Chapter 32

Priscilla Devereaux sat morosely in the hospital, her wrists strapped to the bed. Things had become worse since her coming here, under Dr. Hemmings' care two days ago. She had required special surgery for an anal and a perineal tear after the dogs that had raped her had torn their swollen penile lock-knots from her tender orifices, and she had needed a pint of blood to replace what she had lost that day when they had brutally degraded her at the same time as she wallowed passionately in her own wastes in the dust near the Pace mansion. The humiliation she had undergone had thrown her into a state a depression and anger, but her father had vowed to see the evil animals exterminated, increasing the reward to fifty thousand dollars per head.

The final insult had been the mysterious appearance of the video tape in her bedside drawer. She had found it yesterday, after Hemmings had left after examining her, and the note that accompanied it, giving dire warnings about any further attempts to blackmail Desirée Denning. She had secretly viewed the tape on the video machine supplied with her private room and promptly gone into fits of anger.

The tape, graphically photographed and well edited showed her in the most degrading position she could imagine, from the time she had of necessity voided her bowels to her seduction and abasement beneath the pounding thrusts of three big, savage German shepherd dogs! She, Priscilla, the world's most scheming manipulator, had been set up! Obviously, it had been Desirée, grown crafty beyond former experience, and now the older girl understood. Desirée was the leader of the dog pack. The dog- fucking bitch was controlling them with her nasty pussy. It had been she, Desirée, who had arranged for Priscilla to be lured to that remote spot and systematically assaulted. The video tape was ammunition against Priscilla's own designs to shame Desirée and alienate the two newlyweds.

She had raged around her private hospital room, breaking everything in sight, until orderlies came to subdue her, and in her fury she had kicked, scratched and bitten until a doctor had run in with a hypodermic to calm her. They had strapped her to the bed and this morning a psychiatrist had been in to talk to her. Still unsatisfied that she was no danger to herself, he had kept her on sedatives with arms and legs immobilized.

Priscilla still wanted Mark Denning back now more than ever, and more than ever hated Desirée for coming between her and the man she wanted and deserved. The auburn-haired girl now understood what had to happen. The only way to protect herself from Desirée's blackmail was to see the young woman permanently out of the way, and soon. So the spoiled and scheming Priscilla Devereaux resolved to bide her time for another day quietly, until they removed the straps and sent her home.

How would she do it? Arrange a car accident? Poison? Yes, that sounded good. Arsenic, so the little singing bitch would die puking her guts out. Or maybe just a gun? That was a pretty awful death in itself, Priscilla knew, much worse than any depiction in any movie she had seen. She would have time to decide this afternoon, while she waited for these idiots to remove her bindings.

While his erstwhile lover mentally plotted to murder his lovely, loving young bride, Mark Denning was finishing his meeting with Buchanan and Mr. Al-Mazkum. The afternoon had been an education in practical politics, and not a pleasant one at that. Mark found himself faced with the necessity of gross conflicts of interest and dishonesty if he were to ever become elected to office through the influence of Buchanan and his many powerful business cohorts. It was amazing the power, all silent and under the table, that these men wielded in the government of his country, even to foreigners like the sinister al-Mazkum, whose dark, smokey eyes hid much more than his words could ever reveal. Mark was beginning to feel soiled by all the covert and immoral activities he saw rising around himself on the front of state politics.

He was beginning to yearn for the company of Desirée, who was pure and decent except for one momentary lapse of self-control that night not so long distant when she had surrendered to the plundering penis of the predatory dog Lobo. Desirée was a gem and not to be deprecated. He must forgive her for what had happened, just as she had forgiven him for letting it happen to her. Yes, it had happened to her and she had been the victim and he must put the lurid image of her dog-mounted nakedness out of his mind, force it out, and purge it from his memory.

Buchanan had requested quite insistently that she be present at tomorrow night's party here at the mansion. It would be their chance, his and Desirée's, to rekindle their love and their physical intimacy. As he thought of her rosy, perfect nudity, he felt himself becoming aroused at the thought of thrusting his penis into her loving, tight vagina and reinitiating their attempts to have a child, which would bring them together like nothing else ever could. The thought of sending his millions of sperm up into her womb to invade and unite with an ovum to produce their son--or daughter as the case might be--filled him with a strange heat. He thought of her lovely, trim body swelling with the robust bloom of pregnancy until the two of them would become three, a family, and somehow, a power in the world of government-- the three of them together. Until they were four, five, and six.

