Chapter 2

On the Friday afternoon following that wild, orgiastic weekend at the Taylor's mountain retreat, Cindy was reading a woman's magazine in the living room of their small cottage and thinking about Howard.

She wished he were home now, wished he had not gone to Los Angeles with Ralph for a three-day automobile dealer's convention. But Ralph had insisted Howard accompany him as representatives of Auto Circus, to meet certain important people and see how the administrative end of the automobile business was handled, and he had eagerly agreed; it was what he had hoped for, he'd told Cindy, the break that meant Ralph and the powers- that-be at Auto Circus were considering him for loftier positions than the head salesman's job he now held.

Cindy, of course, had been excited for her husband and had wanted him to go to Los Angeles for the convention. But still, she harbored faint misgivings about Ralph's influence on Howard; she didn't want the Taylors to implant any more ideas in his head, ideas that went beyond the Polaroid Club and her emancipation into oral love with the man she had married. She was grateful to Ralph and Norma for what they had been strongly responsible in promoting, for she felt a new and freer woman, a more fulfilled woman, now that she had been initiated into sexual games she had always previously thought were degrading and sinful. And, too, she was grateful for them having assisted her in pleasing Howard to the very best of her abilities, giving him all that he wanted from their relationship-- and, she hoped, even more than he expected.

The young wife sighed, smiling secretly, as she remembered that night in the darkened bedroom when she had first allowed Howard to kiss her between her widely spread thighs, when she had first tasted his hard, bittersweet masculinity. A ripple of pleasure coursed through her body at the recollection of that moment--and of the recalled joys she bad experienced the remainder of their stay at the mountain cabin and the nights which had followed it in hers and Howard's marital bed.

Oh, things were so wonderful now! They were making love two and three times a night, every night, and finding new and exciting and wild pleasures each and every time. Why, only last night they had lain in the classic sixty-nine position for over an hour, their lips and tongues giving spiraling joy rides to the other as they made oral love. Howard's tongue had sent her whirling to incalculable orgasms during that time, while she had sucked and milked his prick of sticky, hot, delicious loads of sperm twice, never allowing that marvelous penis of his to escape her lips... even when it had deflated, she continued to nibble and suckle it until it once more grew to its monstrous proportions in the soft cushiony folds of her mouth...

And the pictures, too, had been an aphrodisiac for both of them. She had allowed Howard to set up the Polaroid and the timer on more than one occasion, and had posed in lewd positions before its all-seeing eye; had posed with Howard's penis inserted in her vagina astraddle him, alongside him, beneath him... but she had not allowed him to take photos of them enjoying oral love. No, that was a private thing, too private for the camera, and it was there she had gently refused Howard's insisting pleas; she just wasn't ready for that, yet, she had said (if she ever would be ready for it). At first, he had been a little put-out, but after she had showed him in every other way how much she loved him and wanted to please him, he had no longer been angry. They had looked at their pictures together, of them making love--and they had looked at the pictures of Ralph and Norma, which the Taylors had let them keep; then, when both were highly, erotically aroused, they had inverted their positions on the bed and licked and sucked one another to climax after wonderful climax...

Cindy shifted slightly on the couch as spirals of passion began to flow through her, and she could feel her nipples harden beneath the plain cotton housedress she wore. Lord, but she wished Howard would be home tonight! She had never known she possessed such strong sex drives until now; she couldn't seem to get enough of her husband and his mouth, tongue, and penis.

The beautiful young wife sighed again, resignedly, and turned another page of her magazine. Well, she would just have to wait until Howard got home to satisfy her desires (no more masturbation for her! not with what she and her husband had together!). Boy, she giggled inwardly, would she give him a homecoming reception when he got home on Sunday night...

The telephone rang.

Now who can that be? Cindy wondered, rising. She went into the hallway where the telephone was located, picked up the instrument, and said, "Hello?"

"Mrs. Jamison?" a thick voice asked. "Mrs. Cindy Jamison?"

The young wife frowned, for the voice seemed vaguely familiar to her. And yet, it was not the most pleasant she had ever heard, with its raspy quality. "Yes?" she finally answered hesitantly. "This is she."

