, he ran his ham-like hand roughly 
across the swell of her tits, giving each of them a little squeeze. Connie 
felt a lump of disgust rising to the back of her throat as she felt the hand 
of this foul-smelling little man on her tits. The nipples began to pucker as 
his fingers kneaded the mounds of soft flesh and she cursed herself for the 
involuntary reaction, hoping that he wouldn't notice. 

But Foxy's fingers felt the stiffening of her nipples and transmitted the 
message to his burgeoning cock, causing it to jump inside the confinement of 
his tight leather pants. He ran his hand down across her belly, stroking the 
taut expanse of soft skin as he worked his way around to her back. Lowering 
his hand slowly, he stroked the round hills of her buttocks, pinching them 
gently and pressing his fingers against the denim which drew tightly across 
the crevice which separated her firmly rounded ass-cheeks. 

Connie hoped that he wouldn't rub her cunt the way that he was rubbing her 
ass. It was already beginning to moisten, making her very uncomfortable. She 
felt the muscles of her ass clench and unclench in response to his rough 
exploration. And Foxy felt it, too. He squeezed back each time her ass 
jumped in his hand. 

Then he ran his hand down the back of her left thigh, moving it slowly 
across the denim-covered column until he reached her ankle. Slipping his 
hand around to the inside of her long shapely leg, he brought it up again, 
moving it sensuously from side to side as he moved higher and higher, not 
stopping until his fingers nudged at her groin, jabbing through the thick 
material at the tender pouting lips of her tight young pussy. 

Moving his hand quickly to the other leg, he repeated this procedure, again 
bringing his hand high enough to prod gently at her cunt. She could feel the 
thick puffy lips flowering open as he searched her body shamelessly. She bit 
her lip to avoid shouting at him, demanding that he stop. He'll be finished 
in a moment, she thought. And then, when I've passed his inspection, I'll 
get the sample of heroin. 

Since he had told her that he could sell her the half ounce, she knew that 
getting the sample from him would complete her assignment. As soon as she 
would have brought the dope to Lieutenant Blumenthal, the assignment would 
be finished. He would get his warrant and this slimy little dope pusher 
would go to jail. Then she would ask the lieutenant for a few days off to 
recover from the horrible series of indignities that she had suffered. 

Foxy reached around her waist and was rubbing the front of her body now, 
bringing the flat of his hand up as far as the swell of her quivering tits 
and then down as far as the hair-cushioned mound of her sex. Connie pulled 
away from him, taking her hands from the top of the packing crate and 
turning to face him. "Are you satisfied?" she asked. "Now you can be sure 
I've got no gun." 

"I don't know," Foxy said, licking his lips lustfully. "You might have it 
hidden somewhere I couldn't feel it. I think you'd better take off your 
clothes and let me have a look." 

"No," Connie sputtered, her voice a nervous shout. 

"Keep your voice down," Foxy said, his tone cold, hard, and menacing. He 
held the knife in front of her face, its point grazing the tip of her nose. 
"I don't like noise. And, anyway, there's no one around to hear you." 

Connie felt hot tears of frustration welling in her eyes as she realized 
that she was completely at his mercy. 

"Take off your clothes nice and slow," he commanded. "And don't try any 
tricks. I'd hate to have to mark up that pretty face of yours. Now strip!" 

No longer able to control the sobs of humiliation that were clogging her 
throat, Connie began to cry openly, all hope lost. "Don't make me do this," 
she pleaded. "I assure you that I haven't got a gun. Please. Just let me go 
and we can forget the whole thing." 

But Foxy just shook his head from side to side. "It's gone too far for 
that," he said. "Now get 'em off." As he spoke, he ran the edge of the sharp 
blade lightly across the freckled skin of her cheek. The blade felt cold and 
razor sharp, and Connie shuddered inwardly at the thought of what he could 
do to her with it. He could disfigure me for life, she thought. All in a 
swift flash of unreasoning anger. And he might not stop there. He might kill 
me. 

Resolving to do nothing which might anger him, she crossed her arms, 
reaching for the ribbed border of her sweater. She drew a deep breath before 
pulling the sweater up over her head. When it was off, she placed it 
carefully on top of the packing crate. She stood before him now, naked from 
the waist up except for the tight black bra that held her lusciously big 
tits in place. Its front was cut in a deep plunging vee, designed to give 
her breasts uplift under the sweater. She could see him staring lustfully at 
her cleavage, wetly licking his lips as he did so. With his left hand, he 
was rubbing the growing lump which stood out against his pants. His right 
hand continued to wave the switchblade toward her, reminding her of what 
would happen if she refused to comply with his command. 

She hesitated briefly, uncertain of whether to take off her bra or her jeans 
next, finally deciding on her jeans so that she could keep her breasts 
covered for a moment longer. She unfastened the snap at the front of her 
pants and began to open the zipper. Her panties were black and matched her 
bra. She heard Foxy draw his breath in sharply as she opened her jeans, 
exposing the wispy garment to his view, and began to draw them down over her 
hips and the full ripe mounds of her ass. 

As the jeans dropped to her ankles and she stepped out of them, she saw the 
perpetrator untie the thong which held his leather pants closed and reach 
inside. He was playing with his prick. Connie could see the thick organ 
outlined clearly against the dirty, sweat-stained leather as he rubbed and 
manipulated it with his fingers. Although filled with revulsion at the 
thought of what he was making her do, Connie found herself intrigued by the 
outline of the mammoth organ. She remembered what Lionel's naked cock had 
looked like and wondered if all pricks looked the same. 

Foxy saw her looking toward his erection and smiled with satisfaction. It 
didn't take any of them very long to discover that there was something 
special about him. And no matter who they were, it wasn't long before they 
wanted it. 

"Come on," he said. "Quit stalling! I want to see what you've got hidden 
inside that brassiere." His prick throbbed achingly as he surveyed her full 
titties, the curving white skin of their tops overflowing the low cut 
undergarment. He could see the puckered silhouettes of her turgid nipples 
pressing insistently against the material of the black bra-cups. 

When Connie hesitated, he moved toward her, brandishing the knife. He ran 
the cold steel across the curve of her swelling tits, pressing its sharp 
point threateningly against the soft white skin separating the huge mounds 
of swollen flesh. "Don't make me cut this thing off you," he growled, 
turning the sharp edge of the blade against the tautly drawn material which 
separated the two black bra-cups, filled with their sensuous load. 

Connie obeyed quickly, reaching behind her to undo the clasp, fearful that 
he would carry out his threat, leaving her with nothing to put on later. 
When she opened the catch, the bra fell from her, carried away by the 
swelling tits that it contained and which longed to be free of its 
confinement. She dropped the bra on top of her sweater on the dusty top of 
the empty crate. 

Her breasts were naked now, jutting proudly from the front of her body, the 
two erect nipples pointing straight at Foxy. She could feel them swelling to 
complete erection, the rosy aureolas puckering around the rising buds of 
pink which they surrounded. Foxy licked his lips again as he looked at them. 

"No gun there," he said, grinning lasciviously. "Now the drawers." 

"You can see I've got nothing hidden in my panties," she said imploringly. 
"Can't you leave me one last shred of decency?" 

But Foxy sneered, his teeth glinting yellow in the flickering candlelight. 
"The drawers," he repeated impassively. 

Connie clenched her teeth in an effort to contain the sob of shame which was 
building in her throat and threatening to tear from her lips. A flood of 
humiliated tears was flowing down her freckled cheeks and dropping wetly to 
the swell of her naked tits. She looked down at the concrete floor of the 
warehouse, unable to meet the beady eyes of the knife-wielding hoodlum who 
was tormenting her. 

Three horizontal ruffles crossed the front of her panties just above the 
swollen mound of her pussy. She liked wearing pretty underwear. It made her 
feel clean and pure. But now, posing before this repulsive creature, clad in 
nothing but her ruffled underpants, she felt soiled and defiled. Most 
humiliating of all was the knowledge that there was no way to avoid doing 
what he ordered. 

Hooking the elastic waistband of her panties with her thumbs, she pulled 
them swiftly down over the curving swell of her hips. She could feel her 
flesh crawl as gradually it was bared for the lewd inspection of the 
knife-brandishing tough. When the waistband reached the top of her furred 
pubic triangle, she stopped for a moment, unable to bring herself to expose 
any more of her body. 

But when the candlelight glinted off the blade of Foxy's knife, she 
remembered his threat. Biting her lip to keep herself from wailing in 
despair, she pulled the panties all the way down, feeling the dusty air of 
the warehouse sweep dankly over the curling hair of her sex. She could see 
Foxy's gaze trained openly on the pouting lips of her cunt, flowering open 
and peeking out through the tangled jungle of wiry fur. 

"Are you satisfied now?" she asked, her quavering voice barely audible in 
the thunderous silence of the empty warehouse. "Have I proved to your 
satisfaction that I'm not a cop?" She hated this smugly sneering criminal. 
Hated the expression of lustful desire on his face and the look of contempt 
which he turned on her as she spoke. 

"I don't know," he said slowly. "A smart policewoman might travel without a 
gun if she thought she was going to be searched." 

Connie began to sob openly now, unable to control the flood of emotion which 
assailed the dam of her self-control. "Then what do you want?" she screamed. 
"What more do I have to do to convince you?" 

"A blowjob!" he exclaimed, as though the thought had just occurred to him. 
"Cops don't give blowjobs." 

Connie was confused. She had heard the word "blowjob" before, but, although 
she knew that it referred to some depraved sexual practice fit only for the 
lowest of whores, she wasn't really sure of what it was. "Wha . . . What do 
you mean?" she stammered. 

Foxy laughed contemptuously. Is she kidding? he thought, untying his pants 
completely and allowing them to fall to the floor. Taking a step closer to 
her, he jabbed delicately at one of her nipples with the point of his knife. 
"My cock," he said. "I want you to suck it." 

His words struck Connie like a clenched fist, bringing a wave of bitter 
revulsion halfway up her throat. He can't be serious, she thought. He can't 
actually be asking me to take his filthy thing into my mouth. She stood for 
a minute, shaking her head from side to side in shocked disbelief. How could 
anybody do such a depraved thing? It was terrible! Horrible! Her stomach was 
turning in disgust at the thought of his thick organ, pungent with the smell 
of cunt and urine, pushing past her lips and penetrating her throat. 

But Foxy was obviously not fooling. He grabbed her by one of her long dark 
braids and forced her to her knees in front of him. Connie was weeping and 
sniveling like a newborn infant deprived of its bottle. She couldn't believe 
that this awful thing was really happening to her. 

She looked straight ahead of her and saw Foxy's thick red penis waving 
obscenely in front of her nose. She held her breath, trying to keep herself 
from gagging at the sight of the massive hard-on. When at last she took a 
long painful inhale, her nostrils filled with the stench of his unwashed 
body. A musty smell rose from his cock-the smell of countless pussies-the 
cunts that he had been in since his last bath-mixed with the overpowering 
stench of his own sweat. 

A glistening drop of lubricating fluid formed at the tip of his thickly 
swollen purple cockhead. The sight of it made Connie's stomach crawl. Foxy 
humped his hips forward, bringing the moist tip of his prick against her 
mouth. Moving from side to side, he smeared the drop of dewy wetness over 
her smooth red lips. She could feel the slimy goo covering her mouth and 
could smell its pungent odor. 

Then Foxy pulled back slightly. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Haven't you 
ever sucked a cock before? Why, I'll bet you're going to like it. Taste it. 
You'll see it's not so bad." When Connie failed to react to his words, he 
pressed the point of his knife insistently against the back of her neck. 
"Taste it," he commanded again, his tone of voice making clear his unspoken 
threat. 

Choking back her sobs and blinking back her tears, Connie snaked out her 
tongue, licking the glistening moisture off her lips. It had a spicy taste, 
like peppered almonds. But the thought of what it was and where it had come 
from made it more repulsive to her than cyanide. 

"Now taste my cock," he ordered, moving close to her, again. She felt the 
rubbery head throb demandingly against the softness of her lips. Fearing the 
consequences of any further hesitation, she reached tentatively out with the 
tip of her tongue, licking the thick knob of throbbing flesh gingerly. It 
tasted salty and had the slimy texture of a clam, only harder. A shiver of 
delight ran through Foxy's body in response to the faltering contact. This 
was turning out to be even better than he had expected. 

Thrusting his hips forward with a jerkingly insistent movement, he battered 
the tip of his stiff prick against the softly resisting barrier of her 
tightly shut lips. "Open wide," he said. "I know you'll be wanting a little 
more." 

Connie resisted for a moment, still unable to believe what he was asking her 
to do. Then, in response to the hard point of steel which dug relentlessly 
into the back of her neck threatening to break the smooth skin at any 
minute, she parted her lips slightly. 

The anxious pole of palpitating penis pushed forward, slipping between her 
sensuously separated lips. She could feel it nudging at her teeth, demanding 
entry. At the renewed pressure of 

Foxy's knife, she opened her mouth wider, allowing the thick knob at the end 
of his vibrating cudgel to pass the barrier of her teeth, filling the warm 
emptiness of her warm oral cavity. 

She felt the fat hard-on pressing against her tongue, forcing it back 
against the opening of her throat. She thought that she would gag any 
minute, choking on her own tongue and the filthy smell of his unwashed 
organ. In order to keep herself from choking, she brought her tongue 
forward, running it experimentally over the crusty skin of his cock as she 
searched the inside of her mouth for a hiding place out of the path of his 
relentlessly forward-driving intruder. 

"That's it," he said, his voice becoming soft in his breathless excitement. 
"Lick it with your tongue. Just like a big ice-cream cone." The metaphor 
sickened the naked young policewoman, but she hastened to comply before he 
jabbed at her again with his knife. 

The skin of his mammoth pole of cockflesh was rough and scratchy, encrusted 
with the dried secretions of his own sex and the juice of all the pussies 
that he had visited in the past few weeks. Working for Johnny Walker brought 
him into contact with lots of cunts, and Johnny didn't place any 
restrictions on the way that his assistant treated them. Nothing pleased 
Foxy more than forcing a woman to submit to his will. And having this one 
suck him off was especially exciting. It was only too obvious that she had 
never had a cock in her mouth before. He liked that, even though it meant 
that she wouldn't be doing too expert a job. He could feel her tongue 
swirling amateurishly over the surface of his quivering prick stroking it, 
tasting it, rolling it around in the wet cavern of her mouth. He jerked his 
hips forward, driving two more inches of purple-veined-coursed shaft down 
her wide-open throat. He could feel the swollen tip nudging at her tonsils 
and could hear her struggling to keep herself from gagging. He was looking 
forward to pumping a hot slimy load of joy-juice down her reluctant throat. 

"Suck it," he commanded harshly, pleased by her instant obedience. Her 
cheeks hollowed as she began to suck his cock, her lips stretched tightly 
around its incredible circumference. His balls were beginning to tingle with 
pleasure. 