He thought of it. Six children, perhaps? Seven? Eight? Though the possibilities were not quite endless, the joy of it would be. Fortunately, even the powerful Lobo's seed could not do to her what his, Mark's, could.

Yes, they had a life to build together, Mark thought, and it was high time they got to work building.

He would call her tonight.

Less than an hour earlier, when Desirée had left Tanya and Robyn in panic-stricken haste, the latter had turned to the older girl with wide eyes filled with concern. Her best friend had departed without explanation but in obvious distress, and the teenager felt an answering anxiety. Desirée had always been the kindest and most unselfish girl she had ever known, had never done her the slightest harm, and it upset Robyn to think that her friend might be experiencing some pain or hardship.

"What was that about?" she asked Tanya, who sat quietly gazing at the door that had just slammed shut. When the older girl merely shrugged, Robyn came back reprovingly, "Tanya, aren't you worried about Desirée? Didn't you see the state she was in?"

Tanya nodded. "Yes, I did, but she didn't let us in on it. What could it be, do you think?"

"Family," said Robyn. "Mark or her parents. They're in Europe, aren't they? Some accident, possibly? What else could it be? A loved one. Nothing else would make her act like that."

"Well, if it were her parents would they have called her here instead of at her own home. She doesn't live here anymore, you know."

Robyn nodded. "Then it must have been Mark. But what?"

Tanya thought a while, then smiled. "Well, I wouldn't want to intrude in their private matters, but she and Mark have been having a hard time. He's gone cold on her and he must have just called up and bawled her out for something. I wouldn't worry about it. Everybody's got their problems in a marriage. I've had mine too."

"Really? Then you don't think it's anything I should worry about?"

"Robs, darling, from what you told me about you and your uncle, you've got enough problems of your own. Frankly, I don't think that screwing your uncle a few times is anything to write home about one way or the other, but I can see it's affected you pretty deeply."

The younger girl's eyes clouded with sorrow. Tanya looked at the striking young brunette teenager with the lithe, mature body. Her hair coloring was darker than Desirée's but her beauty rivaled that of the blonde. Together they looked like two heroines of a hit TV show, equally beautiful each in her own way. Robyn was slightly slimmer, though Desirée could never be called plump or even buxom, though definitely large-breasted. Desirée fair, blue- eyed, and angelic, Robyn chocolatey-haired, trim-hipped, and lithe, with a dancer's grace, for a dancer she was. Desirée with the straight nose and patrician features, Robyn with the small, pixie-like nose, wide, greenish eyes, understated dimples in the chin and rosy cheeks. Both girls radiating demure sexuality and prudishness, they would never sink to the moral depth that Tanya felt she herself had reached owing to her emotional deprivation of the last month and the experiences she had had--still secretly-- with Liz Clark's wild pets, the dog-pack her husband Rodney seemed obsessed with exposing.

It was true that Tanya had ample reason to be unhappy. Rodney was a not-very-successful freelance writer hoping to win a Pulitzer with the shocking story of the marauding pack of woman- raping dogs terrorizing this affluent, Midwestern farm community. But his devotion to this literary dream of the Prize had seriously taxed their resources. He had let many things go back at home, the bill collectors were getting nasty, and they had no resources left at all to get payments and obligations up to date. If Rodney didn't turn something over soon, they would be out on the street with only themselves to blame.

Of course, Tanya had no intention at all of helping him in his quest to find the animals that pleasured her lonely body and soul almost daily. She had lost track of how many times she had been mounted and brought to orgasm by the savagely-rutting animals. Most of all, she loved Lobo's technique, but Bruno, his giant offspring with his mammoth penis was special himself, with a member surpassing in size even that of his father, which was huge by all human--or canine--standards.

