Jonathan Everest

The tortured tourists

CHAPTER ONE

The flies were the worst of the many indignities. Even the odors of decayed fish from the nearby wharves, and the sharp, acrid smell of male urine from the pissoir outside her window, h, had become part of the accepted background. She was aware that her own body had begun to add to the aroma. Next to the flies, she hated more than all the rest to feel the acute needs of her unwashed body.

She tried to shift her position, but the bonds which kept her spread-eagled on the soiled bed linen were not loose enough to permit much movement. She looked down through the valley of her proud young breasts, over the creamy flat tummy and the blonde curls of her womanly forest, to the iron rails at the foot of the bed. The ropes which secured her ankles were tied to the two corner posts.

The shifting movement had caused a little chafing, but her ankles didn't bother her as much as her wrists. She couldn't see them but she could imagine the red rawness of the skin from the burning sensations. Yet, this misery paled by comparison with the flies.

The insects, which had awakened her by crawling over the damp stickiness of her exposed vulva had flown away as she moved. She knew she would have to move repeatedly to keep them away. She tried to scream past the gag in her mouth, but the only sound it inside was in her own head, where the pressure was so great, that she gave up.

If only the La Jolla crowd could see her now! Darla Fleming, princess of the tennis courts, pacesetter of the flashy younger set, untouchable virgin with a reputation for semi-frigidity! If she had only given herself to Jeff, or Alan! She choked back a sob, knowing from bitter experience how much more miserable she'd be if she let herself start crying with that gag in her mouth.

Some flies had returned to feast in the forest of her sticky golden curls. She rolled her hips, and the movement made all but one stubborn insect buzz off. She could feel it moving across the moist outer lips, then into the slit of her sensitive inner lips. She thrust her hip upward, and it flew out and away, joining one of the groups of its fellows hovering in the air, or crawling on the many unclean surfaces in the shabby room.

The perspiration was gathering on her skin, and it added to the discomfort and to the closeness of the room, as if the June warmth and the humidity of the harbor area weren't enough.

She tried to take her thoughts off her misery, to get away from the unendurable present. Not daring to think of what might lie in the immediate future, she could only dwell on the past. And the most immediate experiences of the last two days were so luridly etched in her memory that they flashed past her all too slowly.

***

The sights and sounds of Marseilles were novel and intriguing to Darla Fleming. Her four years of French were just enough to add spice to the adventure. She and her mother did all the translating and interpreting for the family. Daddy Chuck's meager vocabulary, acquired in the latter part of World War II, was almost completely lost, and Tommy had chosen Spanish for his language courses. Well, little brother was anxious to do the honors when they got to Spain. He insisted that he didn't care much for the French.

At nineteen, Darla was in full flower. Her luscious body and charming personality were almost the exact replica of her mother at the same age. But her goals were different. Ann Fleming had become a bride at seventeen, marrying Charles Eldon Fleming II in 1946, the week after his separation from the army. Captain Fleming and his bride were a handsome couple, and Darla enjoyed looking at the old photographs in the numerous albums at home.

Darla wanted a few more years of freedom before committing her entire life and responsibilities to another. She had her hands full with the young males of her acquaintance, finding it difficult to convince them of her true wishes for non-involvement.

But underneath, the juices of her flowering womanhood ran swiftly and warm. She knew her susceptibility to the healthy maleness of her friends, and took great care to avoid temptations. She blushed when she thought of how she had been aroused even by her own father, on several occasions. Well, she knew better than to blame herself for that. The constant denial of her womanly desires increased her sensitivities. It was no wonder that being embraced by a proud and loving father could stir her unreasonably.

Especially a virile man like Daddy Chuck. Even now, at 42, he was more man than many of his juniors. Darla had seen numerous females make a play for the handsome industrialist. His six-one frame was in trim condition, only ten pounds heavier than he'd been in those wedding photos. And he still satisfied the constant hungers of his loyal wife.

Darla recalled all too clearly the scene she had witnessed by accident only a week before the trip started. At 1:30 in the morning, she had been unable to sleep, and decided to take a swim. The warm evening and the high walled security of the Fleming estate had lulled her normal precautions, and she simply tossed a shorty-short terry cloth robe on her naked body, and went across the patio to the pool. Bare footing over the cool concrete, she had stopped short at the sight of her parents on the huge canvas pad at the far side of the big pool. The five-foot, eight-inch length of her mother's ripe body lay in serene repose on the mat, elegant in the creamy skin which glowed under the bright moonlight.