"Steve Samuels here, from the post office. You remember me, Mrs. Jamison. I was the man who waited on you when you rented your post office box about ten days ago."

A little shiver of apprehension raced along Cindy's spine as the image of the wizened, gnome-like little postal clerk flashed into her mind. What did he want, calling her at home like this? Oh, God, had... had something happened with those pictures she'd sent... ?

"Y-yes," she quavered. "I... I remember you, Mr. Samuels."

"Good, good." A pause, during which Cindy had the impression the man on the other end was smiling. "The reason I called, Mrs. Jamison, "is that I have a large envelop here, addressed to you, from a certain couple in Chicago..."

The young blonde wife stifled a fearful gasp. "Chicago?"

"That's right, Mrs. Jamison," the grating voice told her. "This couple is on the department's watch list as possible purveyors of pornographic material through our mails, and consequently the envelope must be opened in front of one of the post office personnel before delivery can be completed."

Cindy closed her eyes, feeling terror creep through her breast. The exchange photos from the couple in Chicago to whom she had sent the snapshots of her and Howard! She knew that was what was in that envelope the ugly postal clerk had, knew it beyond any doubt at all. Dear God, what was she going to do!

"Mrs. Jamison? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I... I'm still here."

"Would you like to take care of this matter personally, Mrs. Jamison, or shall I"--a meaningful pause--"contact your husband?"

"No!" blurted Cindy. "No, I'll... I'll take care of it." She swallowed deeply. "Should I come down to the post office now?"

"That won't be necessary," crooned Samuels smoothly. "Tell you what I'll do, Mrs. Jamison. I'll bring the envelope out to your house tonight, on my way home. That should be around eight or so, since I have quite a bit of work to take care of first. All right?"

"I... I guess so, yes."

"Fine," the wizened postal clerk husked. "And don't worry, Mrs. Jamison. This might not be anything of a serious nature at all. For your sake, I hope not." Abruptly, he rang off.

The upset young wife stood holding the dead receiver in her hand, her eyes staring glassily at nothing. What would happen when that dirty-eyed little clerk brought the envelope to her tonight? When he opened it and found photographs similar to those she had sent of her and Howie, Polaroid Club photographs? Would he arrest her? Did postal clerks have that power? She didn't know, and confusion reigned strong in her lithe body-- confusion and a growing fear of discovery and exposure, of newspaper headlines linking her with a nationwide pornographic picture organization, of Howard losing his job and everything he had worked so hard to build...

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! Why had she done it, why, why? She should have known better than to send those lewd snapshots of her and her husband through the mails. She should have, but she hadn't; and now, she was going to have to pay the devil his due...

She flung the receiver down in its cradle and ran into the kitchen. She needed a drink, badly! In the cupboard under the drainboard, she found a half full bottle of vodka and in the refrigerator some quinine water. She mixed herself a strong vodka-and-tonic, without ice, and drank it down in two swallows. The fiery warmth of the liquor raced through her bloodstream, causing her face to flush. Another, mostly vodka this time, and she returned to the living room, aware only when she sat down on the sofa that she had brought the vodka bottle with her.

The rest of the afternoon, and the early part of the evening, was a torment for young Cindy Jamison. She finished all of the vodka in the bottle, becoming very high but seemingly not high enough to take the edge off her fear and apprehension. She kept glancing nervously at the clock; time appeared to crawl. She chain-smoked the nonfilter cigarettes she had been smoking since high school. Finally, eight o'clock approached and Cindy began to pace the living room like a sleek, lithe panther, her head swimming from the vodka and the imagined possibilities of what was to come.

The doorbell rang at four minutes past eight.

The sudden sound startled the distraught young wife so much that she seemed to stagger forward, in danger of falling. Her heart hammered crazily in her chest. Have to compose myself, she thought blurrily, stubbing out her latest cigarette. She took a deep, shuddering breath and then went into the foyer and opened the door.

Steve Samuels stood on the porch outside, smiling his wicked, leering smile. He held a large manila envelope in his right hand. "Good evening, Mrs. Jamison," he breathed.

