Chapter 9

Saturday morning arrived all too soon.

Jennifer Carmel, the day before an innocent virgin teenager, stared at the blinds on the windows. Her skin was pale, as if the ice-water she felt in her veins was actually flowing in place of her blood. She was as confused as any little girl could have been and she tried to sort her ambivalent feelings as she lay under the covers of her bed.

She curled her legs up, letting the blankets fall away so that she could hug her knees protectively, and would have probably run to her parent if she had any to go to. Father was out of town. Father was not there to be the father she had needed before last night, and she knew that his upright morals wouldn't have allowed him to be the father on which she could rely on for judgment and understanding. Mother -- hell, she hadn't gotten home until after Jennifer had, and the noise she'd made, whooping and hollering and... well, it had sounded like crying, but the young girl was too fogged with sleep and the effects of the marijuana, liquor, and the sex she'd seen and done to be completely cognizant. Mother was still asleep, and she wouldn't have under stood anyway. No, Jennifer felt that she was alone, with no one to turn to for guidance.

Mentally she was enmeshed in the guilt of having succumbed to temptation and allowed herself to display her sweet, tender pussy and taut breasts in front of all those kids -- even though they were doing the same -- and writhe abandonly in naked intercourse with Stan Lubin on the floor of that cabin. She swallowed, her shame-parched throat and looked down at her nubile, firm body with its snowy crests of rounded breasts and flat stomach and the black triangular silk of her sparse young pubic mound. As she looked down at herself, she miserably realized that although her dream had been shattered hopelessly and she had given up her virginity and her dignity all in one wild night, she wasn't entirely filled with self-abomination. Oh, there were the long-standing agonies to contend with, the morals and ethics which she'd been weaned on since birth, but for all of the warnings she'd received about allowing "advances" from a boy, she had to admit, if only privately to herself, that she hadn't broken out in warts or become wretchedly ill or really changed her basic nature much.

She had had a dream of a large, soft double-bed with white, frilly sheets and a husband lying tenderly between her open legs. She kept thinking about Stan Lubin buffeting her tender throbbing young cunt last night with his lust-filled cock, her breasts swollen and hurting from his trembling hands, and the way she willingly allowed him to do it to her over and over... until she was ready to promise him anything for the pleasure of having more. Now she had no dream, no bed, no tender patience, no husband... The dream hadn't become a nightmare but it hadn't left her totally at ease, the way her girl-friend Tamera certainly would be this morning. Of course, Tamera was experienced at letting guys fuck her -- the salacious way she'd been with her boyfriend, Vic, last night, and then let one of the other football team members fuck her too was an indelible imprint on Jennifer's mind.

Physically she felt all right. Her head was thick and stuffy like muslin, but Tamera had told her afterwards, on the way home, that was to be expected until she got used to marijuana. The little teenager tentatively explored her breasts and loins, found them sensitive, but in a delightful, tingling way. Her still moist vagina was a little redder than usual -- about the way the pink, hair-lined little slit looked after she had fingered it and made herself cum -- and while her wet, tantalizing cunt hole was perhaps a little larger than before, it was more alive and healthy than she could ever recall. She let one finger slowly draw its way up from the puckered sphincter ring of her anus to her trembling red nub of her clitoris. Stan's white semen is still lying deep in my stomach, she thought, trying desperately to feel the overwhelming, inundating sordidness and dirty anguish that she had believed she should feel. But the more she dwelled on the episode, the more her whirling mind replayed the dizzy climb -- starting from when Stan had put his arm around her in Vic's car. The drinking, the new sensation of marijuana, the heavy musk in the air as the other couples sank into their world of writhing, naked, pagan passion, up... up to where she was watching her girl-friend abandonly making love with her boyfriend while Stan kissed her firm, hard-nippled breasts and let his hand tease its way into her vaginal slit, her pink lips and clitoral bud and moist, quivering cunt mouth... and the lewd sight of his huge, blood-swollen penis moving into her virginal pussy, the shock of immediate pain... and then the breaking of her hymen and his merciless sawing back and forth while the pleasure drove her nearly insane.