"Hold my balls in your hand," he ordered. "But take it easy. I want this to 
last." Connie, numb now to her own humiliation, reached for the swinging 
sack of nuts which grazed her chin with every forward motion of his hips. 
The wrinkled skin was warm and slimy with his perspiration. She could feel 
the curly hairs, which formed a downy covering for the huge bag of 
testicles, bristling at the touch of her fingers. 

She couldn't help marveling at the contrast between the iron-like hardness 
of his cock and the silky softness of his scrotum. She felt his palpitating 
cock burgeoning inside her mouth as she ran her fingertips lightly over the 
hair-covered skin of his wrinkled sac. His breathing was becoming labored 
and noisy. She thought that it meant that he was approaching his climax and 
that this would soon be over. 

Connie's blood froze at the thought of what that would mean. She remembered 
the way that her cunt had felt when Lionel flooded it with his searing hot 
cream the Tuesday night before, and shuddered in revulsion. The spurting 
flood of semen had seemed to go on forever, wetting the inner walls of her 
just-deflowered cunt and running out to wet the insides of her thighs and 
stain the mattress. The thought of a similar flood of vile hot scum pouring 
into her mouth made her want to scream in disgust. 

Foxy could feel the muscles of Connie's throat constricting around his 
driving prick as she tried to keep herself from gagging on the thick hairy 
cudgel. He knew that he would be cumming any minute, and he wanted to make 
sure that she, too, knew it. "Get ready for this," he whispered, his voice 
raspy with mounting lust. "I'm going to pop a hot load down your waiting 
throat. And you're going to swallow every drop of it like a good little 
girl. 'Cause if you don't, I'll make you lick it up off the floor. Do you 
understand?" 

Tears ran freely from Connie's eyes as she nodded to indicate her 
understanding. She could feel the thick pole of flesh jerking randomly in 
her mouth now. His balls were drawn tightly up against his body, working 
overtime at producing the torrent of hot semen that would soon be jetting 
from his throbbing hard-on and wetting her entire oral cavity with its slimy 
viscosity. 

His cock swelled suddenly, rearing back like a rattler about to strike. 
Then, with no further warning, it began shooting its hot load of pent-up 
desire into the cavern of her reluctantly sucking mouth. The first spurt was 
a small one, and Connie could feel it splashing hotly against the back of 
her throat and then trickling down past her tonsils. 

But each successive jet of white-hot liquid was thicker and fuller, and her 
mouth soon filled with the thickly whirling gooey stuff, making her feel as 
if she was drowning in it. She gulped quickly, trying to swallow the hot 
torrent before it filled her mouth to overflowing. Foxy watched as her 
cheeks alternately puffed and hollowed in her frantic attempt to stay ahead 
of the gushing flood of scum. 

She felt a warm trickle of liquid oozing from the corner of her mouth and 
feared for a moment that she would lose the race. But then, by swallowing 
deeply and quickly, she drew apace of the flood, just managing to prevent 
the viscous white fluid from dribbling from her lips. She felt it sliding 
thickly down her throat as she swallowed, hot tears of shame wetting her 
cheeks and pooling on her glisteningly naked tits. 

Then at last it was over and the thick pole of cockflesh was shriveling in 
her mouth, the once-mighty club with which Foxy had beaten away her 
self-respect shrinking at last to the size of a peanut. Finally, licking the 
wrinkled organ clean, she let it slip from her lips. Quickly she turned 
away, trying hard not to vomit. Finally, when she had fought down a rising 
gush of bile which bubbled up her throat, she turned back to look at him. 

His face was distorted into a bestial mask of sated lust, his eyes lidded 
heavily and his tense features partially relaxed. "Not bad for a novice," he 
said, seeing her looking at him. "Not bad at all." He bent for his leather 
pants and pulled them on over his thickly muscular thighs, tucking his balls 
and deflated cock into their front, and tying the thong. 

Without waiting for his permission, Connie reached for her clothes and put 
them on, covering herself quickly, anxious to shield her nakedness from his 
depraved gaze. Her eyes were dry now, all cried out. She felt cold and 
unfeeling, her emotions having been taxed into unconsciousness by the horror 
of her ordeal. 

I hate him, she thought coldly. I'd like to put him in jail for the rest of 
his life. Then remembering the assignment which had first cost her her 
virginity and now had robbed her of her last vestige of self-respect, she 
felt more anxious than ever to get the evidence that she had come for, so 
that she and Lieutenant Blumenthal could use it to punish this horrible 
criminal. 

"What about that sample?" she asked, snapping the front of her pants. "Have 
I convinced you that I'm not a cop?" 

"Yeah, I guess you were convincing enough," Foxy said with a smug little 
chuckle of satisfaction. "But I'm only the screening committee." His words 
disappointed her. Did that mean that she would have to deal with someone 
else? 

"I'll have to arrange for you to meet my boss, Mr. Walker," the stocky thug 
continued. "Do you know the Glass Onion?" 

"Yes," Connie replied, concentrating hard on her assignment in a desperate 
effort to keep from screaming in horrified frustration. 

"Be there Tuesday night at eight-thirty." As he spoke, he reached into his 
pocket and pulled out a crisp white card-about the size of a business card. 
The stiff paper was glazed expensively and the word "GUEST" was engraved on 
it in gold. 

"Isn't the Glass Onion closed on Tuesday nights?" she asked, remembering how 
Lionel had deceived her less than a week before. 

"It's closed to the public, all right," Foxy replied. "But only because it's 
the meeting place of a very exclusive club." 

"What kind of a club?" Connie asked. 

"It's a club where people with special tastes can get together and enjoy 
what they like," Foxy said, handing her the card. "Bring this with you," he 
said. "They won't let you in without it." He had already blown out the 
candle and was heading toward the door of the warehouse. 

"Wait a minute," she called, "How will I know this Mr. Walker?" 

"You won't," Foxy answered. "But don't worry about that. He'll know you." 

A moment later he was gone and Connie was alone with her thoughts of shame 
and degradation. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

It was just before eight-thirty when Connie raised her hand to knock on the 
ornately carved door of the Glass Onion. The shades had been drawn and no 
light could be seen coming from the windows of the little discotheque. It 
appeared closed, even to her knowing scrutiny. If Foxy hadn't told her, she 
would never have guessed that some kind of meeting was going on inside. 

She wondered what sort of club it was that used the neighborhood hangout as 
its headquarters. "An exclusive club," he had called it. One for members 
with "special tastes." Connie was intrigued. Lifting the heavy onion-shaped 
brass door knocker, she rapped loudly, wondering whether Foxy hadn't been 
putting her on. When no one answered her knock, she raised the brass onion 
knocker for another try. 

But before she could finish, a peephole opened in the door and she found 
herself face to face with a human eye. "Your card, please," said a voice 
from behind the door. Connie fumbled in her pocket for the gold-engraved 
card which Foxy had given her. Finding it, she held it up to the peephole 
for inspection by the anonymous eye. "One moment, please," said the voice 
politely. 

Seconds later the door swung open admitting her to the familiar surroundings 
of the popular discotheque. As she entered, a tall thin man wearing the 
uniform of a nineteenth-century butler appeared at her side and took the 
card from her hand. "Will you be meeting someone?" he asked. "Or would you 
like your own table." 

She considered mentioning Mr. Walker's name and then thought better of it. 
"I'll sit by myself," she said. "A gentleman may be joining me later on. 

"Very good, Miss," said the butler., She followed him into the discotheque 
and allowed him to seat her at one of the tables which ringed the elevated 
stage. She ordered a gin and tonic-the incident at Lionel's apartment the 
week before having been enough to get her off scotch, forever-and waited to 
see what would happen. Looking around, she saw several waiters, all dressed 
like the man who had admitted her, flitting busily around carrying trays 
laden with cocktails. 

Connie glanced around at the posters of rock stars which adorned the walls, 
and at the glass onion-shaped globes on the lighting fixtures. Although the 
room-with its familiar onion decor and crowded table arrangement-was exactly 
as she had always known it to be, Connie didn't recognize any of the 
waiters. The usual Glass Onion personnel were a friendly bunch-casual to the 
point of rudeness. They called all the customers by their first names and 
mingled freely with them, sitting at tables uninvited whenever they felt 
like it. But tonight the staff was stiffly formal. She saw one of the 
waiters bow to a customer as he placed his tray on the edge of a table. 

The change was refreshing and Connie smiled, forgetting for a moment the 
seriousness of her mission. She looked around in the dim light of the 
discotheque, hoping to spot a familiar face. But the customers were all 
strangers to her as were the waiters. She glanced at the bar, wherea thin 
dark-haired girl sat sipping a drink by herself, and shrugged. Not even the 
bartender looked familiar. A moment later the waiter returned with her drink 
and Connie occupied herself by stirring it vigorously with the red plastic 
onion-topped swizzle stick. She raised it to her lips, savoring the tang of 
the liquored quinine. 

The dark-haired girl at the bar watched with interest as Connie sipped her 
drink. Connie hadn't recognized her-probably because she wasn't wearing her 
blonde wig or her star-shaped beauty mark. But Sheri recognized the 
policewoman, all right! She wasn't-likely to forget that face or the way 
that it had distorted with undisguised hatred when she had arrested the 
young prostitute in Manhattan the previous month. 

Looks like she's strayed out of her precinct, Sheri thought. But then we all 
get around, don't we? Sheri wouldn't have traveled all the way to Queens 
herself if not for the fact that she needed money desperately. Street 
hustling wasn't as lucrative as it used to be now that Blumenthal's raiders 
had started making life miserable for the girls of Eighth Avenue. So when 
she heard that the people who operated this club were looking for a female 
performer, she had jumped at the chance. 

The bartender had told her that the manager wouldn't be available for a 
couple of hours, but that she could wait at the bar if she wanted to. His 
offer of a drink "on the house" had been enough to ease the boredom of 
waiting, at first. But now it looked like something interesting might 
happen, after all. She glanced over the rim of her glass at the undercover 
policewoman who sipped her own drink unsuspectingly. 

Connie glanced at her wrist watch, wondering whether Mr. Walker would keep 
her waiting long. The waiter, misinterpreting the gesture appeared 
solicitously at her side. "The show will be starting in a few minutes, Miss. 
May I get you another drink?" 

"By all means. Get Miss Dresden another and put it on my tab." The voice was 
deep and resonant, but soft and gentle at the same time. 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Walker," the waiter said, pulling out a chair for the tall 
muscular Black man who had spoken. "The usual for you, sir?" 

Johnny Walker nodded, sending the waiter on his way. "Good evening, Miss 
Dresden," he said. His voice was cultured and genteel, contrasting sharply 
with the vicious-looking pink scar which broke the smooth clean line of his 
right cheek. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Johnny Walker." 

"How do you do, Mr. Walker," Connie answered politely. Something about the 
Black man's manner-gentle yet supremely confident-was putting her at her 
ease. He was nothing like the brutal animal that she had met in the 
warehouse. Johnny Walker was dressed impeccably in a gray-and-white 
pin-striped double-breasted suit. Under it he wore a shirt striped in muted 
tones of blue and purple with a white silk tie. When he smiled, Connie 
glimpsed a flash of gold surrounding a gleaming heart-shaped cutout on one 
of his upper central teeth. Although it contrasted with his 
otherwise-relatively conservative attire, it seemed distinctive rather than 
gaudy. 

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting," he said. "I usually try to be prompt, but 
was unavoidably detained by a pressing business detail." So soft and 
cultured was his voice that Connie never would have believed that the 
pressing business detail involved the physical punishment of one of Johnny's 
stable of whores. 

A moment later the waiter reappeared with their drinks-another gin and tonic 
for Connie and a tall glass of straight Johnny Walker black label for her 
companion. "To your health," Johnny said, lifting the glass to his lips. 
"And to a miraculous recovery for your unfortunate sister." 

Connie was startled, having momentarily forgotten the story about her dying 
sister. Then, adopting an appropriately unhappy look, she raised her glass 
and sipped. The cool tangy liquid felt good going down, refreshing her on 
the hot muggy New York summer night. 

"Did you bring me a sample of the merchandise, Mr. Walker?" she asked, 
suddenly anxious to transact her business and get away from there. 

"Slow down, Miss Dresden," he said. "Or may I call you Connie?" Connie 
nodded. "There will be plenty of time for business later. Let's just enjoy 
our drinks for a while. The show will be beginning any moment now. I'm sure 
you'll like it. It's rather unusual, although not for our little club. You 
see, we specialize in the unusual. May I order you another drink?" 

"No, thanks." she said, determined not to allow herself to become 
intoxicated as she had the week before. "I'm still fine." She indicated her 
glass, still half full. 

"You won't mind if I do, then, will you?" he asked, signaling the waiter 
with a nod of his head. Just as the waiter placed another glass in front of 
him, the lights dimmed and a bright-red spotlight illuminated the stage. An 
announcer, dressed in a gold dinner jacket and red trousers, stepped into 
the spotlight and waited for quiet. 

In a moment the room was hushed. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "I know 
you're all anxious to see the show so I won't bore you with long-winded 
introductions. Tonight, for the first time anywhere, the management is 
pleased to present George and Martha." He stepped quickly off the stage. 

Johnny Walker took a long swallow of his drink and then looked up at Connie, 
a friendly smile lighting up his coal-black face. "The manager tells me that 
they're very good," he said, indicating to the stage with a gesture of his 
head. Connie looked up to see a tall shapely woman standing alone in the 
middle of the elevated stage. 

As the color of the spotlight changed from red to white, Connie was 
surprised to see that the woman was totally nude. She was swaying 
sensuously, moving her body in rhythm to the notes of an imaginary melody-a 
tune heard by her and her alone. Her eyes were half-closed and she was 
licking her lips sensuously. Connie was embarrassed by the shocking display 
of uncovered pulchritude and sought an excuse to turn away. But Johnny 
Walker was looking directly at her, taking silent note of her every gesture. 
She felt instinctively that this was some kind of test and that it would be 
wise for her to pretend enjoyment of the lewd exhibition. 

She forced a smile and redirected her gaze at the naked woman on the stage. 
She was running her hands sensuously up and down her nude body, caressing 
her breasts and stroking her flat white belly. The girl was of medium height 
and build. But her tits were huge. They hung pendulously down in front of 
her, swinging obscenely from side to side as she swayed to the imaginary 
music. Her hair was bright red and very long. It was tied back into a single 
pony tail which hung almost to her full round ass. The furry triangle that 
surrounded her pussy was red as the hair of her head. She tangled her 
fingers in it as she rubbed her belly. 

Connie was shocked to see so prurient a display being presented on the 
familiar stage of the Glass Onion. Up until now, the only performers that 
she had seen there had been wearing faded Levi's and flannel shirts and had 
plucked the strings of battered guitars. 

The redheaded girl was cupping her long luscious tits now, rolling them 
about in her hands and bringing the huge walnut-sized nipples to quivering 
erection. The aureolas were brown, but the pointy caps were rosy pink. 
Connie wondered whether the girl had applied a bit of makeup before going on 
stage. 