So the pressures of her young existence had brought Tanya to a critical stage in her life, where her baser instincts had conquered those more refined and left her with a comforting, hedonistic streak that threatened to overshadow her generally sympathetic and loyal personality. She was now drinking a lot, enjoying sensual afternoons of lesbian indulgence with Liz Clark, and going mad beneath the pounding loins of the animals that the older woman had trained for the purpose.

It was a terrible, tangled web! Rodney had learned to neglect his wife while searching for the dogs his wife had taken to fucking out of loneliness, and at the same time he was getting frequent thrills in heterosexual couplings with the dogs' trainer, Liz Clark, with whom his wife was having a secret homosexual affair. Had either the husband or wife known the truth of the convoluted circumstances surrounding their existence, he or she would have been astounded. But still, both of them were protected by ignorance of the full picture.

There was no doubt that the rot was setting in all over Pickford's Meadows. Even the pristine little Robyn Young was having an affair, albeit reluctantly, with her own uncle, and Tanya knew for a fact that Liz's dogs had had their way with several of the town women, having scared the life out of Agatha Proctor but only after already making use of her homely, red- haired and freckly seventeen-year-old daughter.

Yes, Robyn, and here you sit, you lovely little piece of pink fluff.

"Let's save our worries about Dez until we know it's all for real," Tanya said to the teenage brunette with the silky fall of chocolate hair. "Just relax and pour it out to me. I'm here to talk to, Robs, and I'm the understanding type."

Robyn smiled gratefully, toying with the empty wine glass. She had drunk already far more than during any past experiment with alcohol in her life. She felt relaxed, and the distress she had been feeling about her three sex sessions with Uncle Jim was melting away in the company of her new friend Tanya.

Robyn felt a tear of gratitude burning her eye and she dabbed at it, smiling shyly. "You're so nice, Tanya."

The older girl smiled back and touched the back of Robyn's hand where in rested on her skirt, on the firm and shapely thigh that was beginning to attract the emotionally twisted desires that she had developed in her afternoon orgies with Liz Clark and the dogs. She found she was drawn by firm, young, and healthy flesh, regardless of the sex or species. Robyn was ravishingly lovely and, in spite of her admitted couplings with her uncle, endearingly innocent. But she could be led, for her dear Uncle Jim had led her three times into lustful indulgence.

Tanya pressed Robyn's hand warmly. "Come on, tell me about it. Tell me about the first time with him. From the beginning."

The teenage brunette looked at the other dark-haired girl, finding warmth and, more than that, a fire in her eyes.

"I... I took a horse, to catch up with Priscilla, when she rode out in a hurry. I wanted to... go with her," Robyn continued haltingly. "The horse got spooked, saw something, it looked like a wolf, I think, and ran... ran away with me. Toward a cliff. I knew I was going to die, I was so scared, and I lost control. Wet myself. It was so embarrassing. All down my legs, my jeans-- Yuck!"

Tanya was smiling, chuckling, but without ridicule. "Go on."

"I was sure I was going to die, but then he was there, Uncle Jim, like a knight in shining armor, and just swept me up with his big arm and threw me on the back of his horse. I was so weak with fright that I couldn't resist him when he touched me. He peeled my wet clothes off and just... just did it."

"What was it like?" Tanya asked smoothly.

"It-it felt good. Strange to be touched, but good."

Tanya, smiling softly, reached out, put her hand caressingly on Robyn's round, firm breast. "Are your breasts sensitive? Does this feel good."

Robyn shivered and dropped her eyes to the touch. "Yes-they are sensitive."

"And you like to have them touched?"

"Well, yes--" Robyn said, and gave a little nervous laugh. "Yes, I like it. I'm normal, aren't I?"

"Very normal," Tanya reassured her, taking her hand slowly away. She got up and poured another two glasses of wine, giving one to the younger brunette.

Robyn took a sip and smiled. "I guess I shouldn't get too upset. Lot's of girls have lost their virginity by my age. I'm the only one back home--or I was."

"You've got a whole new world of pleasure ahead of you, Robyn, now that you've learned to enjoy a man's cock inside you."

Robyn shivered at Tanya's explicit words, thinking back on the way her Uncle Jim had stroked his big penis so effectively and pleasurably in and out of her tight, wet vagina and brought her to orgasm countless times.