From her shadowed vantage point, Darla watched as her equally naked father knelt at Ann's feet. His short, brown hair glinted in the moonlight, and Darla could see bright droplets of water on his muscular body. Obviously, her parents had decided on a midnight swim, believing her to be in bed. Tommy wasn't due home from college until the weekend.

Daddy Chuck's hands took the slim ankles and moved them aside and upward. He went forward, and his face pushed into the valley of Ann's lovely breasts. Darla's breath caught as she watched the kisses he bestowed on the creamy mounds. Her own full globes ached as she watched him nibbling and tonguing the peaks, and she felt her nipples distend in sympathetic passion.

A mild guilt feeling tried to move her away from the scene. It was a private thing, between a man and a woman. What's more, it was her own father and mother. But her hungry body was tingling with its own fevers, and in the self-imposed restrictions of her young life, this was the only direct sexual play she had ever encountered. It was too much for her susceptibilities. She moved quietly and stealthily along the shadowed edges of the tall shrubs which surrounded the end of the pool. She didn't stop until she was behind the bush nearest the canvas pad.

She was only a few yards from the damp bodies, and she could hear her mother's low, purring sounds, and the wet, lapping sounds of her father's tongue and lips. He had moved down, now, across the sleek belly into the blonde, feathery curls be low.

Darla knelt in the grass, her hands clutching her fevered breasts, fingering the swollen nipples frantically. She saw the creamy tanned thighs open wide, and one of the feet, with its neatly pedicured nails pointed right at Darla's hiding place.

Chuck Fleming's lips and tongue were searching tenderly among the blonde curls, and Darla knew he had found what he sought when Ann's purring sounds became a louder, continuous moan, and the full hips rose from the pad. Ann's hands reached down and grasped the brown curls of her lover's head, pulling the ministering mouth tighter to her damp, heated flesh.

He's eating her cunt! Darla thought to herself. My God! That must feel wonderful. The girl dropped one hand from its clutching, squeezing movements at her breast. It sought the blonde jungle at the juncture of her quivering thighs. Her fingers parted the wet lips, and began to massage the stiff little bud of her passion.

Oh-h! I wish it were me! To have those lips and that tongue in my cunt would drive me wild! Darla's hand was covered now with the hot liquid of her passion's lubricant. Her breath was labored, and a jellylike weakness was creeping through her thighs and loins.

"Chuck! Oh, lover, drink me! Drink me dry!" Ann's trembling voice on Darla's ears excited her even more. She saw the wiggling hips moving in spasms as the climax built. Then a shuddering jerk of the moonlit body gave Darla the knowledge that her mother had found release. At that moment, her own orgasm began, and she shook under the intensity of its effect on her body.

Darla took her weight off one knee, and moved her thighs close together. It squeezed her hand in place, nestling it tight in the sloppy, swollen lips, and maintaining a glowing feeling with its pressure on her most sensitive spot.

Chuck had changed his position, and Darla could see the rigid tool of his loving art. The three-quarter view afforded her all too clearly a complete awareness of what took place.

Ann's thighs were drawn back and even farther apart, now. The gleaming pink meat of her womanhood was vulnerably spread wide, and Darla could see the juices flowing down it. Then Chuck's body hid the pulsing love-mouth as he positioned himself over his wife.

Darla moved quietly to place herself in another position, not able to make herself leave, knowing that she had to see everything. Then she watched as the purplish pink head of the rigid lance lay lightly in the wet lips Ann's hips raised, and Chuck's hips went forward. The shaft buried itself in the depths, and the sight of its hairy luggage swinging against the wet portals below it was too much for Darla.

Again, she worked feverishly in the sloppy heat of her crotch. Now, the anxious massage seemed not enough. As she watched the slow strokes of the plunging rod, she thrust a finger of her other hand into the tightness of her own virginal passage. The pain almost made her cry out, but she retained enough awareness in the midst of her extreme passion to bite back the sound.

She gave up the attempt, afraid of betraying her presence, and contented herself with massaging her hard bud and rolling her nipples – first one, then the other – between the fingers of her other hand.

Oh-h! If just watching can do this to me, what would it toe like to have a wonderful prick like that inside me? It looked so good, I almost crawled over there and put it in my mouth! My God! What kind of a nymphomaniac am I, anyhow? Her breath was sobbing in her throat as she worked her fingers in the slippery swollen meat of her nether lips.