She was moaning softly now as her own fingers tweaked and petted her 
nipples, rolling them lovingly between thumb and forefinger. Connie 
remembered how good it had felt when Lionel had stroked her nipples that way 
and wondered whether self-stimulation produced the same sensation. The girl 
on stage was apparently enjoying it. Her face was distorted into a mask of 
sheer pleasure and she was licking her full red lips lewdly as she stroked 
and petted her mammoth tits before the crowd of hushed onlookers. 

"Oh, feels so good," she moaned, her voice soft and sexy. While she 
continued petting her own tits with her left hand, moving it slowly from one 
swaying mound to the other, she moved her right hand caressingly over the 
silky plane of her taut white belly. She fluttered her fingers as she did 
so, moving them like the wings of a butterfly and stimulating herself even 
more. 

Then, bending her knees to separate her smoothly curving thighs, the girl 
began to rub her own sizzling pussy with the flat of her hand. Connie was 
shocked at the lewd sight. Rubbing her breasts had been bad enough, but this 
shameful display of public masturbation was awful. 

How satisfying it would be, she thought, to stand up suddenly, flash my 
badge, and place the entire room under arrest. But remembering the 
importance of her mission, she put all such thoughts out of her mind, 
forcing herself to watch the shameful spectacle taking place on the stage of 
the Glass Onion. 

Johnny Walker leaned over so that his lips were but scant inches from her 
ear. Speaking just loud enough for her to hear him, he asked. "What do you 
think of her?" 

Connie conquered the urge to shout the word "obscene" in response to his 
question, muttering a noncommittal, "Not bad." 

"No," Johnny answered. "Not bad at all." 

The woman's body was covered with perspiration now, and she rubbed it 
sensuously over her thighs and belly. Connie wondered whether the redhead's 
heat was the result of the spotlight or of her lascivious self-stimulation. 
The passionate expression on her face made Connie sure that it was the 
latter. But it certainly was warm in there, in spite of the air 
conditioning. 

Connie was perspiring steadily. In fact, she felt as though she were bathed 
in sweat. Warm stains were forming at her armpits, wetting the pale-yellow 
blouse that she was wearing. And her crotch was bathed in moisture, the damp 
material of her panties sticking wetly to her pussy and working its way 
uncomfortably into the puffy pink slit. She tried to work it loose by 
shifting her position in the chair, but her movements only served to pull 
the twisted cloth even more tautly across the lips of her moist young cunt. 

The girl on stage had leaned way back now, exposing her pussy to the view of 
all the members of the audience. Connie found herself staring at it in 
fascination. She had never seen another woman's pussy before. She wondered 
whether it was normal for the lips and inner membranes to be so red. As the 
performer leaned further back, the lips of her cunt pulled obscenely apart, 
revealing the deep-red hue of her cuntal interior. 

Connie's panties were becoming more and more uncomfortable as they pulled 
insistently across the sensitive mound of her snatch. The heat was becoming 
intolerable, and the light material felt like it was wringing wet. Connie 
reached under the table and tugged at the crotch of her black jeans, trying 
to pull the bunched-up material away from her cunt. 

The girl on stage had plunged one long finger into the wet red confines of 
her drooling cuntal opening. Connie watched in shocked disbelief as she 
began driving the finger in and out like a pistoning cock. She had never 
seen or even imagined anything so lascivious before in her life. She wished 
that she could turn away from the obscene performance, burying her face in 
the sand like a frightened ostrich, but feared that to do so would arouse 
Johnny Walker's disapproval. 

Then, suddenly, a man walked out on stage. like the girl, he was completely 
naked. His cock was long and thick, and hung down in front of him, not quite 
erect, as he walked to the center of the stage and bowed elaborately. He was 
short and slight of build. The hair on his head and around his long dangling 
cock was dark and shiny. But the rest of his body was almost hairless. His 
skin glistened wetly in the illumination of the bright spotlight in which he 
was centered. 

The red-haired girl abandoned the lewd fingering of her pussy and placed 
both hands behind her on the floor. She leaned back until her long red hair 
was spread luxuriously out on the floor beneath her head. The pouting lips 
of her pussy were splayed open obscenely, drawing the attention of every 
pair of eyes in the room. Connie couldn't believe her eyes. 

The dark-haired man fell to his knees in front of the open-cunted girl and 
brought his face close to the flowered lips of her glistening pink pussy. 
Then, with no further preliminaries, he kissed her cunt, his lips making a 
loud smacking sound which could be heard throughout the room. 

Extending his long pink tongue as far as it would go, he pressed forward, 
burying his face in the wet slash of her gaping pussy. Connie was astounded. 
The man was lapping at the thickly moistened membranes of the red-haired 
girl's widely splayed cunt with apparent gusto. Connie could hear the 
slurping sounds made by his tongue as it sawed feverishly in and out of the 
gaping slash. 

The sound was having a strange effect on Connie, making her own cunt tingle 
as it had on the night of her forced seduction by Lionel. Her breathing was 
becoming labored, and her eyes were riveted to the sight of the girl 
performer's cunt, her thick mat of flaming red pubic hair framing the 
bobbing head of the man who lapped so greedily at it. 

Connie could hear the girl moaning with delight as the man plunged his stiff 
slithering tongue deeper and deeper into her cunt. She actually sounded as 
if she were enjoying the shameful act. Connie simply couldn't understand it. 
It was so dirty and immoral. How could anyone do such a thing? she asked 
herself. 

The girl bent her elbows, lowering herself gradually to the floor. As she 
did so, the man followed her down, his head apparently glued to her pussy as 
he continued lapping and sucking her with a lewd slurping sound. Connie 
found herself craning her neck, straining involuntarily for a better view of 
the shameful spectacle. 

Now the girl lay flat on her back, her shapely white legs thrown wide apart, 
opening her pussy completely for the lingual assault of the dark-haired man. 
He had turned his body now so that his head pointed at her feet and his 
knees straddled her head. Connie could see his prick, long and hard now, 
swaying from side to side just above the red-headed girl's nose as his body 
shifted. The girl inhaled elaborately, letting everyone in the room know 
that she was savoring the aroma of her cunt-lapping partner's sex. 

Then, to Connie's amazement, she extended her tongue, running its curling 
tip lovingly along the underside of the thick hard cock. Connie could see 
the swollen shaft jerk violently in response to the touch of her tongue. He 
buried his face even deeper in her vaginal slit, turning his head from side 
to side so that he could lick the inner walls of her cunt from all 
directions. His nose nudged insistently at the swollen bud of her clitoris 
protruding erectly from the scarlet tent of cunt flesh which sheltered and 
surrounded it. The deep-red pleasure button was long and cylindrical, like a 
miniature wiener. 

Connie had never really examined her own clitoris, but was vaguely aware of 
its sensitivity, having stimulated it accidentally with a bar of soap in the 
shower a few times. She knew that it was tiny, not much bigger than the head 
of a pin. She couldn't imagine why the girl on stage had such a big one. 
Connie wondered whether they became enlarged with exercise like the muscles 
of one's arms or legs. 

Connie was painfully aware that her own blood-engorged clit was throbbing 
and that she longed to disentangle herself from the damp material of her 
twisted panties. Perhaps if she went to the ladies' room, she could 
straighten herself out. But glancing quickly about her, she realized that 
she would have to stand up and walk in front of the stage, attracting the 
attention of all those present who were staring at the lewd performance 
being enacted. She resolved to untangle herself as soon as the act was over. 
It couldn't go on much longer. 

"like the show?" Johnny Walker asked, his deeply resonant voice soft and 
controlled. 

"It's all right," Connie said, trying to sound casual. She was aware that 
her voice had risen several decibels above its normal pitch, betraying her 
nervous excitement. She hoped that Johnny Walker hadn't noticed. 

The couple on stage rolled over, the man now on his back on the bottom while 
the girl straddled his face. He was still working lovingly at her cunt and 
Connie could hear the loud slurping sound that he was making with his tongue 
as he drove it in and out of the red-fringed gash. But then Connie's 
attention was completely captured by the sight of the girl's mouth wrapped 
hungrily around the thick red shaft of the man's cock, moving rapidly up and 
down its length. She thought briefly of the horrible scene that had taken 
place the Saturday night before in the Sunnyside warehouse. The thought of 
Foxy's evil-smelling prick forcing its way down her throat made her feel 
like gagging again. Yet the girl on stage appeared to be enjoying her work. 

She let the throbbing prick slip from her lips and whirled her tongue 
rapidly across the silky surface of its palpitating purple head. She was 
making a soft moaning sound in the back of her throat and her face wore an 
expression of sheer ecstasy. Her hips were rolling and bucking in response 
to the merciless lashing of her drooling red cunt by the skillful tongue of 
her partner. 

Connie watched the girl's head bobbing up and down in synchronized 
syncopation with the movements of her hips. She was lapping and licking the 
thick hard-on with slobbering relish, enjoying every lascivious minute of 
it. Her groans were clearly audible as they increased in volume and tempo. 

Connie was vaguely aware of her own hips moving in a little circle, grinding 
her fully rounded ass-cheeks against her chair and pulling the wet crotch 
band of her panties into electric contact with the swollen bud of her 
trembling clit. She tried to stop the rhythmic motions but found that she 
couldn't. Each time she rocked her pelvis forward, the wet material of her 
panties pulled tight across her pubic area. When she rocked back, the taut 
material slackened, continuing to rub mercilessly at the sensitive membranes 
of her moistening cunt. 

The couple on stage were rocking and bobbing together now, the rhythm of 
their movements approaching an exploding crescendo. Both of them were crying 
in breathless agony as their bodies rolled about on the floor. 

From the corners of her eyes Connie saw that some of the members of the 
audience were standing for a better view of the stage. A man and woman 
sitting at a nearby table were shamelessly rubbing their hands over each 
other's genitals as they watched the wildly sixty-nining couple on stage. 

Then the nude redhead uttered a long low moan of pleasure, culminating as 
her partner's vibrating tongue carried her over the wall of orgasm. Her 
super-aroused cunt began to flow copiously, filling the sucking mouth that 
pressed tightly against it with its spicy honeyed secretions. At the same 
moment, the man heaved his hips up at her, rocking his body rhythmically as 
his jerking cock fired spurt after bursting spurt of hot sticky cum, 
flooding the girl's hungrily sucking mouth. 

The couple rolled about on the floor of the elevated stage, panting and 
groaning out the fury of their mutual orgasms to the delight and joy of the 
thoroughly excited audience. After an eternal instant, the spasms of 
orgasmic delight began to subside and the tense muscles of their intertwined 
bodies relaxed. Each of them lapped lovingly at the last drops of the 
other's sex-juice. Finally they came to rest, she with her head pillowed on 
the inside of his thigh and he with his face still buried in the soft 
wetness of her oozing pussy. 

After a long pregnant moment of silence, the crowd went wild, shouting and 
applauding thunderously. "Bravo!" someone shouted as though the performance 
had been of a fine symphony by a great philharmonic orchestra. Connie found 
herself applauding, too, although she wasn't thinking about the impression 
that she had to make on Johnny Walker. Though she would never have admitted 
it, even to herself, Connie had been moved tremendously by the salacious 
spectacle. 

Her damp panties were plastered to the wetness of her cunt, and her entire 
body was bathed in sweat. She longed for the privacy of the rest room and an 
opportunity to straighten out her undergarments. But before she could rise 
and excuse herself, Johnny pushed back his chair and smiled cordially at 
her. "Excuse me," he said. "I want to go straighten my tie. I'll be right 
back." 

Connie wondered whether his underwear was as tangled as hers, and then 
scolded herself mentally for the sexual boldness of her thought. She tugged 
at the crotch of her jeans, taking advantage of Johnny's absence to pull the 
tangled crotch band of her panties from the hot wet slit of her pussy. She 
was beginning to cool off now, and to remember her assignment. She hoped 
that the well-spoken Black had the sample with him. 

Johnny Walker was about to step into the men's room when he felt a light tap 
on his shoulder. Turning quickly, he faced a tall, thin dark-haired 
girl-obviously a junkie. She was wearing the confident smile of an addict 
whose next shot of dope was practically guaranteed. 

"Excuse me, Mr. Walker," she said quietly. "Maybe this is none of my 
business, but I have some information you might be interested in." She 
stopped dramatically, waiting for his invitation to continue. 

"Go on," Johnny said. His voice took on a tone of studied boredom, but his 
eyes were sparklingly alert. 

"Well, it's about that girl you've been sitting with," Sheri continued. "I 
just thought you might like to know that she's a policewoman." 

"Oh, really?" Johnny answered, wearing his confident smile like a mask. "And 
what makes you think so?" 

It was Sheri's turn to smile. "She busted me for prost about a month ago," 
she responded. "In the City. Eighth Avenue, to be exact." 

"You're sure it was her?" Johnny asked, his voice casual. 

"I'll never forget her face as long as I live," she answered. "I got the 
feeling that she wanted to kill me." 

"I want you to know I appreciate this," Johnny said, flashing his confident 
smile again. He pressed two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills into her hand as 
he spoke. Then he turned on his heel and entered the men's room, knowing 
that she would be gone when he came out. 

After he had finished urinating he stopped in front of the mirror and 
grinned mechanically, checking his teeth to be sure that they were clean and 
sparkling. Then, wearing his friendliest smile, he returned to the table at 
which Officer Connie Dresden awaited him. 

Pulling her chair out so that she could get up, he said, "Come along, 
Connie. We'll have to go up to my place for that sample." 

Connie rose quickly, anxious to be finished with her assignment. As they 
walked toward the door, she slipped her hand into the crook of Johnny 
Walker's elbow, certain that she had passed his inspection. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

When Connie and Johnny Walker stepped out of the Glass Onion and into the 
quiet darkness of One Hundred Eighth Street, a light rain was falling. One 
of those midsummer New York drizzles which seem to fall up and sideways as 
well as down. The stagnant air was filled with a mist of fine droplets that 
made it smell almost clean. The street and sidewalks shone with moisture, 
reflecting the light of the streetlamps. 

Although the air wasn't cold, Connie shivered, suddenly afraid. This 
assignment was turning out to be more dangerous than she had anticipated. 
Her fear had been forgotten in the crowded activity of the Glass Onion, but 
now that she and 

Johnny were out in the street, she realized that she was alone. And at his 
mercy! What if he decides to rape me the way that awful man in the warehouse 
did? she thought. 

But then Johnny spoke to her, and his soft and gentle voice put her at her 
ease. "My car is up this way," he said. "Shall we walk? Or would you rather 
wait here and I'll pick you up?" 

"I don't mind walking in the rain," she answered. "It always makes me feel 
so clean." 

"All right, then," Johnny said. "Let's go." He took her gently by the elbow 
and led her up the street toward the bright lights of Queens Boulevard. 
Connie could see taillights and headlights flashing as the evening traffic 
whizzed along the busy thoroughfare. It gave her a strange feeling to 
realize that although the past week had brought a dramatic change to her 
life, business was as usual for the rest of the city. 

"Here we are," Johnny said softly, interrupting her thoughts. She looked up 
to see a shiny white Lincoln Continental parked next to the curb. Although 
it was parked in a bus stop, there was no parking summons on the windshield 
wiper. 