Cindy repressed a tremor of dread at the sight of the postal clerk. She had not liked him that day in the post office, feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable under his beady stare, and now that she had seen him again face to face her discomfiture grew by leaps and bounds. She was completely repelled by this gnome-like man, and afraid of him in the bargain. But there was nothing she could do now, under the circumstances, except admit him to her home.

She managed, "Won't... won't you come in, Mr. Samuels?"

"Thank you," he said, and stepped past her, his right arm brushing casually over the swelling bosom of her housedress, feeling to Cindy like a reptile's touch on her clothed flesh. She almost gasped with revulsion. Had the contact been accidental? Or had he... ? She shook her head, trying to clear away some of the vodka swirl, and closed the door. No use thinking such thoughts, she told herself, no use at all...

She led the way into the living room, uncomfortably conscious of the clerk's eyes on the swaying motion of her voluptuous young buttocks. She turned abruptly once in the room and said, "Please sit down, Mr. Samuels."

Samuels nodded, grinning, and sat in the middle of the couch, his eyes moving restlessly over the nubile flesh of the young wife as she seated herself in the armchair some feet away. They feasted on the soft, warm satin of her exposed thighs where the housedress had pulled up. Goddamn! he thought. Oh, Jesus, but she's a hot looking little piece! Oh, this little Mrs. Cindy Jamison is going to be the best one yet... the best of all of them! I can't wait to put my cock in that sweet tender mouth of hers... in her clasping little asshole, too! I can't wait to fill her up with loads and loads of my hot sticky cum...

Cindy became aware of the direction of the civil servant's eyes and hurriedly tugged her dress down low on her knees, pressing her columnar legs tightly together. She said tremulously, trying to pretend as if she was totally sober and in complete command of the situation, "You said something about this envelope for me being from a couple in Chicago who were on the postal department's watch list. What exactly does that mean, Mr. Samuels?"

"It means," Samuels explained with a gap-toothed smile, "that we at the post office have a book which contains the names and addresses of known pornographers and subversives. This box number is on that list... as the senders of dirty, lewd photographs through our mails in the past."

"But... but such a book is illegal!" protested Cindy.

"Not as far as we're concerned," said the wizened clerk. "We have to look after the interests of the American public, and preventing the wanton use of our mails for filth is in those best interests. A new postal regulation has been passed recently, allowing us to open mail at will if we suspect it contains harmful or subversive material."

"How can there be a law like that?" Cindy found herself becoming righteously angry. "It's unconstitutional! It's... almost Communistic! This is a democracy, not some... some dictatorship!"

Samuels drew himself up indignantly, his eyes flashing. "That's right, Mrs. Jamison. This is a democracy. And it's our job, as public servants, to see that it remains a democracy! If we allow filth and disgusting Fifth Column propaganda to be freely distributed throughout this great land of ours, what will happen to the foundations upon which our government is built? They will collapse, that's what! Filthy Commies will take over, as they're trying to do right now all over the country. They've got a toehold in our colleges and universities already, trying to subvert our education system, but they won't succeed in the government agencies, mark my words! We'll stop them, dedicated men like myself, empowered by our great Congress with the authority to crush subversion and drug shipping and yes, pornography, for garbage such as that is rotting the minds of our clear-thinking youth. It's all a Communist plot, Mrs. Jamison, every last bit of it!"

His eyes glittered almost maniacally, and the young housewife drew back in fear and trepidation. What kind of man was this Steve Samuels? Spouting rightist-extreme policy and belief, and yet having a position of authority in the post office. And, most terrifying of all, he seemed to possess an evil expression that forewarned her of the presence in his brain of the self-same lewdness against which he spoke so vehemently. She trembled violently as a possibility entered her mind: what if this little, ugly man who sat across from her was... insane?

"So don't talk to me about illegality and Communism, Mrs. Jamison," Samuels continued. "This country is at last coming to its senses, and none too soon, let me tell you." He paused, swinging the manila envelope out in his hand, extending it to her. "Now then, let's see what this little parcel contains, shall we? Let's see if there is any sickness and evil inside that must be crushed."