Then she watched her father cease his plunging, grab her mother's buttocks, and press hard against her. Ann's husky voice was pleading.

"Fuck me deep, Chuck! Ohhhhhh! Now! Squirt the goodies in me! My cunt's so hungry for you!" The coarse words from the normally refined and quiet woman seemed to excite her husband tremendously. He cried out softly, and his buttocks squeezed together.

Darla had all she could do to keep from crying out herself, as she watched his muscles spasm, knowing that he was pumping some delightfully exciting elixir into the hot, female depths. She smothered her sounds as she moaned softly to herself, feeling the huge wave of heat tear through her body. A warm extra flow of juice poured over her hand, and she fell over backward and lay, trembling in the cool grass.

It was lucky that Chuck and Ann took their time about getting up off the mat. Darla's legs were like water as she tried to get to her feet, and they barely supported her as she slipped through the shadows back to the house. By the time she reached the French windows of her room, and entered, little streams of fluid were running down both thighs, tickling the sensitive skin.

She rushed into her shower and bathed quickly, ending up with a cold needle-spray. It seemed to help calm her down.

But, lying in bed, afterward, she kept seeing the actions she had witnessed, and before she realized it was happening, her hand was again seeking the heated and swollen lips. When she found how slippery and wet they had become from those recalled sights, she gave up all hope of restraint, and worked herself through another fevered climax, until she lay spent, panting for breath. Then she had to shower all over again.

***

Recalling the shameful episode had affected her strongly, Darla knew. She could feel the flow of her juices running down the crevice of her crotch, and wetting her tense anus before it added to the stains on the soiled linen. She twitched her hips and moved upward to shake off the flies, again, and to try to relieve the hot, tingling feeling around her genitals.

She fought back the sobs again, as she remembered how she had spied on her parents that night. They were wonderful parents. The mother who was so like her daughter in appearance, and apparently in passion, and the handsome, virile, accomplished father, who was so proud of his girls. She remembered how pleased he was the other morning – was it only two days ago?

***

They had left the hotel and started to see the sights of Marseilles. They intended to spend only two days there, until Chuck could make contact with a French competitor whose firm he considered buying to merge with his owes European company.

Darla and Ann were dressed exactly alike, in matching blouses and miniskirts, even to the sexy little boots. Chuck walked between them, and his pride in their beauty was evident to all who looked, including the girls themselves.

Tired as they were when they returned to the hotel, they were laughing and full of enjoyment from the novelty of the visit. Tommy had awakened from a nap in his room, and had joined them for a few minutes before going off on his own to look up a friend who had been an exchange student at his school.

Then Chuck and Ann flaked out in their room, and Darla rested for a short while. But she became restless, and decided to take a walk in the little park she could see from her window. She left a note on her table, and headed for the cool-looking greenery.

Looking back, she cursed herself for the hundredth time for her foolhardiness.

Walking through the park, which turned out to be quite small, shabby, and very dusty, when she once was inside it, she had seen a curious little shop across the boulevard, and had walked over to window shop.

Later, when she realized that she had waled several blocks down the street, and was entering a rather disreputable-looking neighborhood, she turned and crossed the boulevard and started back to the hotel.

When the car first pulled up beside her, she thought it was a taxi, and leaned down to the window, telling the driver she didn't need him, but thanks just the same. She realized that her French was quite good. As her head lowered to look into the window of the vehicle, the back door opened, and she was pulled into the car before she could make a sound. Then it was too late.

Something soft was pushed against her face, then she choked on acrid fumes. Trying to hold her breath was useless, for her captor had arms of steel, and she couldn't fight away to get a breath of pure air. The fog closed over her, and she knew nothing else until she awakened in the dirty bed, roped into submission, and gagged on a handkerchief from her own purse. Her head hurt, and her ears were ringing strangely.

The sun had gone down, but a dim bulb burned in a ceiling fixture, and she could finally focus her eyes well enough to see two people in the room with her.

The woman who sat on the bed beside her could have been any age from sixteen to thirty-six. The impression given by her too-plentiful makeup and frowzy dress was one of coarseness. Darla had the thought that this could be a very young girl who had lived a very hard and fast life. Her black hair was done up in Spanish style, with a cheap comb which was studded with phony gems. The gaudy and equally phony ring on one finger was turning the skin brassy green, and under the hand with the ring, a knee showed whitely where a neglected run had opened a black stocking.