"How do you get away with parking in a bus stop?" she asked naively. 

Johnny smiled, flashing his gold-capped tooth. The white heart-shaped cutout 
seemed to twinkle at her. "Oh, I don't ever have a problem parking," he 
said. "The police all know my car." 

Connie looked at the car. It had a white vinyl top with a pattern of faint 
gold lines running through it. Painted on the front door in delicate 
swirling lines of gold leaf was the monogram 

J. W. Each letter was about three inches high. Johnny opened the door for 
Connie and assisted her into the front seat. The upholstery was black 
leather. As she sank into the comfortable softness of the seat, she ran her 
fingers gingerly along its surface. The leather was smooth and buttery soft. 

A moment later Johnny opened the door on the driver's side, and slipped into 
the seat beside her. "Would you like some music?" he asked. 

"That would be nice," Connie answered. Johnny selected a tape cartridge from 
a leather-covered box built into his armrest. He inserted it into a slot on 
the dashboard and a moment later the sensuous voice of Tina Turner filled 
the car's interior: "I'm a honky tonk woman. Gimme, Gimme, Gimme a honky 
tonk man." 

"Do you like Tina?" Johnny asked. He made it sound as if he knew her 
personally. 

"I don't think I've ever heard her before," Connie answered guardedly. 

"Then you're in for a treat," Johnny answered. "I won't say anything for a 
while. Just let you enjoy the music." 

Connie was grateful for his promise of silence. She leaned back, letting her 
head sink into the softly padded headrest behind her. She was glad for an 
opportunity to be alone with her thoughts and to be free of the need to 
guard her speech and actions. She was certain that she had passed Johnny 
Walker's informal examination in the Glass Onion, but realized that a 
criminal like him would always be alert to anything which might give her 
away. 

As the car sped west along Queens Boulevard, she thought about the events of 
the past few days. First there had been that dreadful scene at Lionel's 
apartment. Although he had overpowered her, she knew that he really wasn't 
to blame. The drinks which she had that night had weakened her powers of 
resistance. Her actions had probably been misinterpreted by him as signs of 
her willingness to submit to his will. He had probably seen her last-minute 
protest as a coy act of coquettishness. 

She couldn't really blame him for that. He was a man! And that meant that he 
had nothing but sex on his mind most of the time. She shouldn't have gone to 
his apartment without first making it clear that she was interested in 
nothing more than talking about drugs. And then she shouldn't have had the 
drinks. She would know better next time. 

But the incident in the warehouse with Foxy had been another story, 
altogether. Although Connie had searched her soul, she could find nothing in 
her own conduct which had justified Foxy's actions. He was a vicious 
perverted beast and had apparently been motivated by nothing more than his 
own lust. The memory of his thick red cock pushing past her lips and into 
her throat disgusted her and made her want to gag. She tried to block it out 
of her mind but found that the best she could do was replace it with a 
vision of the girl on the stage at the Glass Onion. 

The girl had sucked the other performer's cock greedily, a lewdly satisfied 
smile on her face. Connie remembered the slurping sounds that the girl had 
made with her oral cavity as she sucked him off. She couldn't understand how 
anyone could do such a dirty thing willingly. Much less in front of people. 

And then the two performers had lain together on the floor with their faces 
buried obscenely in each other's crotches. She shuddered at the thought. 

"Are you cold? " Johnny asked. 

"No," she answered, "It was just a sudden chill. It passed." 

But she couldn't blot the horrible images out of her mind. The girl 
performer had sobbed and moaned when her partner's tongue had found its way 
into her pussy. She had actually sounded like she was enjoying it. 

Connie shifted her weight from one buttock to the other in an attempt to 
scratch the tingling itch which had begun in her own pussy. It felt just 
like it had at the Glass Onion earlier, when she was watching the show. She 
crossed her legs and uncrossed them, rubbing one thigh against the other in 
a vain effort to stop the sensation which was beginning to spread throughout 
her loins. It was a warm fluid feeling, as though some kind of thick liquid 
was oozing from between the lips of her cunt. She wondered if her recent 
sexual experience had done some damage in there. Maybe when this whole thing 
is over I should see a doctor, she thought. 

She had never been examined by a gynecologist. Momma had warned her that 
most of them weren't to be trusted, having entered their profession because 
of a perverted desire to touch and handle the naked genitals of their female 
patients. But now that she was no longer a virgin, Connie thought that it 
might be necessary. 

Maybe she could find a woman gynecologist. She could say that she was 
married so that she wouldn't have to make excuses for her ruptured hymen. 

"Well, here we are," said Johnny, bringing her back to the present. He had 
turned the Continental into a driveway leading to a parking garage in the 
basement of his apartment building. Just before the car was swallowed into 
the bowels of the building, Connie glimpsed its marble, chrome, and glass 
facade and the name Silver Towers emblazoned across its entrance doors. 

Who says crime doesn't pay, she thought. 

Johnny wheeled his car along a curving underground driveway, pulling up in 
front of a small glass-enclosed office. A young attendant sporting a sparse 
black goatee and wearing a greasy beret scrambled out of the office to open 
the Black gangster's door. "Evening, Mr. Walker," he said. "Wash your car 
tonight?" 

"Sure, why not," Johnny said, tossing him the keys and walking to Connie's 
side of the car. He opened her door and took her arm as she got out. 

They walked in silence toward a bank of elevators at the rear of the parking 
garage. When one of the elevator doors opened, Johnny gestured toward it 
with a wave of his arm. Connie stepped inside. There was soft music playing 
in the elevator. 

Johnny stepped in beside her and stabbed a button marked, "PENTHOUSE". The 
door closed and they were whisked upwards so quickly that there was no 
sensation of motion. A moment later the doors opened onto a carpeted 
hallway. 

The corridor was wide but short. Two doors broke the smooth clean line of 
the wall opposite the elevator. Both doors sported the same JW monogram that 
Connie had seen on the doors of the Black racketeer's car. 

Johnny opened one of the doors and reached inside, flipping a silent mercury 
switch on the wall. The room was suddenly illuminated by soft lights which 
highlighted the bright splashes of color decorating the floor and walls. The 
molded plastic furniture cast long dark shadows across the floor. Looks like 
a den of seduction, Connie thought. Well, I've learned my lesson. I won't 
even let him get near me. 

"Come on in and make yourself comfortable," Johnny said affably. "There are 
a couple of people I'd like you to meet." Then turning towards the back of 
the apartment he called "Cobb! Edward ! Come on out. I want you to meet a 
friend." 

So there's more than one crime boss in Forest Hills, Connie thought. Good, 
I'll get them all. A tall man walked into the room. His skin was 
cafe-au-lait tan and his head was completely shaved. It shone in the soft 
yellow light of the room. He smiled, revealing two rows of perfectly even 
white teeth. He was thin, but muscular, and clad only in a long, 
multi-colored dashiki which reached almost to the floor. His dark feet were 
bare. "Good evening, Mr. Walker," he said. 

"Hello, Cobb," Johnny answered. 

A moment later another man followed him into the room. He was shorter than 
Cobb-about five-foot-ten-and heavier. He was Caucasian, but his skin was a 
bright pink, as though he had just stepped out of a hot tub. His hair was 
red and shaggy, reaching almost to his shoulders, and his face was freckled. 
There was a vacant look in his eyes. But he didn't look drugged so much as 
he looked stupid. 

"Howdy, boss," he said. Even his voice sounded like that of a moron. Connie 
concluded that Johnny kept him around more for his brawn than for his 
brains. 

"Cobb, Edward," Johnny began. "I want you to meet a friend of mine. She's 
here to make a score. This is Connie Dresden. Officer Connie Dresden." 

Connie's blood ran cold and her smile froze to her face. How can he know? 
she thought. And how do I get out of here? "Wha . . . What are you talking 
about?" she asked, hoping to brazen it out. 

But the Black gangster ignored her completely, addressing himself to his two 
henchmen. "Imagine her thinking that she could put one over on me," he said. 
His voice dripped with venom. "Smart-assed little white bitch." He spat the 
words as though they burned his tongue. 

Then, regaining his composure, he continued, his voice once again soft and 
modulated. "I want you to teach her a lesson," he said. "A real good lesson! 
Do whatever you like. But don't kill her. Leave something for me." Without 
another word, he turned and left the apartment. 

As soon as he was gone, Edward began jumping up and down like a little boy 
on Christmas morning. Connie's knees were trembling. She was alone with 
these two monsters. It seemed certain that they would hurt her. And the 
moronic one was acting like he would really enjoy it. 

"Oh, boy. A lady cop," he said, an excited giggle in his voice. "Can I hit 
her, Cobb?" 

Cobb had walked to the blue plastic bar in the corner and was mixing himself 
a drink. The ice cubes clinked incongruously in his glass. "You heard Mr. 
Walker," he said softly. "Anything you want." 

Suddenly the moronic smile left Edward's face. Without another word, he 
walked up to where Connie stood and punched her hard in the stomach. 

Connie screamed when his fist hit her, and went reeling across the room, 
doubled over in pain. As she fell to the floor, tears began streaming from 
her eyes. For a moment her lungs were paralyzed and she opened her mouth for 
a gasp that wouldn't come. Finally she managed to inhale a little air into 
her burning lungs. 

Edward grabbed her by one of her braids and pulled her roughly to her feet. 
Then, holding the braided tress high over her head so that she couldn't turn 
away from the blows, he slapped her hard, first across one cheek and then 
the other. Her head rolled from side to side with the burning stinging pain 
of his contact. 

Connie whimpered. She knew that her expressions of pain would please this 
sadist, and she hated to give him the satisfaction. But she simply couldn't 
help herself. He hit her again, this time with his fist full in her face. 
She groaned as she felt a trickle of blood begin at her nostril and work its 
way down across her upper lip. Edward let go of her hair and she slumped to 
the floor, crying quietly. 

But Edward wasn't through with her. Grinning, he swung his leg back and 
kicked her hard in the ribs. Connie was certain that she felt one of them 
crack. Her face was already beginning to swell and her scalp ached from 
where he had pulled her hair. She was sure that he was going to kill her, 
and was already beginning to hope that the end would be swift. 

Edward reached down and filled his hand with the cloth at the front of her 
blouse. He yanked her to her feet, tearing it in the process. Connie felt 
the warm air of the room washing over her bare shoulder. She reached for the 
torn material automatically, trying to cover herself. But Edward slapped her 
hand out of the way and tore her blouse from her completely. 

A sob left the young policewoman's lips as she felt the garment being torn 
from her body. She realized her true helplessness, and knew that killing her 
was probably the least of what these animals would do. 

"Nice pair of titties for a lady cop," Edward said, the grin returning to 
his face. "Shame to keep them covered like that." He reached out and 
inserted his right index finger under the tight material which separated the 
bra cups. Connie could feel his fingernail scraping at the resilient flesh 
of her breasts and tried to pull away from him. But he pulled her sharply 
forward, tugging on the material of the bra. She felt the clasp open and 
heard, more than felt, one of the shoulder straps snap. 

"Please," she began, her words punctuated by the sobs which were ripping 
uncontrollably from her throat. "Please, I'm not a cop. I . . . " 

Edward dropped the torn brassiere to the floor and slapped her sharply 
across the mouth. She felt one of her teeth tear into her lip and 
experienced the warm salty taste of her own blood. She tried to cover her 
naked breasts with her arms, but Edward slapped her face again. 

"Put your hands down," he said angrily. "I want to see what you've got." 

Hot tears of shame and humiliation were rolling down Connie's face as she 
silently complied with his command. When she dropped her arms to her sides, 
her tits quivered, bobbing up and down in rhythm to her sobs. She felt 
completely exposed, even more so than she had with Lionel or Foxy. This 
moron was defiling and humiliating her while the other one-the one called 
Cobb-sat calmy sipping a drink and enjoying the spectacle. 

 She felt like a freak on display at some perverted Roman orgy. She found 
herself wishing that she could die, but knowing that she wouldn't be so 
lucky. Not for a while, anyway. 

Edward grabbed roughly at her tits, squeezing one and then the other. She 
could feel his powerful fingers digging mercilessly into her soft flesh. 
Then he pinched one of her nipples viciously. It hardened under his rough 
kneading. 

"Hey, Cobb," Edward said with a grin. "Look at that. I think she-likes it. 
How about it, police lady. You like that?" 

Connie looked away. 

Edward pinched viciously at the other nipple, squeezing it between his 
fingers until Connie's lips turned white in her effort to contain her scream 
of agony. 

"I asked if you like that," he said through clenched teeth. "And if you 
don't answer me, I'll twist the fuckin' thing off." 

Connie's chin trembled in despair. They weren't content to just beat and 
humiliate her, they wanted her to play word games with them as well. "No, I 
don't like it," she said. "I hate it. I hate you. All of you." She was 
screaming now, unable to control herself any longer. 

Edward slapped her again. "You're kind of fresh," he said, "I never talked 
to my betters that way and my Mom would have tanned my hide good. I think 
maybe you need a good tanning." He hooked his fingers in the waistband of 
her black jeans and pulled downward. The material strained to hold together 
but finally yielded, tearing apart with a loud ripping sound. A moment later 
Connie stood naked except for the pale-blue bikini panties that she was 
wearing. 

Edward could see her furry tuft of pubic hair peeking through the diaphanous 
blue material. He felt his cock beginning to stir. She was a good-looking 
woman, all right. And seeing her cry in pain and terror was really turning 
him on even more. Well, she would cry plenty before he and Cobb were through 
with her. 

He was about to tear her panties from her as he had done with her pants when 
he suddenly thought better of it. He remembered the way that she had tried 
to cover up her naked tits a few minutes before. Giggling, he said, "Take 
down your panties now, so I can give you a tanning." 

A look of horror flashed across Connie's delicate face. That was the look 
that Edward enjoyed most. The uncontrollable fear of what was to come. 

"But take them down real slow," he added. "like a stripper." 

Connie was horrified at what he was ordering her to do. When Foxy had forced 
her to strip in the warehouse, he had allowed her to do it quickly and 
unceremoniously. But this was horrible. He was going to beat her and 
probably rape her, but first he was making her perform for him. He was 
making her entertain him with a perverted striptease show. Well, she just 
wouldn't do it. 

But Edward's burgeoning hard-on was making him impatient. A look of 
contemptuous hatred came to his face and he raised his clenched fist for 
another punch to Connie's nose. She flinched at the sight of his cocked arm 
and said, "Don't hit me. I'll do it." 

Connie felt sick. She didn't know how she could comply with his command. It 
went against everything that she had ever been taught and everything that 
she had ever believed in. But she knew that if she didn't do as ordered, he 
would beat her unmercifully. 

She hooked her thumbs under the elastic waistband of her panties and began 
working them slowly down over her hips. As she did so, she swayed her hips 
from side to side and turned slowly around in place. 