How could she lie here now and even admit that she had liked it? But she had! The revelation that she had liked it, had liked the attention from Stan, had liked the comradeship from the others -- all this bothered her more than the smaller amounts of guilt her upbringing still made her feel. Yes, I... like it, and... and Oh God, I want it again. I want to cum with Stan's cock in me. She must be sick, must be a juvenile delinquent and pervert for having no true shame for her actions, but only an emptiness inside her belly which was crying for more. Her body had not only betrayed her, but was forcing her to search out for further indecencies. Tears of humiliation cascaded down her cheeks in a tiny waterfall of self-incrimination.

Slowly, like an automaton, she rose and began to dress. Heaped in one corner were her soiled, even ripped clothes; souvenirs of last night's debauched party. She averted her wet, puffed eyes from them, a shiver of apprehension rippling through her as she zipped up a pair of stretch pants. They reminded her that Stan Lubin had made her promise to... to have more than himself, to let some of his friends take turns gang-fucking her, and he'd mentioned other... things he wanted to do to her too. And it was all going to start that very day. He was going to pick her up at the house, and as he'd threatened, she'd better be waiting and ready. Or else.

Sam Zeigler sat in his luxurious appointed office and toyed with a miniature Spanish dagger he used as a letter opener. His swarthy face was lit by the glare of his desk lamp, making the evil smirk which crossed his mouth that much more devilish. He leaned back in his leather chair, pricking his thumb with the opener absently. Yeah, Oliss and his wife had cooked up a wild scheme, and whether it worked or not, he had been getting a lot of fun out of it. He laid his head against the chair and shut his eyes and once more he dreamed of the salacious evening he'd shared with that innocent young wife of Roger Carmel, the black-haired Lonnie, and the insatiable Mrs. Cylvia Oliss. It had all taken place up one floor, in his "show-room" -- and peripherally he made a mental note to himself to raise the girl performer's salary by a hundred a week. His lips curled into a slightly wider smile as he thought of the performer's near hysterical submission to Fang, his German Shepherd in front of all of his special customers. She'd never been fucked by a dog before, and certainly wasn't aware that it was going to happen to her last night; but the best shows are the spontaneous types when the girl is truly terrified and not just acting -- just like she hadn't been acting when Fang had slipped his huge animal cock inside her pussy and made her writhe her naked young body around in lewd ecstasy.

The girl had enjoyed it, Fang had enjoyed it -- the wild young wife, Lonnie, had enjoyed it, getting heated up from that and Cylvia's hot lashing of pink tongue against her raven-crested, clenching vaginal slit until she'd have been willing to let the whole Club Royale staff fuck her... which was an idea to file away for the future. Zeigler could still see in his mind's eye how the once-proud Lonnie Carmel had looked when he had finished fucking her silly, sprawled nakedly open on the couch, quivering, her satin legs wide-stretched on either side and her arms dangling doll-like over the edges. Her belly had been filled to the bursting point with his hot, sticky cum, and her wet matted pubic hair had glistened lewdly in the room's dim light, the insides of her creamy thighs smeared with his white semen, which trickled together with her own co-mingling climatic lubricants and Cylvia's saliva between her soft, yielding crevice and puddled on the couch fabric below.

The lewd, evilly erotic memories stirred the heat in his blood, making his throbbing cock jerk in his pants. God, he wasn't sure he could hold off fucking that hot bitch of a wife again while Cylvia Oliss set up the deal for later on tonight. He wanted to have her stretched out again, her tight little cunt lips sliding smoothly around his hardened penis like a greased oval ring... He groaned and placed his hand down, trying to stop the building pressures in his testicles from making his now painful erection from bulging his trousers any worse than they were already.