The man who had just entered the room was now leaning against the chipped paint of the door. He was maybe an inch taller than Darla's five-eight, and he looked wiry, but not too thin. Darla's first impression was that he could be one of the apache dancers of the cabarets. His olive complexion was complemented by the black curls at the front of his brow. He had a gypsy air about him, more pronounced as he flashed white teeth at Darla. He addressed her in French.

"I see you're awake, Miss Fleming. I hope you are not too uncomfortable." His smile seemed more to mock her than to put her at ease. She tried to speak, but the gag prevented any significant sound from passing her lips, and no one made a move to withdraw it.

"Just as soon as your father delivers a package to a specified place, you will be released near your hotel. Until then, I am very much afraid that your discomfort is necessary to our plans."

She struggled at her bonds, and tried again to speak. Her eyes were wild with her attempts to communicate. She had to tell them what they couldn't know, before this went on any longer.

Charles Fleming was quite an individualist. He was a man who acted with the courage of his convictions. And if Darla had heard him once state his attitude on kidnapping, she must have heard it a dozen times. Charles Eldon Fleming II knew his vulnerabilities as a man of wealth who received more publicity than he desired. He took many precautions to lessen the opportunities for those who might wish to victimize him. Darla and Tommy had been very closely supervised and guarded, especially in their earlier years. Few temptations and no opportunities were offered to would-be kidnappers.

But Fleming was adamant on one facet of this particular crime. He believed that only a fool would comply with a ransom request. It just was not practical for a kidnapper to operate so that the person kidnapped could not recognize him. Inevitably, the criminal would have to consider the possibility of identification and pursuit. So, once he proved that he had the missing victim captive, he would be likely to kill such a witness without further ado.

If he didn't do it then, he would never do it. At any rate, no guarantee ever existed that a kidnap victim would survive after the ransom was paid. Fleming believed that the only course was to play cat and mouse with the extortionists, calling in the FBI and the police at the start, and with no intention of ever paying off.

Right or wrong, Darla knew he wouldn't give in now. His pride as an American was also at stake, here. He wouldn't let any non-American sucker him, no matter what.

Darla continued her struggle to communicate this to her captors. But they ignored her efforts.

"My friend still return within the hour. If he brings the money, you are as good as returned to your family. Now, we will go and get something to eat. Come, Yvette."

They had left her alone, then returned a few minutes later and offered her food. When her gag was removed, she drank a little of the wine they gave her, to moisten her mouth so she could talk.

They laughed at her when she told them what her father's attitude was on kidnapping. They insisted that his talk about the subject would change, now that he was faced with the actuality, rather than the theory. No amount of persuasion could convince them otherwise. Darla was so shaken that she could not eat. They let her relieve herself, Yvette standing in the small bathroom with her, then they tied her to the bed again.

That had been Wednesday, the day they abducted her.

Thursday she remembered with shudders. Thursday she would always remember! Wednesday night had been unpleasant, especially after the third member of the group returned empty-handed. There had been much loud discussion, most of it arguing, all of it in French. She could hear a little of it through the thin wall, and interpret most of what she heard.

She knew when they had decided to wait until morning before making the next demand. Things had quieted down, and the gypsy-type had stuck his head in the door to give her the word.

"Your foolish father has refused to cooperate so far, just as you predicted. But I believe that tomorrow he will meet our demands, just as I predicted. You see, we are going to send him some pictures of you which should make him wish to end your visit with us. Good night, Mademoiselle."

Thursday, though, her real misery had started. It was after she had eaten two croissants, and had drunk a cup of surprisingly good cocked better than the hotel served.

The gypsy-type came into her room, sipping at a cup of the same brew. He watched her as she finished her last bite of croissant, and then he spoke to her as he lit a cigarette.

"Today will not be a good day for you, Mademoiselle Darla. It will not be a day you will wish to remember. But that is life, of course. One has those days."

"While you were unconscious from the anesthetic, we discovered the curious fact of your virginity. No need to blush; it was Yvette who made the inspection for us. But you will have less privacy from your hosts in the nest hours. I suggest that you rest while you can. It is your father who angers me, and I do not wish this to be more difficult for you than necessary."