Cindy took the envelope with trembling fingers, handling it as though it were a bomb which might explode in her hands. "If... if what you say is true," she managed to quaver, "if you can open the public's mail at will without their knowledge, then why did you call me and tell me this had to be opened in front of a postal employee?"

"A good question, Mrs. Jamison," chuckled the civil servant. "And the answer is simply that I find myself feeling benevolent at times, when I suspect that something demeaning is being sent to a person who might deserve a second chance. In other words, Mrs. Jamison, a person who is not a leftist Commie or a sick perverted soul; a person who has made one mistake, and should, because that person is basically good and honest, be given a second chance. I think you're the kind of person, Mrs. Jamison, and I want to help you. I wouldn't want to see you exposed as a Commie, or a sex degenerate."

The lovely wife shuddered, for there was an oily, frightening quality to Samuels's voice that contained the consideration of things unspeakable. And his eyes... his terrible eyes... they seemed to be stripping her of her clothes, boring through her naked flesh underneath...

"Now then, Mrs. Jamison," Samuels said. "Let's open that envelope, shall we? Right now. I want to see what's inside."

Cindy willed her quaking fingers still, and managed to tear the top off the manila envelope. She reached inside, withdrew the contents partially. As she did so, Samuels suddenly leaped up and took two long strides across to her and jerked the contents out of her hands, causing her to gasp and draw back in fear against the cushions of the chair.

Samuels limped back to the sofa and sat down with the material which had been in the envelope. His fingers rifled through it, and his smile grew wider, more venereous. "Aha!" he cried. "Just as I expected!" And it was: photos, six of them, bound together with a paper clip--and if the top one was any indication, they were some of the best he had ever seen in sharpness and detail. There was also a typewritten letter, and another typed sheet.

Samuels's fingers were palsied with excitement. He had known intuitively that these were what was in the envelope when it had come into the post office this afternoon, and he had had to resist an immediate impulse to open the envelope. Better, he finally decided, to bring it out here to this young bitch Mrs. Cindy Jamison, have her open it; it was the chance he had been waiting for! But he had to make sure her husband wouldn't be home, so he could have her all to herself, and thus he had called the automobile agency were he had learned Howard Jamison worked-- Auto Circus--and asked to speak to him, thinking to find out surreptitiously what time Jamison quit work for the evening so as to plan his attack accordingly. His elation had been huge when he learned that Howard Jamison was out of town for three days, in Los Angeles for some kind of convention. He had immediately, then, called this haughty bitch and made his appointment for tonight; as he had hoped, she had become nervous and frightened by his call, and had been partaking of more than one glass of liquor. She was nice and high now--and he had something in his pocket which would make her even higher. Oh, everything was working beautifully! He was really going to fuck this beautiful young wife tonight! Fuck her like he had never fucked anyone before in his life! His cock throbbed with anticipation and excitement.

He tore the paper clip off the pictures, and looked through them. Lewd, disgusting... good, good, just what he had hoped for! He glanced through the letter, his mouth salivating slightly, and then looked up at the fear-immobilized young wife. "Mrs. Jamison, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, allowing yourself to be duped by these filth peddlers. You're very lucky I've decided to take pity on you and want to help you; very lucky. Listen to this: 'Dear friends, '" he quoted from the letter, "'Many thanks for your photos, which we've just received. They weren't bad, although some of them were lacking in detail; the camera angle seems to be wrong. You might try using closeups more often. We've discussed them at length, my wife and I, and have decided you're probably new at this so if there's any help we can give you, don't hesitate to ask us. We've been exchanging photos with other couples for some time, and have quite a bit of experience. Enclosed are some of our best shots, to give you an idea of what we mean. Hope you like them, and will be sending us others in the future of yourselves. Welcome to the Club. All best. Signed, Tom C.'"

Grinning obscenely, the postal clerk cast the letter from him. "Filthy, isn't it, Mrs. Jamison? Disgusting!"

Cindy could only nod her head numbly, staring out of rounded eyes at the man who sat on her sofa. The vodka was causing her temples to throb, and she tried to will her mind clear, so that she could think what to do, what to say. But it was useless; she had drunk too much, and the forceful, depraved nature of Steve Samuels appeared to have put her into an almost trance-like state.