Changing the subject, Tanya said, "Have you seen this house? You know, the Mitchells are really wealthy. While I'm house sitting here, I'm using Desirée's room, now that she's married and living with Mark. Like a tour?"

Desirée burst through the double doors of the Pace mansion and stopped in the middle of the spacious reception room, looking anxiously around at the faded and dusty furniture. It was a bit eerie to be here in this place that she had heard about but had never before seen. This was where Nancy Pace had been raped by the wild dog, and there were local legends attached to the place. No one seemed to know why the house was unlived-in, but there had been talk of a murder here forty years ago and a haunting, ghosts of the angry departed. It was a splendid house, but the family chose not to live here, preferring a smaller, homier place two miles away on the property, over a hill from there.

Now she stood there, searching for Mark, some sign of his beloved presence, or something of his injury.

Nothing.

Spinning on her heel, she faced Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones coming through the door. While Sam Quaid turned the key in the door lock, Billy Canning walked toward her, smiling.

"Where's Mark?" Desirée asked. "I don't see him here."

Billy smiled. He was not bad looking. He had never suffered the acne that had scarred his older brother Johnny's face, and his proximity to and use of drugs had not yet wasted his younger body.

Desirée saw his transparent smirk and remembered something of his face out of the nebulous dreams that plagued her sleep at night.

"Just what is this?" she said suspiciously. "Please. Tell me, where is Mark?"

Billy stopped, removing his jacket and loosening his tie while Mr. Smith, Sam Quaid, stood behind him quietly. She forgot, now which was Smith and which was Jones? And it occurred to her that the two names were aliases and that something was seriously wrong. Her voice trembled as she asked meekly, "Please, what's going on? Where's my husband?"

Tossing his jacket and tie on the settee, Billy hooked his thumbs into his belt. "I'm not sure where he is, but he's probably where he's supposed to be. It's you who're in the wrong place."

"I want to go home," she said lamely. "If Mark isn't here, I've nothing to do here."

Billy smiled. "Oh, but you do, I'm afraid." His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a huge--to her--revolver.

Desirée felt her knees going weak, felt a trickle of urine, which she quickly stopped by tightening the exercise-strengthened muscles between her legs. "What--what do you want with me?"

Billy's eyes blazed and there seemed to be a madness in them. "Revenge."

"Revenge? For what?"

"Revenge for my brother, who your nigger lover murdered out there in the fields."

Desirée gasped. She was shocked that they knew about her and Clete, doubly shocked that he had killed someone. Out in the fields. That young man in the pasture, torn apart. But that had been the dogs, hadn't it? How--

"He killed my brother, tore him to shreds, because of you."

"Me? Why--"

"So now it's payback time."

Mr. Jones, or was it Smith, thrust the gun at her and she quailed. She hated guns, feared them worse than almost anything. Desirée stumbled back.

"Now get your fat ass upstairs."

She hesitated the briefest moment, then turned and hurried up the curving staircase, running away into what she thought must be a dead end. She stopped at the landing, turned and saw the two men right behind her, stopped, looking this way and that.

"There, in that bedroom."

Desirée gasped. "Bedroom?"

"Bedroom," averred Billy.

"Please," she whispered, her throat dry. "Not that."

"Yes," answered Billy sadistically. "That. You're going to be a movie star." He looked at Sam, but the latter wore an uncertain expression, and he hesitated as Desirée walked slowly through the door, her shoulders drooping as Billy followed her.

Sam was not happy with this. His suggestion to kill Desirée had been made under the influence of drugs and now sober and alert, he was not sure killing her would be a good idea. It was certainly not fair. The girl was innocent and would never hurt anyone, yet she was to be made to pay for Johnny's murder. Still, his first loyalty was to Billy, since high school his partner and lifelong friend.

Sam saw the girl pause in the doorway, taking in the sight of the large bedroom, more like a suite, with the fireplace and the large area covered by an Indian silk rug. And the tripods and video cameras set all around.