But on second thought, why couldn't he have the luscious Mrs. Carmel again? Right now, if he wanted to -- which he did. It couldn't hurt the Oliss plan; all he had to make sure was that Lonnie was at the Club later. Come to think of it, what difference did it make whether it hurt the plans or not? Zeigler had already started his own machination going, one independent of the Olisses for the simple reason he had no intention of sharing the money Carmel's invention would bring to them. If the Oliss plan worked, all well and fine he'd ease them out after they handed over the goods. If his own plan worked, then he wouldn't even have to put up with a scene of recriminations and threats which would be sure to follow the realization by the Olisses that they'd been taken. Besides, two ways were better than one -- Zeigler like to hedge his bets; or, like so many of the underworld executives, he didn't gamble unless it was on a sure thing.

Along with the recruitment of the Olisses some months back, Sam Zeigler had also hired a call-girl that he knew. She had been a private secretary before turning to the profession of prostitution for the simplest of reasons: she liked the money and liked the work. What the hell, as she had said, she'd been going to bed with men for years; she might as well start getting money for what she'd always given away. Zeigler, spotting the combination of beauty -- for Kim Copeland was one of the cutest girls he'd ever met -- and talent in and out of the bed, told her to go to Kirsten and get a job at the Skopos manufacturing plant. She was to be a ringer, and one way or the other see if she could get information on the device Carmel was making.

Kim hated the small town; only the fat bonus Zeigler paid her every week made up for the dust and dumb characters and no action. She couldn't ply her trade without jeopardizing her job -- which she had finally gotten -- so Zeigler had to fork over her average weekly take on top of his bonus, and added to her paycheck at Skopos, she was able to salt away a sizable amount. But the only position which had occurred at Skopos had been secretary to the personnel manager and the result was that she had learned very little about the miniscopos, even in spite of the love affair she had instigated with the assistant chief of production. It seemed that all the important information was stored in Roger Carmel's head, and others only knew inconsequential bits and pieces of the whole jig-saw, and had no access to his files.

Martin Oliss had always considered Roger Carmel of such upstanding character that the man would never dream of having an extra-marital affair. Zeigler had gone along with the opinion just in case he could somehow use his "ace-in-the hole," Kim Copeland, but the gangster was shrewder than Oliss, and knew that just because a man is honest, doesn't mean that he can't be blinded momentarily and lose control of himself.

Oliss, Zeigler concluded, confused an accidental fall from grace with a planned consideration by a person to be dishonest, for obviously Oliss had never done anything evil or lewd without a thorough review of exactly what he was doing. And even if Roger Carmel did reject the advances of a pro like Kim Copeland, it was worth a try...

Kim Copeland had been phoned that morning; Zeigler had just hung up the phone from talking to her. She had been enthusiastic about the assignment, and knew just the partner to get for the taking of the pictures while she and Carmel were in her home, fucking like hell on her bed. She'd used the man many times before when she was running a blackmail racket, and since the squeeze on Carmel was different only because there was going to be information handed over instead of money, she was on familiar turf and could handle herself and Carmel with practiced ease. After all, she'd told Zeigler, Carmel is just another man. A damned fine-looking one, she'd added, and she was getting tired of the production assistant anyway.

Zeigler laughed softly to himself. Sometime today or tonight, Roger Carmel was going to end up fucking Kim Copeland -- and that called for a little celebration. Like fuck Roger Carmel's beautiful, naive little wife again. He reached for the phone-book to look up the Carmel number. Then he put the book aside and picked up the telephone. Knowing that he had fucked her silly for over three hours last night only made him desire her more, and he lewdly hoped that she would tease him again with her defensively resisting protests. All in vain, all in vain, he mused, and whistled as he dialed her number.

A sudden blast from a car horn awoke Lonnie Carmel. Then there was the fuzzy, distant, only half-jointed sound of the pattering of shoes and the slamming of a door... the roar of an engine, and the squeal of tires. Lonnie lay still for a time, listening. The house was now silent, strangely so, and the softness of her drowsiness was slow to dissipate, like fog on a cold, wet morning.

Lonnie moved at last, only to feel excruciating pain. "Ohhh," she groaned aloud, "what happened to me?" Her head was like a block of molten lead, and her muscles were tied in spasming knots which made her want to jump -- but then the pain in her skull would begin and she had to lie still until it passed. She had a hard time thinking -- remembering what had happened to her...