With her back to Edward, she pulled her panties down over her softly rounded 
ass-cheeks, hearing his sharp intake of breath as she uncovered the crevasse 
between the two firm ripe mounds. Then, still singing, she turned to face 
him. Her pubic hair was exposed to him now, and he licked his lips at the 
lascivious sight of the dark dense forest. She pulled her brief panties down 
a little further, feeling her thick cuntlips pucker out as they, too, were 
exposed to his lewd gaze. Finally she dropped the wisp of cloth completely, 
letting it slide slowly down the smoothly sculptured length of her shapely 
legs. She felt the nylon caressing the skin of her feet and ankles, and 
stepped out of them, leaving them on the floor, another splash of bright 
color in the garishly decorated room. 

"Now it's time for your spanking," Edward said. "Get up on your hands and 
knees over there." He pointed to the black vinyl platform in the center of 
the room. Connie, by now nearly numb to her own degradation, did as he had 
instructed her. She walked to the platform, feeling his gaze on her luscious 
naked ass with every step. Then, trying not to think about what she was 
being forced to do, she climbed onto the platform and posed on her hands and 
knees. 

She knew that her ass-hole and pussy were completely exposed to his visual 
examination and felt hot tears of shame welling up in her eyes once again. 
Her tits were hanging straight down, the nipples pointing toward the foam 
mattress which covered the platform. For some strange reason, they had 
puckered and were hardening to erect little points. The pain of Edward's 
mauling was almost overshadowed by a tingling itch which had started at the 
tips of the pointed pink nipples and was spreading rapidly through her tits 
and even beyond. 

"You know," she heard Edward say. "You're a lucky little girl. I've decided 
not to spank you after all. That ass of yours is just too damn pretty to 
spoil." And then she heard a sound that terrified her more than anything 
else that had happened since Johnny Walker had left her in the hands of 
these two monsters. It was the raspy sound of Edward's zipper being undone. 

She didn't dare turn around to look at what he was doing. But she was sure 
that he would be upon her in a moment, jabbing her with his cock, tearing at 
the walls of her pussy. like Lionel had done. She wished for a hole in the 
world-a hole big enough to crawl into and pull in over her. But there was no 
hole to crawl into. No place to hide. 

Edward walked slowly toward the platform, his eyes never leaving the gently 
rounded curve of her ass. He had dropped his pants and shorts, but kept his 
shirt on. As he approached Connie, his cock swayed from side to side. It was 
long, thin, and pointed like a dog's cock. His balls hung below it in a 
wrinkled sac that swung to and fro as he walked. He stopped alongside the 
platform and rested his hand gently on Connie's smooth white back. 

Then he began to slide it backwards, toward her ass, moving his fingers from 
side to side as he did so. Connie shivered involuntarily at the contact. She 
felt the downy hairs that lined the lips of her cunt bristling in a 
combination of fear and some other emotion. An emotion for which she had no 
name. 

"Such a pretty little ass," Edward crooned, almost to himself. "Such a 
pretty little ass." He stroked the contours of the soft round cheeks, 
allowing one of his fingers to stray between them to the warm moist little 
nut of her anus. 

With his fingernail he tickled the donut-shaped muscle which ringed its 
entrance. Then he moved his hand a little lower down. 

Connie felt a wave of disgust sweep over her as he stroked her ass-hole. She 
found herself hoping that she didn't smell to bad there. She wasn't sure 
whether she had showered since the last time she had moved her bowels. The 
thought of this evil man probing her ass-hole was horrifying to her. That 
was the most private part of her body. It simply was unfair for him to 
invade and defile that last vestige of privacy. 

Now his fingers were exploring the moist length of her tight young pussy, 
not venturing inside, but contenting themselves with stroking the pouting 
pink lips which were already coated with a thick honey-like moisture. Connie 
wished that the tingling, burning itch would stop so that she could 
concentrate on hating Edward. But somehow keeping her thoughts clear and her 
emotions cold was beginning to require more and more of her will. 

She pulled forward slightly as Edward gently began stroking her ass-hole 
once again. But she moved back immediately at his barked command to "stay 
put." His probing finger was becoming more insistent now, insinuating itself 
into the tight rubbery brown opening. 

Connie felt her stomach turning at the thought of what he was doing to her. 
She wanted to beg him to stop, to promise him anything else. But she knew 
that it would be hopeless. His finger continued its relentless exploration 
of her tightly closed anus. 

Then, suddenly, he jabbed it forward, forcibly separating the moist rubbery 
lips of her ass-hole. The anal sphincter opened to accept his finger as far 
as the first knuckle. Then the ring of muscle closed tightly around it. 
Slowly twisting his finger back and forth, Edward worked it all the way 
inside. By now his cock was so hard it ached, and he longed to bury it in 
the tight opening. 

The pain of his finger's sudden entry brought a scream to Connie's lips, but 
she managed to keep it in. She was sure that this sadist would react to her 
suffering by hurting her more. So she did her best to conceal the pain that 
she felt. When he pulled his finger from her anus a moment later, she was 
sure that she had done the right thing. 

But Edward wasn't finished with the tight brown slit. He climbed quickly 
onto the platform and crawled toward Connie's nude body, the scarlet tip of 
his swollen prick preceding him by eight inches. Without wasting any more 
time, he kneed his way up behind her and pulled her ass cheeks roughly apart 
with his hands. The sight of the brown eye winking up at him from between 
her soft round cheeks brought a sparkling drop of lubricating fluid from the 
tip of his prick. He rubbed it quickly over the satiny surface of his 
swollen purple cockhead and then speared forward, bringing it into electric 
contact with the soft brown skin of her rectum. With one swift forward he 
buried the first two inches of his hotly palpitating penis in the clasping 
warmth of the young policewoman's ass. 

This time Connie couldn't contain the whine of pain and humiliation which 
tore from her lips at the sudden intrusion of her ass-hole. She had never 
heard of such a vile and disgusting act. And the pain was intense. It felt 
as though his cock-that vile obscene instrument of humiliating torture-was 
actually going to tear her apart, leaving her poor little ass-hole in 
tatters. She began to sob and moan as he sawed methodically into her. 

Connie's sobs were turning Edward on like he had never been turned on 
before. The fact that she was a policewoman, together with her obvious 
discomfort about anything sexual, had brought his cock to painfully swollen 
erection. He knew that it wouldn't be long before he popped his load into 
her writhing ass-hole. His only regret was that he wouldn't be able to see 
her face when he blasted off into her warmly caressing anal depths. But he 
could picture it. It would be distorted with pain and horror, like it had 
been when he was punching her around before. 

The memory was bringing to a boil the pot of semen in the swaying sack of 
nuts that slapped against her flowered pussy lips with each in-stroke. He 
could feel the creamy moisture of her cunt coating his scrotum and he knew 
that in spite of her horror she was being aroused, too. The only one who 
didn't know it was the bitch herself. 

He drove his cock rhythmically in and out of her, feeling his load of hot 
cream beginning its long tortuous journey through the coiled tubes of his 
scrotum and up into his swollen hard-on. His fingers gripped her hips like 
the sharp talons of an eagle, making her cry out unabashedly with each 
stroke. Then, at last, he felt the first spurt pushing its way past the 
constricting slit at the end of his bludgeoning prick. It was followed by 
another and another. 

Connie could feel the hot viscous liquid pumping into her ass and greasing 
the walls of her bowel as the rutting monster behind her drove his cock 
deeper and deeper into her most private and innermost depths. Her 
humiliation was complete. He was buggering her pitilessly, ass-fucking her 
as though she was a sheep and he a farmboy who had never seen a woman in his 
life. 

The searing pain had subsided a little, eased by the soothing warmth of his 
thick juices. But the shame and degradation were more than she could bear. 
She wished that he would finish with her and leave her alone to die, her 
body hopelessly violated and her honor irretrievably tarnished. 

But Edward kept driving his cock into her until it became deflated. Then he 
moved backwards, letting it pull from her ass-hole with a nauseating "plop". 

Connie fell forward onto the foam cushion of the platform and then rolled 
over, staring unseeing at the ceiling. Tears streamed unchecked from the 
corners of her eyes, trailing across her reddened burning cheeks and pooling 
on the mattress alongside her face. Well, at least it's over, she thought. 
Now maybe he'll let me die in peace. 

But she had forgotten about Cobb who now stood over her, a drink still in 
his hand. He was completely naked and his cock was at attention, pointing up 
at the ceiling and forming a forty-five-degree angle with his taut flat 
belly. His entire body was covered with a fine layer of curling hair, 
reddish-brown in color. It looked like the coat of some prehistoric 
fur-bearing animal. 

His pubic triangle was thicker and bushier than the rest of his body hair, 
and its color was almost exclusively red. The thick curling hair even grew 
on the shank of his massive prick, furring the inch of cock skin closest to 
his body. Connie found herself staring transfixed at the hairy organ. It was 
long and tan like the rest of his body, but the head was a palpitating 
purple color and was shaped like the cap of some giant mushroom. 

The mammoth hard-on throbbed as Cobb's eyes traveled up and down the length 
of the helpless young woman's naked body. Connie thought of his cock as a 
cudgel with which he was about to beat her. But instead, he sat down on the 
platform, pushing her legs gently out of his way. Then, still holding his 
drink in his left hand, he lifted her legs with his right and pushed them 
up, bending her knees and pressing them against the soft mounds of her tits. 

Connie's entire cuntal plane was exposed to him now, the lips of her pussy 
flowering open like the petals of a rose following a summer rain. Her 
feeling of humiliation was becoming more intense. She had been beaten and 
buggered, and now she was being opened up for this monster's inspection like 
a piece of meat in the market. She turned her head to one side and closed 
her eyes, trying to spare herself the horror of watching whatever it was 
that he was getting ready to do. 

Cobb leaned over, bringing his face close to the drooling slash of her 
pussy. He inhaled deeply through his nose, savoring the aroma of her 
excitement. He knew women. He knew their cunts and how they smelled. This is 
one hot little bitch, he thought. And she doesn't even know it. He snaked 
his tongue quickly out from between his lips and touched it tentatively to 
the swollen flesh of her vulva, licking and tasting the exotic juices which 
were already beginning to flow. 

Connie, startled by the sudden flash of pleasure that swept across her naked 
body, opened her eyes automatically, curious as to its source. When she saw 
Cobb's shiny shaved head working between her thighs, she realized at once 
what he must be doing. It was just like that couple on the stage at the 
Glass Onion. Although the thought disgusted her, she couldn't account for 
the warm rush of pleasure that seemed to be flooding her entire being. 

She sighed involuntarily as his tongue probed deeper. She couldn't 
understand why this man who held her prisoner and who could make her do 
anything that he wanted had chosen to do something which must be so 
unpleasant for him. He was rooting around with his tongue and nose in her 
vagina, undoubtedly tasting and smelling the remnants of her urine and 
smearing his face with the strange juices that were flowing in such an 
unfamiliar fashion. 

She closed her eyes in an attempt to blot the horrible sight out of her 
mind. But she continued to see it, even with her eyes closed. Superimposed 
on the vision of Cobb licking and sucking at her drooling pussy was an image 
of the couple that she had seen earlier that night at the Glass Onion. They 
were lying on the floor, slurping away at each other's loins, sipping, and 
apparently swallowing the hot pungent juices of each other's bodies. 

She heard the same slurping sounds coming from her own crotch as Cobb wagged 
his tongue back and forth in a titillating, tantalizing, tickling motion. 
She heard a sound, as of someone moaning, "Oooooohhhhh!" 

Opening her eyes, she looked around the room, trying to find out where the 
sound was coming from. Then, as the tip of Cobb's exploring tongue found the 
hardening little button of her clit, nestled snugly in its pink little hood 
of cunt-flesh, she heard the sound again. And suddenly she realized that it 
was coming from her own throat. She tried to choke it back, hating herself 
"for her weakness. 

But she couldn't silence her pleasure. The excitement which had been 
building unsatisfied in her body ever since her adolescence was beginning to 
take control of her emotions. She knew that she was powerless to resist it 
any longer. And she knew that if the brown man were to stop and to offer her 
her freedom, she would be unable to walk out of the room. 

The now-familiar tingling had become more intense. She felt waves of 
pleasure washing over her like an ocean that couldn't be stopped. His tongue 
tip was making little figure eights around her blood-engorged pleasure 
button, and her whole body was vibrating like the sympathetic strings of a 
sitar. Her hips began to move up and down in a rhythm as old as man-as old 
as woman. She brought her body up hard against his probing tongue, trying to 
drive it deeper between the soft folds of cunt flesh that enveloped it. 

She was no longer conscious of the sounds that were coming from her 
tormented throat. "Ooohh. Aaaaahhhh. Mmmmmmmmm." She groaned and sighed, 
oblivious to anything but the heat that was building in her pussy and 
spreading to her belly. She could see Cobb's head bobbing up and down, like 
an apple in a bucket of water, as he whipped his tongue faster and faster, 
churning her juices to thick creamy butter. 

"Ooooh. Noooooh. Pleeeeease don't stop," she wailed. "I think I'm going to 
explode. Oh, no. Please help me. Oh, sweet Lord, please help me. Oh please 
help me.T can't stand it. Oh, Loooord." 

That was the moment that Cobb had been waiting for. She was going to orgasm 
any second. He quickly turned over his glass, the drink long since gone. 
Picking up the ice cube which remained, he brought it quickly to the mouth 
of her pussy. Then, just as he began to taste the first flood of aromatic 
juices pouring out from between her cuntal lips, he pressed the ice cube 
gently against her slash, moving it quickly up and down the length of the 
pink pulsating slit. 

"Ooooohhhh," she wailed. " I'm explooodiiing." 

Cobb continued to suck and lick her sex, bringing her to the top of a craggy 
tortuous Everest of orgasmic delight. A series of colored lights were 
flashing on and off inside her head and she felt completely detached from 
the realities of the world around her. She was conscious only of the 
powerful forces which were carrying her off on the pink cotton-candy cloud 
of her first orgasm. She screamed and sobbed, panted and wailed, groaned and 
moaned, as wave upon wave of delicious ecstasy washed over her. Every cell 
of her body was alive. Every fiber of her being vibrated, undulating with 
the speed of light and the force of an atomic explosion. She was sure that 
the end of the world had come and that she was about to be destroyed in the 
cosmic explosion of some incredible super-nova. 

Then, at last, she was past the peak and Cobb's still-slavering tongue led 
her, slipping and slid-ding, down the gentle slope of anticlimax. She lay 
panting and' moaning, a willing subject at last for his oral ministrations. 
Finally, when she could stand it no longer, the agonizing ecstasy began to 
subside. Connie felt her consciousness drifting away on a cloud of relieved 
frustration and slipped mercifully into a deep and undisturbable slumber. 

She was totally unaware of the uses to which Edward and Cobb put her 
unconscious body as she slept. Some of these she wouldn't have thought 
possible. But, of course, she had a lot to learn. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

When Connie awoke she was alone, still naked and sprawled out across the 
platform in the center of Johnny Walker's living" room-the platform that had 
been the scene of her degradation and the altar on which she had been 
initiated into the rites of lust. Her body ached and her face was swollen 
and tender. 