Desirée wanted to throw up. They were going to make her do something and photograph it. Her lips trembled with frustration, that she had just rid herself of the threat of one nasty film and now another one was going to be made. She felt Smith--or was it Jones?--give her back a push and she stumbled into the room. It was a bedroom made for royalty, but what was going to happen to her here inside it?

Sam watched Billy go over to the leather bag where he had secreted the weapons with which to kill her. The plan was to slit her throat with a large, razor-sharp hunting knife, the saw her limbs off, disembowel her, and use the body parts to incriminate Clete for her murder, but not until they had shown the black sheriff the film they planned to sell in the brothels of Europe. The murder of the wife of a state politician would not go well for Clete, and Billy was gloating over Clete's date with the executioner.

Billy started the three video cameras one by one, then positioning the uncertain and frightened girl in the proper spot between them, thrust his hand into the leather bag for the huge Bowie knife. Sam waited, his heart rising to his throat at the thought of seeing Desirée's throat gouged open and her hot blood arcing from the severed arteries onto the carpet, the innocent blue eyes that would open wide in wonder, then dim with the rapidly encroaching oblivion of death. Billy was drawing out the knife when Sam's hand grasped his wrist and forestalled the movement.

"Wait a minute," Sam said. "Wait a minute, buddy." His grip was strong and Billy's eyes bored into his questioningly.

"I've got an idea," Sam said. He felt Billy trembling with pent-up energy, unreleased in the gruesome way it had been planned. "Got an idea. Come on outside." He drew Billy out onto the landing, near the rail that looked down onto the marbled entrance hall twenty feet below.

"This girl is one sweet piece of ass," Sam coaxed, nudging his friend with his shoulder. "Why snuff her so quick? Why not make use of her first? Give us something to remember her by." He saw Billy's lips curl in a thin smile. "Make her do a strip for us first, film the thing. Plant it in Clete's house, or something. Add to the evidence."

Billy's smile slowly broadened. "You know, Sam, you're one devious son of a bitch."

"Yeah, but you love me."

Billy nodded, looking toward the door. "Yeah, I'm getting a rhino horn on me just thinking about it."

When they re-entered, they found Desirée standing there, her sweet face full of fear and expectancy.

"Now, bitch," Billy said, pulling out the gun again and pointing it at her heart. "You're going to do exactly what I tell you to. If you don't, I drill you a new asshole right in the middle of your chest. Understand? Exactly what I tell you."

Desirée nodded hesitantly, her magnificent bosom heaving with her quickened, panicked breathing.

Sam was coming back now from the car, a large ghetto blaster in his hands. He plugged it into the car batteries they had set up to drive the cameras and lights. He turned it on and the tape inside began playing a rhythmic disco tune.

"Now, what I want you to do is please me so much I won't want to shoot you."

Desirée stammered, "Y-y-you mean, you won't kill me?"

Billy grinned. "That's right, baby. If you please me real good, I won't shoot you." Turning slightly away from her, he winked at Sam, who felt his skin crawl with apprehension for the girl. It seemed the closer they got to carrying out their plan, the more Sam regretted having made the suggestion in jest.

"Now, Dezzy," Billy went on. "I want you to do something you've never done before in your life, but I want you to do it really, really good. We're going to play this music and sit down in these fucking hand-carved chairs and you're going to make like a harem girl and do the sexiest striptease in the world. Got it?"

Desirée was shaking her head in disbelief, in utter revulsion. How could they ask her-- But they weren't asking, they were commanding, and whatever their reasons were and however unreasonable their demands, she had to go along with them. They had a big gun pointed at her solar plexus, the barest twitch of a finger between her and oblivion, and they would have to have what they wanted. She couldn't leave this world without seeing Mark once more and declaring her love for him.

Sam saw the girl's distress and knew she was about to blow it. If Billy lost his temper, he'd whack her right here, and Sam knew that that would be the end of this beautiful and innocent girl. He touched Billy on the arm and whispered, "Bill, I don't think we should leave the car out there in plain sight. What if someone comes along? Why don't you go hide it up in the hill behind those rocks. Meanwhile, I'll prime the bitch and make sure she does a good job. If she's expecting to get snuffed at the end of it all, she's not going to make us happy beforehand." He smiled. "Don't you think?"