As if on command, Yvette removed the breakfast tray from the decrepit dressing table beside the bed, and went out through the doorway to the other room. When she returned, she removed Darla's clothes all of them. Protest was useless, she knew, so she saved her strength, waiting for what she feared would follow.

The man looked at her appraisingly, and she felt defiled by his inspection. His gaze dwelled overly long on her full, ripe breasts and again on her curly, blonde triangle. "I think that I shall have to sample such a tasty treat before she is spoiled for all time. His dark eves gleamed greedily, and he met her shocked gaze with insolence."

"It is only just that I drive some pleasure for the trouble I must endure. Is it not so?"

She shuddered, and jumped into the bed, pulling the dirty linen sheet over her, as he laughed shortly, still watching her, letting his eyes appreciate the soft curves under the stained sheet.

Yvette sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, as he left the room. Darla's eyes strained to see an avenue of escape. The window was barred, and she knew it was on the second floor. When she had returned from the bathroom, she had seen that the street below was not busy. She could only spot one pedestrian, a man who fumbled with his fly as he entered the pissoir on the sidewalk.

Maybe they were only threatening her, anyhow. Trying to get her scared so they could make her tell her father something on the phone, or write him a note. After all, would they really dare to rape a tourist, one whose family had wealth enough to expend thousands of dollars in vengefully tracking down such criminals?

While lying there, trying to decide whether to make a wild dash for the window, she fell asleep. And when she was awakened, it was too late.

Yes, she would remember Thursday. Her eyes opened, and she saw that Yvette was gone. The gypsy-type was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. It had been his hand on her breast which brought her out of her sleep. At the foot of the bed was another man. He was huge, and very black. A Moroccan, probably. He stood with his arms folded, hands clasped to upper arms. He was a little taller than her father, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds.

But his face was not as frightening as the gypsy-type's leering countenance. The black seemed not to enjoy his position, even when the other man suddenly whipped back the sheet and exposed her ripe body to view.

"You may have much more meat, Le Boeuf, but this is one of a fine quality, is it not? Mignon, eh?" He chuckled to himself, then ran a cool, moist hand over her belly. She shivered.

They were actually going to do it, she realized. And she could never get to the window, now. Then her wrists and ankles were being tied, again. She struggled fiercely, now, but it was too little and too late. The Moroccan was helping, and soon she was spread-eagled once more, this time with her clothes gone.

Then she felt the cool hands on her thighs, moving over the soft skin, tracing upward across her belly, until they reached the full, ripe mounds of her breasts. The hands clutched, one on each proud hemisphere, and she felt a sharp pain as something tiny pricked her.

"Give me your cigarette, Gerault," said the Moroccan. "It will not help to burn her with your ashes."

So that's what felt like a needle; a spark from his cigarette. She felt the hand leave her left breast, then return. The Moroccan's footsteps had neared that side of the bed and retreated, as he took the butt from the gypsy. Is his name Gerald? It's so hard to tell French names just from hearing them.

A tremor ran through her as he put his lips on her right breast, nibbling the peak with tantalizing slowness. She felt the nipple distend as it betrayed her, and then his lips were around it, and his tongue was tattooing its spongy fullness. She writhed under him, and he chuckled with his mouth full of her breast.

He toyed with her nipples until her breasts ached, and her teeth were clenched in a firm refusal to show her emotional involvement. Then he moved his mouth down her body, trailing his tongue across the sensitive nerve-ends of her belly, dipping it into her navel and swirling it around the touchy dimple. She arched away from his kiss, but the bed springs were too weak and the mattress too matted to provide any significant distance between them. His avid tongue followed her no matter where she moved.

When his mouth was nibbling its way through the blonde forest of her loins. She gasped as his lips nibbled at the edge of the golden jungle, then his tongue found her open slit, and her ankles were secured too far apart to give her knees the freedom they had to have if she were to try to close her thighs to him. He was enjoying his feast. Little moaning sounds slipped past his busy lips as they worked at the pink, moist meat of her vulva. She finally could hold back her tension no longer, and a loud gasp escaped her just as he found her tightening bud with his searching tongue.

Her body arched again – upward this time. Her need had been so emphasized by his expert mouth that she reached out for fulfillment. His head was buried in her loins, and she could hear the moist workings of his lips and tongue.