She touched her tits gingerly, wincing at the pain caused by the contact 
made by her probing fingers with the bruised and discolored skin. Her thighs 
were stiff and charley-horsed and pained her with every movement. Her cunt 
felt like it had been slashed with a razor and then bathed in iodine. And 
her ass was torn and contused. 

She groaned as she moved her body, seeking a more comfortable position on 
the foam rubber mattress. She knew that she had passed out, but that the 
night's debauchery had continued until early morning. She remembered 
experiencing fleeting moments of consciousness while Cobb and Edward had 
mauled and misused her sore and aching body. And she remembered what had 
happened just before she passed out. 

Cobb had been lapping obscenely at her cunt. And instead of fighting and 
resisting him, she had begged him to go on. She remembered screaming 
insanely at him, her lustful desires taking complete control of her mind and 
body. She despised herself for her sin, and for the weakness of womanhood 
which had led her down the path of impurity and degradation. 

She had come to Forest Hills with a mission--a noble mission! She had been 
determined to swing her fist at the leering face of crime and immorality. 
But instead, she had been swallowed up in the rising swell of lust which was 
fast polluting the earth and soiling everything that it touched. She had 
taken a long decisive step over the abyss and into the swirling maelstrom of 
perversion and depravity. 

What would happen to her now? Perhaps Johnny Walker would have her killed. 
Perhaps he intended to kill her with his own hands. She remembered the 
instruction that he had given his henchmen when he left her in their custody 
the previous night. "Don't kill her," he had said. "Leave something for me." 

Connie found that she wasn't frightened by the prospect of being murdered by 
the Black gangster. If anything, she was relieved. How could she live with 
what she had become? She was no more than a wanton slut now, a bitch in heat 
responding to the perverted stimulation of her body with the uncontrollable 
lust of an animal. She thought about the power of her monumental orgasm and 
the way that it had overrun the strength of her mind, realizing with horror 
that the rollicking climax that she had willingly experienced had chained 
her to her desire, making her a slave to the lusts of her body. Death was 
the only way out. She craved it! Longed for it! If Johnny Walker didn't kill 
her, she would just have to kill herself. 

She barely looked up as the door opened and Johnny stepped into the room. 
After turning the policewoman over to Cobb and Edward, the night before, he 
had gone to his bedroom in the back of the apartment and gone straight to 
sleep. Now he would complete what his underlings had begun. 

The Black gangster was dressed in a terry-cloth sarong which wrapped around 
his waist and reached just past his knees. The material was tiger-striped, 
making him look like some African tribal chieftain. The muscles of his taut 
belly rippled as he walked barefoot across the room, a small brass cup in 
his hand. 

He went to the platform and stood next to it for a moment, looking down at 
the naked battered body of the shapely young policewoman. Cobb had given him 
a full report of the previous night's activities, and Johnny could see by 
the bruises on her creamy-white skin that his henchmen hadn't been 
exaggerating. He waited as she slowly turned her head to look up at him. 

"Hello, little policewoman," he said, his thick lips twisting into a 
contemptuous sneer. "Are you glad to see me?" 

Connie turned her face away from him again, pressing her lips tightly 
together. She knew that he was looking at her, studying her nakedness, but 
she had stopped caring, her mind numb to her further degradation. Let him do 
what he wants with me, she thought. Soon it will all be over. 

But Johnny yanked her viciously by the hair, turning her head around so that 
she faced him. "I asked you a question," he said, speaking through clenched 
teeth. "And I expect an answer. Are you glad to see me?" He looked as though 
he was getting ready to slap her. 

"Just thrilled," Connie said, a tear welling up in her right eye and running 
unimpeded down her face. 

Johnny grinned. "Don't look so unhappy," he said. "From what the boys told 
me, I kind of think you're going to like this. Now lie flat on your back and 
spread your legs. And don't give me any reason to beat the shit out of you." 
The directness of his command reminded Connie that she was totally helpless 
and unqualifiedly at his mercy. She decided to comply with his orders rather 
than suffer another beating. She couldn't be humiliated any more than she 
already had been. 

Connie arranged herself on her back, spreading her legs as he had directed. 
She stared unseeingly at the ceiling, awaiting his pleasure. Johnny fell to 
his knees beside the raised black platform and moved toward her, still 
holding the brass cup in his hand. He held it over Connie's belly and tipped 
it, spilling out a small quantity of warm oil. As the warm slick substance 
rolled over her body, Connie was certain that she detected the scent of 
jasmine. 

Johnny moved his hand, pouring some of the oil onto her thighs. Then moving 
up, he let some of the scented oil drip onto her bruised breasts, watching 
it pool in the valley of her cleavage. He put the cup on the floor beside 
him and rested both hands lightly on the nude policewoman's belly. Dipping 
his palms into the pool of warm oil which filled her navel, Johnny began to 
spread it across the white skin of her taut flat belly. 

Connie could feel his strong muscular hands working gently, smearing the 
scented oil over her in a sensuously continuous circular motion. In spite of 
herself, she found her pussy tingling at the contact. Johnny continued to 
work the warm liquid over her hips and lower belly. She could feel his 
fingertips stroke exploringly at her curling jungle of darkly tangled pubic 
hair. She felt completely detached, as though she was watching him stroke 
the body of another woman. 

His hands moved upward now, rubbing the warmly scented oil into the achingly 
tender skin of her swollen boobies. As his fingers climbed the gently 
sloping mountains of white-skinned majesty, her rosy nipples began to 
pucker, drawing into tight little points of desire. He rubbed oil over them 
carefully, his strong hands surprisingly gentle. Connie wanted to be 
repulsed by what ho was doing-wanted to hate him for it-but found that she 
couldn't. Instead, his touch was fanning the embers of desire which sparked 
in her pussy and intensifying them until they became flames of passion, 
threatening to consume her from within. 

He rolled the oiled pink nipples in his oil-slicked hands, plucking gingerly 
at their turgid peaks with his fingertips. Connie groaned and her body 
undulated in response to the jagged shafts of pleasure which shot through 
her body, emanating from the curving swell of her oiled tits. Closing her 
eyes, she arched her back, thrusting the tender white mounds up at him, 
begging silently for his attention. 

Johnny dropped his head to her bosom, his thick lips searching for the 
hardness of her nipple as his left hand continued massaging the silky skin 
of her full round breasts. Meanwhile, his right hand worked its way slowly 
across her belly, his fingers moving from side to side with a rapid 
fluttering motion that made her entire body tremble. Then he tangled them in 
the wiry curls of her furry crotch. 

Connie dug her heels into the mattress, making a bridge of her body and 
lifting her buttocks up off the platform as she raised her cunt to meet the 
probing exploration of his fingers. She was totally incapable of rational 
thought now, her body a sensuous machine that responded to all sexual 
stimulation with lustful desire. She groaned as his fingers moved downward 
slowly approaching the already-moistening slit of her pussy. She raised her 
knees, bringing her legs even further apart and opening the lips of her cunt 
invitingly. 

Johnny sucked voraciously at her swollen pink nipples, feeling their 
hardness with his tongue as he ran its pointy tip in spiraling circles 
around the puckering aureolas. He could see by the way that she was 
responding to him that Cobb and Edward had forever destroyed the barrier of 
repression that had formerly stood between her and sexual pleasure. She was 
motivated by nothing more than her own passionate desires now, her body 
responding automatically to the stimulation of his tongue and fingers. 

His middle finger was slipping up and down the drooling length of her 
glistening red cuntal slit, its lips parting under his skillful 
ministrations and a thick viscous fluid oozing from between them. He dipped 
his fingertip into the abundant well of cuntal secretions, wetting it 
thoroughly, and transferring the moisture to the swollen little nut of her 
clitoris, nestled safely in its little pocket of cuntal flesh at the upper 
end of her slit. He heard her gasp with sudden delight as his finger stabbed 
at the rigid pleasure button. 

As her hips began to roll and grind, shoving her cunt hungrily up at him, he 
moved his finger away from her clit, leaving her pussy totally unattended 
for an instant. "Oooohhhh," she moaned disappointedly. Johnny's fingers were 
stroking her right knee now, smearing it with oil and rubbing upwards to 
caress the downy length of her long, creamy white thigh. Bringing his 
exploring fingers to within an inch or two of her wet cunt, he moved his 
hand suddenly downward again, transferring the contact to her left thigh. He 
stroked her legs slowly up and down, rubbing in the oil and teasing her 
pussy to flaming red heat. 

"Oh, please," she moaned, "Don't tease me. Put it in my cunt. I need your 
finger in my cunt." She was shocked to hear the obscene words bubbling from 
her own mouth, but was unable to bring her rampant passions under control or 
to conquer the insatiable cravings of lust that were building in her body, 
turning her into a shameless animal-a she-wolf in heat. 

Johnny responded to her pleas by stroking her swelling clitoris lightly with 
the finger of one hand. Then reaching for her hand, he placed it palm down 
on the cushiony mound of her hairy pubic triangle. As his finger returned to 
her clit, he could feel her hand rubbing her genital region, moving around 
and around in erotic little circles of self-stimulation. 

Lowering his hand, Johnny let his finger slip inside the warm slit of her 
cunt, wiggling it back and forth quickly and whipping her lubricating juices 
to frothy whiteness. He felt her hand moving downward, following his. She 
was exploring the warm wetness of her own vaginal slash, looking for the 
swollen pebble of desire which had become inflamed and abandoned by Johnny's 
fingering. 

With his free hand he continued stroking the quivering mountains of her 
tits, pinching gently at the well-oiled pink nipples and kneading the white 
cushiony mounds softly. He moved his head downward across the oily expanse 
of her belly, nipping gently at her skin with his teeth. His eyes were wide 
open and he could see her hand moving desperately in the exploration of her 
own pussy. The tip of one finger found the free-floating pellet of flesh 
that was her pleasure center and began rolling it about in the oozing slime 
of her cuntal membranes. 

Connie had never masturbated before, touching her pussy only when she washed 
it in the shower or wiped it with paper after urinating. She was surprised 
to find that the internal membranes were so slick and wet. And she was 
astounded to discover what happened when she moved her fingertip lovingly 
over the button of her quivering clit. 

The tiny bundle of nerve endings was like a single pea floating around in a 
pool of butter. She rubbed her finger delicately across it, rolling her hips 
from side to side and moaning softly as the waves of pleasure crashed over 
her bruised body. She could feel the Black racketeer's finger probing her 
inner cuntal folds, worming around inside her like a living creature. It was 
rubbing the walls of her cunt with a systematically circular motion, 
bringing its probing tip into contact with every part of the warm cavern. 

She rolled her hips up toward his probing finger, trying to drive it deeper 
into the clasping confines of the warmly glistening slash. She was being 
consumed by flames of ecstatic passion, her consciousness disconnecting 
itself completely from everything but the hot flashes of delight which were 
zapping through her with the force of an atomic chain reaction. Rhythmic 
sighs were rolling from her throat like the throbbing beat of a ship's 
engine. 

Johnny had completely abandoned her tits now, concentrating all his energies 
on the digital stimulation of her sweet flowing pussy. With his left hand he 
cupped and framed her pubic triangle, leaving room for the laboring hand 
with which she shamelessly petted and stroked her own clitoral protrusion. 
His fingers tangled in her curling jungle of pubic hair sending crackling 
sparks of electric static across the sloping plane of. her crotch area. His 
right hand rubbed and petted her cunt itself, his stiffened fingers 
scissoring rapidly inside the stretching slash with erotic fury. 

Stiffening his index, middle, and ring fingers into a thickly ridged cudgel, 
he drove them deep into her cunt, fucking her with his hand as she moaned in 
the throes of uncontrollably ecstatic agony. Her undercover assignment was 
as far away from her thoughts now as the oath that she had taken on the day 
that she had been inducted as a member of the New York City Police Force-her 
promise to uphold justice and to resist the forces of evil. 

"Oooooohhhhh," she moaned tormentedly. "It feels so goooood. Ooooohhhh, 
please don't stop. Don't ever stop." Johnny Walker chuckled inwardly at her 
tortured moan of passion. From what Foxy and Cobb had told him, this hot 
little cunt had come a long way in the past twelve hours. Well, he thought, 
as long as my boys haw started her on this little journey, I'll just see to 
it that she goes all the way. 

He took both his hands away from her undulating groin and brought them to 
the waistband of his terry-cloth sarong. He stood up so that she could watch 
as he removed it from his body. When he dropped the garment to the floor, 
his thick black prick stood up straight and hard, pointing away from the 
front of his body like a savage jungle spear. And he meant to impale her on 
it! 

Connie looked up at the quivering shaft of gnarled black muscle and held her 
breath in shock and terror. It was huge! Tremendous! Bigger than anything 
that she had ever imagined. The heavy pulsating organ was as thick as a 
wrist and about nine inches long. It was pulsating wildly, and Connie could 
see one pearly drop of shiny lubricating fluid form at its tip as Johnny 
advanced toward her. She lay on her back, her legs still obscenely splayed 
and her hand still buried in the damply clinging wetness of her own hairy 
cunt. She knew that the huge black battering ram would tear her apart, 
splitting her body like a ripe tomato. She looked in fear at his huge 
instrument of torture and watched it swinging lewdly as he approached. 

"Oh, you're going to like this, little policewoman," Johnny said as he 
dropped to his knees on the platform. He kneed his way to a position between 
her spread thighs, his cock pointing straight at the hair-lined red slash. 
While she watched, her eyes wide with disbelieving horror, he stroked the 
thick length of his cock with one idle hand. The heavy blue-black vein which 
ran along the length of the giant prick's silky underside throbbed to the 
rhythm of his pulse beat. 

"No!" she wailed. "It's too big. It'll never fit inside me. It'll tear me in 
half. No, please, don't do it to me." 

But Johnny Walker moved slowly and relentlessly forward, his cock coming 
closer each instant to the bristling hairs which surrounded her cunt. Then 
reaching forward with both hands, he pulled her lips of her pussy roughly 
apart, turning it inside out like a juicy orange. He humped his hips 
forward, bringing the huge bulbous tip of his throbbing prick into contact 
with the softly swollen lips of her puffy pink pussy. 

Then, holding her vaginal lips apart with his fingers, he eased his 
glistening cockhead between them. He let go of the soft pink membranes, 
allowing them to close around his prick and enveloping it in a silky cavern 
of softness. Connie sighed involuntarily as the throbbingly hot log of 
throbbing flesh moved slickly into her snatch, moving forward millimeter by 
millimeter until the entire swollen head was buried in the moist slash. 

"Mmmmmmmm," Connie moaned, her elastic cuntal membranes stretching to adapt 
themselves to the enormity of the black penile intruder. But then, not 
giving her any further opportunity to adjust to his tremendous size, Johnny 
threw himself forward, his muscular body falling on top of hers and his long 
thick hard-on ramming to the hilt in her nearly virginal pussy. 