Billy nodded. "Yeah, you're right, but don't do anything with her until I get back." And he turned and hurried out of the room. Sam and Desirée could hear his footsteps thundering down the stairs, and slapping across the terrazzo of the entrance hall.

Sam turned to Desirée and tried to reassure her with a smile. "He's crazy, you know. He's gone off the rails since his brother was killed. There's no telling what he might do if you don't cooperate."

Desirée shook her head while the tears rolled down her creamy cheeks and Sam wanted to comfort her, but he wasn't sure he knew how.

"But I've done nothing," she sobbed. "I didn't hurt his brother, so why am I here?"

"You're Clete's woman, and that makes you a target."

"No!" Desirée fairly screamed. "I'm not Clete's woman. I hate him. I'm married to Mark Denning."

"Yeah, yeah, we know that, but you've been fucking Clete."

Desirée turned away. How did they know about Clete? It mortified her that anyone should know, but it had only been once that she knew of, or at least remembered well, for Hemmings' hypnotic manipulation of her mind had made her forget the first time, weeks ago, when under the influence of drugs that Priscilla Devereaux had slipped into her drink and she had allowed the older girl to seduce her into a position where Clete had been able to fulfill his dream of using her hot, wet baby cunt for his own pleasure.

"Now, Desirée, before he gets back I want you to understand that you're going to have to please him, any way you can. If he says jump, you say how high. If he wants you to suck his cock or eat his shit, you do it, just because he's got the gun, and don't believe he won't use it."

Desirée spun, her arms crossed over her breasts, shivering with fear. "I don't think I can go through with it. I'm not a dancer, I've never done... that."

Sam said slowly, in words spaced for effect, "You will have to, and do it well. Keep a big smile on your face, move like a belly dancer, push your crotch forward, and show him your pussy. Take your clothes off, all of them, slowly, but not too slowly, and whatever he tells you to do, don't say no. You do. You watch me, and I'll show you exactly how and when and what. And don't let your smile slip. You want him to think you like him, and if you show anything else, well, remember, he's got the gun. Bright eyes and a smile, don't forget, and if you turn him on, so much the better for you."

Desirée opened her mouth with alarm. "Turn him on! But if he gets turned on, what then?"

Sam was glad that his friend returned before he had to give an answer to that question. He didn't like being in the middle of the lovely young woman's outraged innocence and Billy's lust for vengeance. There was little more he could do for her short of physically confronting his unstable friend.

Desirée's eyes were wide with dread when Billy walked back in and he swayed his hips to the pounding music, moving over to the ghetto blaster to turn it even louder.

"Baby, baby, baby," he intoned, lifted his arms over his head and swiveling his hips, pushing his visibly hard cock forward against the inside of his pants. Sam could see that Billy had not only re-parked the car, but that he had had a long line of the white powder from their sales inventory. He was looped, aggressive and horny, and he hoped that Desirée didn't slip up or he would be wiping her guts off the wall within a short time. Please, Desirée, don't make me watch him blow you away!

"Go on, bitch," Billy commanded. "I want you to do the hottest striptease I've ever seen. Move that pretty ass."

The girl felt her knees going weak and fought to stay erect, looking desperately to Sam, who opened his eyes wide in exasperation and put on a grin, pointing to the corners of his mouth. Desirée, who had studied acting in high school, did her best to feign a loving smile.

Billy drew up a chair, sat down, and folded his arms, crossing his feet at the ankles before him. "All right, baby, perform!" he commanded.

Sam, standing behind Billy, used his hands to guide her into a rhythm, which she started with her head, then with her shoulders, and then with her hips. The music and beat she knew, for she had been to discos before in Chicago and the little nightclub here in Pickford's Meadows. She had danced before and studied dance at college, though her almost spectacular breasts had hampered her movements. Robyn was the real dancer, but Desirée knew the moves and had much of the grace, with the added allure of her perfect figure. To Sam's urging, she began thrusting and swiveling her hips, feeling the blush of shame and embarrassment, which she fought back, knowing that he might use the gun if he were somehow disappointed with her performance. Billy's eyes were glassy and gleaming and it made her almost physically sick to think that she had to do this to please this maniac.