Samuels picked up the second typed sheet from his lap, and read through it salaciously. It was a description of each of the return pictures, with side comments of a lascivious quality; the comments were numbered, and the venereous government employee saw that a corresponding number had been inked into the upper right hand corner of each photo.

He glanced up, licking his lips, his eyes fixing on the fear-whitened face of Cindy Jamison. "Come over here, Mrs. Jamison," he commanded harshly. "Come over here and sit next to me on the couch and look at these photos. That's part of your lesson Mrs. Jamison. You must look at them and listen while I read these lewd, filthy descriptions to you. Do you hear me, Mrs. Jamison?"

"No!" she heard herself cry out. "No, I... I won't! Oh, God, I can't!"

"The hell you can't!" Samuels's wizened face turned more ugly. "You'll goddamned do what I tell you to do! That is, if you want me to go on being kind, Mrs. Jamison. If not, then I'll take these to my superiors, I'll report you, I'll make out like you've been sending these dirty things for months and months now. I'll ruin you, Mrs. Jamison, maybe even have you put in prison for violating our postal laws! I can do that, don't think I can't!"

Cindy stared in abject horror at this... this monster who sat across from her. Could he... could he actually do what he had threatened? Could he have her put in jail? Well, why not? He was in a position of authority, and if he lied and perjured himself, they would still take his word over hers--especially with that letter and these photographs. Oh, God, then she was completely at his mercy! Completely at the mercy of a man who was surely insane!

Quaveringly, the fearful and tormented young housewife stumbled to her feet and groped blindly to the couch, sitting next to Samuels fighting down the dread which rose in her throat at his nearness. His eyes feasted on her flesh, and he repressed a desire to grab her, throw her down, rape her right here and now; slowly, must go slowly, better that way, he told himself, oh, am I going to fuck you tonight, you snooty young bitch, I've thought of nothing else for the past week...

Cindy's hands would not remain still, and she didn't want him to know the extent of her fear. Something to occupy her fingers, yes that wax it. She reached out for the package of her cigarettes on the coffee table.

Samuels put out his hand, claw-like fingers touching the back of her soft wrist and causing her to pull back as if she had come in contact with a snake. The venereous postal clerk smiled. "Won't you have one of mine, Mrs. Jamison? They're very good, a special blend..."

As he spoke, he removed a slender brown, crudely formed cigarette from the inside pocket of his sports coat and handed it to her. She took it automatically, perhaps suspecting in her liquor--and fear--fogged mind that it was more than just a plain cigarette but beyond any rational consideration of the fact at that moment. She placed it between her lips, allowed him to light it for her with a battered Zippo.

She inhaled deeply, tasting harsh, acrid smoke and coughed instantly, even though her lungs were accustomed to unfiltered cigarettes. "Draw slowly on it, Mrs. Jamison," Samuels's voice intoned authoritatively. "Then hold the smoke in your lungs awhile before releasing it... yes, that's it. Now you've got it. Again, Mrs. Jamison. It will relax you," he intoned hypnotically. "Again, again... yes, and again..."

The smoke no longer burned her throat and lungs, and Cindy began to experience a subtle relaxing of her muscles, of the edge of fear and near- hysteria which the vodka she had consumed had only brought into sharper focus. From somewhere in her subconscious a single word fought its way into her drugged conscious: Marijuana. And, in that moment, she knew what the brown cigarette was, knew fully and completely. And yet, instead of frightening her, she felt only gathering relaxation, as if it didn't matter that she was smoking pot. It was the liquor combined with the narcotic effects of the marijuana and the mind-numbing fear of the weaselly little civil servant which brought about this state of mind; young Cindy Jamison, as she finished the joint, was in a state of almost hypnotic submittal.

Samuels, realizing this, smiled salaciously. "Here," he commanded as Cindy put the roach butt out in the ashtray. "Here's another." She accepted it, almost gratefully, and he lit it for her; this one would really do the trick, he thought exultantly, she won't have an ounce of resistance left in her when she's smoked this joint down.