The sudden force of his penetration brought tears of pain to her eyes and 
wrenched a long bestial wail of torment from her lips. But Johnny ignored 
them, sawing his hips back and forth vigorously and bathing the entire 
length of his inflated cock in the fluid cavern of her pussy. He could feel 
the rubbery cockhead nudging brutally at the rear wall of her pussy and took 
pleasure at the labored grunts of agony that tore from the writhing 
undercover agent's throat. He rolled his hips from side to side as he worked 
his palpitating prick in and out of her painfully clasping snatch, its puffy 
lips still trying to stretch comfortably around the enormous girth of his 
plunging member. 

"Ooooohhh! Aaaaagh!" she grunted, tears flowing freely down her cheeks now 
as she cried in pain. "You're hurting me," she wailed. She knew that her 
cries were giving him sadistic pleasure but she was unable to stop herself 
from wailing in agonized protest. Johnny drove on, unheeding of the naked 
policewoman's suffering. Then something strange and unaccountable began to 
happen to Connie Dresden. 

The elastic membranes of her pussy, designed to stretch around the most 
enormous of cocks, began to adjust to the size of Johnny's huge organ, 
stretching tightly around its bludgeoning circumference. And the pain which 
had brought tears to her eyes and sobs to her throat was beginning to 
subside, to be replaced by another sensation-one of warm passionate arousal. 
She wrapped her smoothly sculptured legs around his waist, locking her 
ankles behind him. Not fully conscious of what she was doing, she tightened 
their scissor-like grip, pulling him tightly against her and driving his 
long black cock to the deepest depths of her passion-inflamed cunt. 

At the same time she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck pulling his 
face to hers and kissing his lips passionately. Nothing in her experience 
had ever felt so all-consumingly wonderful to her before. She thought that 
she would go out of her mind from the pleasure that his lust-incited cock 
was bringing her. Her mother's prudish teachings had left her forever now, 
and she had become a sensuous, sexual creature-a tigress purring at her 
Black lover's touch, writhing in passionate desire and rolling beneath him 
as his throbbing organ penetrated her most private cuntal depths. 

She felt wave upon wave of ecstatic arousal sweeping over her and breaking 
on the craggy cliffs of her consciousness as Johnny Walker's gnarled rod of 
meat continued to pound into her, bringing a gut animal reaction from the 
deepest recesses of her mind where some dim and long-forgotten racial memory 
took her back to the beginnings of her evolution. No longer a woman, she had 
become a flowing puddle of protoplasm seeking union with another 
protoplasmic blob. The feelings which emanated from her cunt transcended 
pleasure or desire. She was consumed now by the dictates of the animal need 
to combine with another creature. 

The hot juices which were copiously and freely flowing in her cunt were like 
a liquid flux, welding her body to Johnny's, making of their separate 
existences one entity driven and motivated by the same base forces-the need 
to unite for a blazing instant of ecstatic fulfillment before recoiling once 
more to the darkened caverns of solitude. Her passion was increasing and she 
felt the building of an explosive climax-an orgasm that was destined to 
dwarf, in one sensational flash of blinding light, even the explosion which 
she had experienced the previous night under the talented tongue-stimulation 
of Cobb. 

"OOOOOOHHHH, FUCK ME," she pleaded. "I NEED MORE COCK. I NEED MORE COCK. 
GIVE ME YOUR COCK. THROW IT TO ME. FUCK IT TO ME. FUCK ME HARD, PLEASE!" 

Her voice was screaming now, broadcasting to the world the fact that she had 
taken the last step away from the world of purity and morality and into the 
depraved pit of passion and lust. 

"Do you like my big black cock?" Johnny asked, his voice soft and teasing. 

"Ooooooohhhhh," she answered. "I love it; I love your cock. I NEED MORE OF 
YOUR COCK." 

Johnny threw himself at her brutally, driving his turgidly erect mastodon 
through the wrinkled furrow of her voraciously sucking pussy. His huge 
scrotum was swinging vigorously forward and back as he rocked his body 
guiding his plunging cock in and out of her clasping twat. Her legs were 
still tightly entwined around his waist, pulling her entire cuntal plane 
into an upturned position. He could feel the cheeks of her ass moving 
together and apart as she humped her hips up at him. The softly rounded 
white mounds seemed to be grabbing at his balls, trying to pull them into 
the crack of her ass as though her body wasn't content with the thick rod of 
flesh that pummeled relentlessly at her slimy cunt. 

He could feel an oozing river of cuntal secretions trickling from her pussy 
and seeping over the curving contours of her inner thighs and ass. The dark 
crevasse in which her ass-hole nestled securely was becoming dank and clammy 
from the flow of thickly viscous fluids. His testicle sac was coated with 
the foamy froth as it slapped resoundingly against the upturned crack. Her 
tits pressed anxiously against his hard muscular chest, her nipples like two 
hot little embers trying to burn holes through his skin. 

Johnny felt his own orgasm building and knew that it wouldn't be much 
longer, before he pumped the little bitch full of his thick and slimy 
juices. The ache in his balls told him that his climax would be a big one, 
bringing forth a torrential river of semen-an orgasmic gusher which would 
fill her inexperienced little pussy to overflowing and would puddle up on 
the vinyl-covered mattress beneath her ass as it flowed from her steaming 
cunt like lava from a volcano. 

"OOOHHH, GOD," she moaned. "I'M GOING TO EXPLODE. OH, I CAN'T HOLD IT IN ANY 
MORE. OOOOOOHHH, I'M CUUUMMMINGG!" 

Her words were all that it took to drive the Black gangster over the brink. 
His body was coated with a glistening sheen of sweat as he rocked and rolled 
atop her, driving his cock forward and back in a relentless arc of triumph. 
Then, as the hot juices of her orgasm bathed his cock like the healing 
waters of some health-giving mineral spring, he felt his climax beginning. 

His balls were churning like corks in a torrent of white water, pumping 
their load of cum juice up into his cock through the long thin tube that 
would carry the hot cream to the tip of his desire-bloated hard-on. Then his 
penis expanded like an elephant's trunk filling with water and preparing to 
spray it over everything before it. 

Connie could feel the huge fleshy pole rearing back in preparation for the 
pumping, bursting blast of white-hot lava which would begin spewing forth 
any second. The waves of her orgasm were coming faster and closer together 
and she tightened the clasping pressure of her thighs drawing the muscular 
Black criminal against her tightly, forcing the curling hair around the base 
of his cock to flatten against her pubic bone, scourging her clitoral mound 
as he rotated his hips sensuously. 

And then it began! The first spurt of semen shot from the throbbing tip of 
his prick spraying the back wall of her cunt with its searing heat. His cock 
expanded and contracted rhythmically, like a syringe filling with some 
precious life-giving serum before shooting it into her lust-inflamed body. 
She felt the rubbery tip of his prick crashing painfully against the 
quivering knob of her cervix and grunted in pleasure-pain with each 
in-stroke. She was rapidly approaching the peak of her second orgasm-the 
most fulfilling experience of her life. 

Then, as their bodies writhed in harmonious unison toward the peak of their 
mutual climax, she felt herself slipping over the top to ride slowly and 
sensuously down the long descending slide of anti-climax. The warm wetness 
that had inundated her cunt was oozing thickly out from between its lips and 
running down her spasmodically tensing thighs. 

She continued to move her pelvis up and down rhythmically, trying to prolong 
the ecstasy of the moment, to make it last forever. But nothing does. A 
moment later Johnny's prick, once powerful and mighty, slipped from her 
pussy, a flaccid tube of tender meat. A long sticky string of love cream 
trailed from its still-enlarged tip connecting it with the puckered lips of 
her cunt as Johnny heaved a sigh of satisfaction and rolled over next to her 
on the mattress. 

Hot little number, he thought. Maybe I'll keep her around for a little 
while. 

Next to him, Connie was moaning softly, her hand running lovingly over the 
swell of her breasts and the taut white skin of her belly. She twined her 
fingers in her moistly glistening pubic hair, already beginning to stimulate 
herself to excitement again. For the first time in her life she got a clear 
glimpse of her destiny. She knew that she was forever bound to Johnny 
Walker, chained to him inexorably and capable of no life without him. Unless 
she could always know that his cock was there to torment and excite her, her 
life would be meaningless. She had become a slave, not only to her own 
desires, but to his as well. 

She turned her head slowly to look at the big man's cock. Even in its 
relaxed state, it was huge. It lay limp, like dead halibut, its thick body 
rising from the hairy ocean of his curly black pubic hair and lying 
uselessly across his cum-streaked thigh. She reached for his prick, cupping 
it in her hand like a rosebud. She wanted it to get hard again so that 
Johnny could use it on her once more, thrilling her as he had just done. 
Toying lovingly with the thick collar of dark flesh that ringed the thick 
shaft just below the mushroom shaped head, she felt it stir slightly. 
Perhaps there was hope! 

Sitting up quickly, Connie bent over the Black racketeer's body, bringing 
her face close to his stirring but still-flaccid prick. She puffed a short 
blast of hot breath across it and reached out experimentally with her tongue 
to lick gently at the dewy head, tasting the salty-sweet combination of 
juices that coated the gradually thickening organ. She opened her mouth 
wide, taking its entire head into her mouth as she had seen the girl on 
stage at the Glass Onion do the night before. 

It no longer disgusted her to kiss and lick a man's prick. In fact she found 
that it was arousing her, perhaps even more than it was arousing him. Her 
nipples were hardening with passionate desire as she sucked more and more of 
the hardening member into her warm oral cavity. 

She moaned softly as she ate him, the sound setting up an erotic vibration 
in her mouth and throat, massaging Johnny's prick like an electronic 
vibrator. He arched his back slightly raising his groin for her convenience. 
She lapped and sucked hungrily at his cock, wanting to bring it to full 
erection as quickly as possible so he could bury it once more in the warm 
wet depths of her insatiable and voracious pussy. The thick piece of black 
meat was hardening as its shaft became engorged with blood. She could feel 
the long vein which coursed along its underside throbbing erotically as the 
organ inflated and hardened. 

Suddenly, Johnny's fingers were in her hair, pulling her mouth from his 
stiffening cock. "Wait a minute," he said. "There's going to be lots of time 
for that. But first I want to give you a little reward. You've earned it." 

He sprang from the mattress, landing on the balls of his feet like some 
jungle panther. Then he headed for the royal blue bar in the corner of the 
room. "No," Connie wailed. "I don't want a drink. I want your cock." 

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, his hands working where she couldn't 
see them. "This isn't a drink. It's something better than that. Now roll 
over and close your eyes. And you shall receive a big surprise." 

"Then, you will fuck me again?" she asked, a pleading note in her voice. 

"Then, I'll fuck you again," he answered. "I promise." As he moved toward 
her, his cock swung from side to side like the pendulum of some obscene 
clock. Now that she was lying face down, he had a perfect view of her ass. 
It was magnificent-the cheeks smoothly rounded and shiny with sweat. Holding 
his hand behind his back he dropped to his knees on the floor next to the 
platform. Leaning over her, he licked one of her glistening buttocks, 
polishing a small area of sweaty skin with his tongue. Then, moving his head 
out of the way, he brought his hand from behind his back. A gleaming 
hypodermic syringe filled with a clear liquid glinted in the room's light as 
he brought it to one of her firmly rounded ass-cheeks. 

As he jabbed the needle into the square of skin that he had just licked 
clean, Connie jumped. "Ow," she said. "What was that?" 

"Heroin, baby," he answered. "And there's lots more where that came from. 
You're going to love it." 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Connie sat heavily down on the edge of the sagging double bed and began 
unbuttoning the buttons of her sweater, the garment falling open to reveal 
the grimy material of her white brassiere. She was conscious of the John 
standing over her and watching her as she undressed. Without even looking up 
at him, she said, "Ten dollars, if you don't mind. In advance." 

It hadn't taken her long to learn that a hooker who didn't collect in 
advance might not collect at all. She held her hand out for the crumpled ten 
that he thrust into it. Smoothing the bill, she folded it in quarters and 
slipped it into her purse dropping it casually to the floor. Then she 
returned her fingers to the buttons of her sweater. 

When all the buttons were open, she slipped out of the sweater and tossed it 
to the floor. A moment later she unsnapped her bra and shrugged it over her 
shoulders, tossing it carelessly on top of her sweater. She stood up and 
unsnapped her pants, stepping wearily out of them and adding them to the 
heap on top of her sweater and bra. She hooked her fingers into the 
waistband of her panties and was about ready to pull them down when the John 
stepped in front of her and placed his hands on hers. 

"Let me do that," he said. 

"Sure thing, hon," she answered. "Whatever turns you on." She moved her 
shoulders sensuously from side to side shaking her tits in the John's face 
as he hooked his fingers into the elastic top of her panties and slid them 
over her hips and ass. She had lost a lot of weight in the past few months, 
but her hips and tits were still full and shapely. It was a good thing, too, 
because the competition for business on Eighth Avenue had become pretty 
stiff. 

When she was nude, Connie stepped backwards until she felt the mattress 
nudging at the back of her knees. She allowed herself to topple over onto 
the bed and lay there looking up for the first time at the John who had 
picked her up at the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-First Street. He was 
middle-aged, pudgy, and pasty white-like most of them. The elastic waistband 
of his ridiculously flowered undershorts underlined the swell of his paunch. 
She could see the outline of his cock, raising the loose material from 
inside and pushing it away from the front of his body. 

She shrugged mentally. So what if he isn't a glamour boy, she thought. Fuck 
'em and forget 'em. That's the name of the game. She watched the silly 
shorts slide down over his chubby white legs, freeing his stiff cock from 
their confinement. Although he was nude, he made no move to approach the 
bed. Connie knew his type. They thought that their ten bucks bought the 
whole night. Didn't any of them realize that she had more important things 
to do than lie around some cheap Eighth Avenue hotel room sprawling nakedly 
on a spongy mattress while the Johns took their time, getting their kicks by 
looking? 

"Come on, hon," she said, her voice taking on a falsely seductive tone. 
"Your big beautiful cock is turning me on. Don't keep me waiting." She saw 
the John's face break into a smile in response to the "whore's lie." Poor 
bastard, she thought. He's so starved for female company that he'll believe 
any shit I sling at him. 

"My goodness," she said. "What a big dick you have. I haven't seen a cock 
like that in weeks. Come on over here and give me some of it." 

"Do you really think it's big?" the John asked, his face beaming like a kid 
who just got a hundred on a spelling test. He walked to the edge of the bed 
and stood there, his prick jutting straight out from his body. 

Connie sat up and took the stiffly swollen organ in her hand. "Tremendous," 
she said. "Would you like me to kiss it?" She had to do something to get the 
ball rolling. It had been hours since her last fix and her skin was already 
beginning to itch. She held her face close to the trembling head of the 
man's cock and warmly breathed on it, seeing it jerk violently as it 
increased in length and girth. 

"Oh, yes," he cooed. "Kiss it. Just a little. But go slow. I don't want this 
to end too fast." 

Connie planted a gentle kiss on the quivering head of his prick, watching a 
drop of thick lubricant ooze from the blunt eye at its tip. She snaked out 
her tongue, tasting the pungent fluid before opening her mouth wide to 
accept the entire bulbous knob. 

Holding the head of his prick lightly between her lips, she ran her tongue 
rapidly across it in a swirling circular motion which brought the 
palpitating organ to full throbbing erection. Then she moved her head 
downward, swallowing as much of his thickly hard shank as she could and 
nibbling expertly with her lips at the silky skin which covered its length. 

He won't be able to take too much of this, she thought. His hips were 
already beginning to move forward and back with a rhythmic cadence and a 
long low moan of pleasure was already bubbling from his lips. She reached up 
to cup his balls in her hand, running her fingernails gently across the 
hair-covered skin of his wrinkled sack. She juggled the two fat stones 
around in her fingers, stimulating them to produce their hot load of 
bubbling fluid. 

The John drew his breath in gaspingly as the shapely young prostitute's 
fingers toyed with his scrotum. This one's a real eyeful, he thought. 
Although he knew most of the Eighth Avenue streetwalkers by sight, he had 
never seen this one before. She couldn't have been around for long. Her skin 
was white and smooth and her body was still firm and beautiful. Although he 
could see needle scars on her thighs and upper arms, it was obvious that she 
hadn't been an addict for long. Couple of months. Three or four, tops, he 
guessed. 

He liked the way that she was licking and playing with his cock-almost as 
though she was really enjoying it. Maybe she was fresh and new. Maybe she 
hadn't been hustling long enough to become jaded like the rest of them. His 
prick surged with quivering excitement. Maybe I can even make her cum, he 
thought. 

Connie felt her nipples hardening as she sucked the John's quivering penis, 
its spicy flavor filling her mouth. Maybe he'll be able to hold out long 
enough to satisfy me, she hoped. Maybe he won't be like all the rest. But 
deep down inside her, she knew that it wouldn't be so. When they had to pay 
for sex, shopping openly on the street for the companionship of a woman, 
they never thought about anything but their own pleasure. What the hell, she 
thought. I guess that's what they're paying for. 

The John was crooning softly now, his passion rising as Connie sucked his 
cock expertly and efficiently. He ought to be ready by now, she thought, 
letting the throbbing organ slip from her mouth and looking up at him, a 
quick mechanical smile flitting across her face. 

"Oh," she moaned, like an actress repeating her lines for the umpteenth 
time. "I'm so hot. I want you in my cunt." She lay back on the spongy 
mattress and spread her legs invitingly. "Come on, hon," she said. "I can't 
wait any longer." 

The John crawled onto the bed, hovering over her for a moment on all fours. 
His cock was throbbing painfully, and the sight of her glisteningly juicy 
cunt was arousing him as much as the blowjob. She really looked like she was 
excited. Maybe she was different. 

He crawled between her widely splayed thighs, holding his stiff cock in his 
hand. Then he worked his way toward her gaping cunt, its inner folds peeking 
pinkly out at him from between the puffy red lips. He lowered himself onto 
her, guiding his cock with his hand until it found the moist slit. He 
inserted it carefully, easing himself down as the long throbbing rod of 
flesh slid into her pussy. 

She was all warm and wet inside, making it easy for him to penetrate her to 
the hilt. As soon as he had gotten it in, she wrapped her legs around his 
thighs, pressing her cunt insistently against his hairy pubic mound. She 
could feel his cock inside her, slipping and sliding like a fish out of 
water. Then he began to hump his hips rhythmically, working the palpitating 
meat in and out of her, pulling back until only the throbbing head remained 
enveloped by the folds of moist cuntal flesh, and then ramming forward until 
the erect organ was once again buried to its hair-covered base in the 
slurping mass of drooling cuntal membrane. 

She began rocking her hips up and down, synchronizing her movements to 
coincide with his. As he moved back, pulling his prick almost out of her 
pussy, she pressed her buttocks against the mattress. Then, as he surged 
forward, she lifted herself up to meet his thrust, feeling his hard 
unyielding pubic bone crash relentlessly against her clitoral mound. 

The little button of her clit was stiffening, poking its scarlet head out of 
the tent of flesh which surrounded it, and bringing itself erectly against 
the stiffly curling hairs of his genital area as he rammed into her again. 
Connie felt her juices beginning to flow, lubricating the inner walls of her 
twat until it was slimy with her sexual secretions. Her breathing had 
deepened and was becoming raspy. For a moment, she thought that she might 
actually get off. It would be her first orgasm in weeks. 

But then, just as she was beginning to believe that it could happen, she 
felt his prick expanding within her, preparing to spit out its hot load of 
life-giving semen. "Oh, it feels so good," she whispered, lying to hasten 
the John's fast-approaching climax. 

She looked past his straining face to the cracks and blisters on the grimy 
ceiling. If she closed her left eye and turned her head slightly to the 
right, the cracks spelled out the word "fucking". She was getting tired of 
this room. Maybe tomorrow she would ask the desk clerk to give her another. 

The John was puffing and panting now, his cock spitting spurt after spurt of 
hot spunk into her waiting pussy. She felt the jetting liquid inundating her 
cunt, greasing it thoroughly and filling it until a rivulet of the sticky 
white fluid followed the retreating shaft of his cock out past the lips of 
her pussy, trickling down into the sweaty crack between her ass-cheeks. He 
would be finished in a second and then she could be through with him. 

When she felt his prick deflating inside her, she pressed her ass down into 
the mattress causing the shriveling organ to slip helplessly from her cunt. 
"Oh, that was beautiful," she said. "I hope you'll come and see me again, 
real soon." 

"Maybe I will," the John answered. He was already on his feet, pulling on 
his flowered under-shorts. "You're better than most of the girls," he said. 
"Maybe you just haven't been at it as long." He dressed quickly while she 
lay there watching him. When he had his clothes on he turned to leave. 
"Aren't you going back down to the street?" he asked. 

"I'll be along," she said. "I just want to lie here for another minute. It's 
been a rough day." The John walked out of the room closing the door behind 
him. 

When he was gone, Connie heaved a long sibilant sigh. Her life had become an 
endless procession of Johns closing the door behind them as they left her 
alone and unsatisfied on the spongy mattress of the cheap Eighth Avenue 
hotel. But she had already passed the point of self-pity, now finding her 
solace in the needle and the snowy white powder with which she chased her 
daily cares away. 

Johnny Walker had finished her off, all right. But not with a bullet and 
cement overcoat. He had been too sadistic to end it quickly. Instead, he was 
making it last, punishing her by letting her die gradually, by her own hand. 
He had made her his slave, lavishing elaborate sexual attention on her and 
teaching her body all the tricks of physical pleasure that he had spent 
years acquiring. 

He had allowed her to ride to glory on the shaft of his stiff black cock, 
carrying her away with it to a place where pleasure was a way of life and 
sex was a magic carpet on which a journey to paradise was routine. And he 
taught her about the needle, and about heroin. 

At first she had liked the euphoric trance that it put her into. She would 
lie naked in his bed while he jabbed the needle into her body, allowing the 
drug to blanket all her thoughts and to bring a rich rosy glow to the world 
around her. Then, as she drifted on a junk-induced cloud of ecstasy, he 
would toy with her body, playing it like a violin to produce a celestial 
music that only the two of them could hear. 

She would lie for hours, naked on his bed while he stroked and petted 
her-the junk, his fingers, and his tongue separating her from reality. The 
junk narrowed her world until, at last, it encompassed nothing more than 
Johnny's bed, the pleasures of the flesh, and the needs of the body. She 
spent three months languishing in his apartment, seeing the sun only when it 
appeared on television, serving Johnny's wants and awaiting Johnny's 
pleasure. She had been his sexual slave, satisfying all of his perverse 
sexual cravings and loving it. 

In return he had given her a "jones"-the heroin addiction which slowly 
robbed her of the ability to feel anything at all, including sexual 
pleasure. Finally the drug became something which she needed rather than 
enjoyed, and the last of life's pleasures was denied to her. And then, a 
month earlier, when Johnny was sure that she had passed the point of no 
return, he threw her out, telling her that he had no further use for her and 
suggesting that she join the ranks of the Eighth Avenue whores. 

"Maybe you'll still be young and pretty enough to compete with the other 
junkie whores. For a while, anyway," he had said, his face twisting into a 
contemptuous sneer. "Just get out of here! And don't come back! I can't 
stand the sight of you!" His words hit her like a kick in the gut, sending 
her reeling against the wall and taking her breath away. 

"But, Johnny," she had cried, "I thought I was your girl. I thought you were 
my lover man." 

"Maybe I was," he had answered. "But not anymore." He threw a glassine 
envelope of heroin at her as he spoke. "Here's your only lover man now," he 
had said. "Now take it and get out! It's the last free fix you'll ever get 
from me." 

The junk that he had given her didn't last more than a couple of hours. And 
when it had worn off, she was panic stricken. She had never bought her own 
dope before. She didn't know where to go or what to do. But a junkie learns 
fast. And if that junkie is a pretty girl with a nice ass and a good pair of 
tits, she can always earn enough to make a living. That is, if you called a 
twenty-dollar bag of dope a day and an occasional greasy hamburger a living. 

Connie thought about the money in her purse. There was the ten that she had 
just gotten. And another five that she had earned earlier that day by giving 
a bearded young college student a fast blow job. She needed more. And she 
needed it fast. 

She got out of bed and began putting her clothes on, thinking of nothing now 
but the dope that she would soon have enough money to buy. She didn't even 
bother to straighten out the blanket before leaving the hotel room. The 
John's weren't interested in the bed. It was her pussy they were after. 

She walked down the stairs and into the hotel lobby, barely glancing up at 
the desk clerk who gave her his usual lewd wink as she walked by. He looked 
after her, her firm young ass wiggling around inside her tight pants, and 
resolved to throw her a fast one one of these days. A little tip. When she 
strode out into the street, he returned to his newspaper, reading, for the 
third time, a lurid account of the rape-murder of a teenage hitchhiker. 

* * * 

Connie blinked her eyes in the brightness of the late afternoon sun. It was 
already mid-November and the air was getting cold. She would have to get 
herself a jacket one of these days. Maybe the Salvation Army had something 
warm-and cheap. She stood leaning against an Eighth Avenue lamp post and 
waited to be picked up. Most of the other girls on the street were skinny 
and pallid looking, already having bartered away their youth and vitality 
for a few bags of dope. They really had to hustle to make enough to keep 
them in junk. But Connie hadn't lost her good looks yet. They were her best 
advertisement. 

She knew that it wouldn't be long before she, too, had to walk up and down 
the Avenue swishing her ass inside some shockingly bright-colored miniskirt 
and winking at the passing Johns. She saw most of the other girls doing it 
all day long. "Sportin', mister?" they would ask as the Johns looked them up 
and down. But Connie hadn't sunk that low yet. 

She looked down at the ground, not really thinking of anything but the dope 
that she would soon have the money to buy. She hoped. Then she felt a man's 
hand on her elbow. She could see his shoes-black and highly polished-and the 
knife-like crease of his trousers where they showed beneath the hem of his 
topcoat. She didn't even bother to look up at his face. 

Allowing him to hold her elbow as they walked, she led him up the street to 
the hotel and walked with him up the steps into the lobby. She gave the 
desk-clerk a wave and headed for the staircase, still looking down. When 
they got to the second floor, she turned right and walked up the hall until 
they stood in front of the door to her room. Taking the key from her pants 
pocket, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. She went directly to the 
bed and sat heavily down on its edge. She began unbuttoning her sweater. 
When she had opened two of the buttons and her grimy white bra peeked 
through, she said, "That'll be ten dollars if you don't mind. In advance." 

"Ten dollars, Connie? Is that all?" 

She looked up in surprise, glancing for the first time into the face of her 
John. It was Lieutenant Blumenthal. 

"I'm sorry, Connie," he said. "But I had to see for myself whether it was 
really true." 

"Well, it's true, all right," she said. "I'm a whore. A lousy ten-dollar 
whore. And you know why ? Because I'm a dope fiend, that's why! Does that 
surprise you?" 

Lieutenant Blumenthal's voice was soft and troubled. "No, Connie," he said. 
"It doesn't surprise me in the least. I've known you were a drug addict ever 
since that day, three months ago, when you walked into my office and told me 
you were quitting the force. I saw it in your eyes. And in the way you 
walked. You can't be a cop for as long as I have without learning a few 
things, you know." 

"Yeah?" she said. "Well what good does it do you?" 

"Maybe you're right, Connie," the lieutenant said. "I never in my life felt 
as hopeless as I did on that day. I knew that Walker had gotten his filthy 
hooks into you. And I knew that it wouldn't be long before you ended up 
here. And there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it. 

"Oh, I wanted to rush right out and arrest the bastard, only Captain Brennan 
stopped me. You see, a former policewoman's junk-lidded eyes and heroin 
stroll aren't grounds for an arrest warrant in this state. And we didn't 
have any other evidence against him. Probably never will have! Because the 
only cop-and a damned good one she was-who ever got close to him blew it. 
She was corrupted by him and she let him destroy her." 

Connie had been looking down at the floor during his little speech. Now that 
he was finished she looked up at him with icy disdain. 

"Spare me the hearts and flowers, lieutenant," she said. "Johnny Walker is 
your problem now. I'm through with him." 

"Are you through with him?" the lieutenant asked. "Or is he through with 
you? How long did he keep you before he tossed you out on the street like an 
old newspaper?" 

"Three months," she said bitterly. "Thirteen weeks, like a new television 
show. And then he just didn't pick up my option." 

"Listen, Connie," the lieutenant began. "I don't know how to tell you how 
sorry I am about what happened. I feel that it's mostly my fault. I had no 
business sending a young and inexperienced girl like you out against guys 
like Walker and his crew. I'll never forgive myself." 

"Forget it, lieutenant," she said. "Nobody's to blame for anything." 

"But wait," he continued. "It isn't too late yet, you know. There are 
treatment programs. The city has lots of them. There's the Phoenix House. 
And the Rockefeller Program. And there's methadone. And I still have a 
little influence around this town. I could get you into one of the 
drug-addiction programs tonight, if you're willing. I can't promise to get 
you your old job back again. But if you really want to beat this thing, I 
can promise that you'll have a good chance to lead a clean and decent life. 
What do you say, Connie? Let me help you." 

Connie looked up at him, an amused smile on her face. "I don't want your 
help," she said. "Not yours or anybody else's. All I want is to be left 
alone. I don't mind what I've become. It isn't such a bad life. Maybe I even 
like it. You and I just don't understand each other anymore, lieutenant. You 
are what you are and I am what I am. Why don't we just leave it that way?" 

Lieutenant Blumenthal looked at her for a long silent moment, a muscle in 
his jaw twitching violently. He cleared his throat before speaking. "I'm 
sorry you feel that way about it, Connie," he said. "I guess we don't 
understand each other. I don't really know anything about what you've 
become. 

But whatever you are, I'm still a cop. And I'd hate to have to arrest an old 
friend." He stepped back toward the door as he spoke. 

"So do us both a favor," he said. "And stay out of my precinct!" Then, 
turning abruptly on his heel, he left, closing the door behind him. 


THE END