He's eating my cunt! Oh, God! It feels wonderful! She couldn't control her thoughts any more than she could control the thrusting of her hips, the shuddering tremors that ran through her body. His lips and tongue are driving me out of my mind!

She felt her hips wiggling from side to side, getting the very most from his hungry mouth, then she was trembling in every part of her body, and she knew she was reaching her pinnacle of passion. Her memory came back to haunt her, like the vision of guilt that it was in her mind, and she saw her parents on the mat at the pool side.

Suddenly she was her mother, and as Ann's demands had triggered her, so Darla's were now controlling her every sensation. I'm creaming all over the place, and he's drinking it like wine! She felt her last barrier crumble, and she moaned at him, then yelled.

"Oh, Daddy! Drink me! Drink me dry!" Then her mind closed as a pink cloudy mist surrounded her, and she felt herself falling, floating downward, endlessly.

She opened her eyes to look into Gerault's face. He was standing beside the bed, and he was now naked. His hard tool was standing rigidly out from his belly, and the wiry black curls at its base seemed coarser than the brown ringlets her father sported. She was afraid, really afraid for the first time, she knew. He was going to pierce her maiden head, now!

CHAPTER TWO

The Moroccan was standing at the foot of the bed, and his tongue was moistening his lips as he looked down on her golden body with its two forests of golden hair and two mountains with pink-capped peaks. A little trickle of saliva escaped his lips and ran down his chin. He wiped at it with a giant hand, not taking his eyes off the vision of beauty.

"Come on, Le Boeuf," said Gerault. "It's time for you to open this lovely package!" She rolled her head on the pillow to look at the smaller man. He was grinning in anticipation at whatever was to follow. The Moroccan was naked to the waist when she looked back at him. He was fumbling with his trousers, then they fell down, taking with them the man's undershorts, if he had been wearing any. For she saw with horror the hugeness and the grandeur of the man as God had made him. She gasped in awe and fright.

From the dark loins, where a heavy forest of hair was curled, sprouted a fleshy appendage of mammoth proportions. She imagined that brutal assault weapon at her vulnerable vagina and grew faint. She had known pain when using a single finger to gratify her own desires, and this was as big around as four fingers, and God knew how long!

"You can't! My God! It'll kill me! I'm a virgin; you know that."

Gerault laughed so hard that he bent over almost double.

"Show her, Yvette," he said, when he caught his breath. Darla hadn't noticed the girl entering the room. Now she saw her standing in the doorway, carrying an instant-copy camera by its strap.

Yvette strolled calmly over to the foot of the bed where Darla could see easily. Then she lifted a leg and placed it so that the spiked heel of her shoe was against the upper rail of the iron bedstead. Still lugging the camera, she used the other hand to lift her skirt high, and Darla could see that the girl wore nothing under it. The stretched thigh pulled at the surrounding tissue, and the heavy lips of the girl's vulva were wide open, showing the parted inner cleft and the vaginal opening. "Go ahead, Le Boeuf," Gerault commanded. The Moroccan moved pivoting on one foot, and laid the heavy, purple heed of his weapon against the wet meat of the girl's opening. He shoved slowly, and Darla watched in horrified fascination as the gigantic rod was engulfed by the previously normal-appearing opening. But as the shaft moved in deeper, Yvette grunted audibly, and her eyes grew large. Her tongue slipped out to moisten suddenly dry lips.

Darla could tell that this girl, who obviously had been stretched before by the same weapon – she had shown no fright when faced with it – yet was affected by its size. If anything, the demonstration had served to add to Darla's fear and horror.

Oh, God! I wanted a cock in me, but not one like that! I think I'd rather stay a virgin forever! She tried to shrink back into the bed, praying for it to swallow her up smother her to death. Anything would be preferable to what threatened her now.

Then the Moroccan was kneeling on the bed between her legs. His weapon looked even bigger, now, as it neared her. I wanted to take a cock into my mouth, too. But that would make a meal for a lion! Gerault had pulled the pillow from under her head, and now he forced it under her hips, doubled, making them thrust upward toward the black invader that was poised over her belly.

She was vaguely aware of Yvette moving nearer, aiming the camera at the bed, then clicking the shutter. Thank God! Maybe they only need the horror of a shot like this to shock Daddy Chuck into changing his mind. But she knew, even as the thought came, that she wasn't to get off that easily.

The tip of the hard shaft was lying in the cleft of her moist canyon, and the black face hovered over her own as the Moroccan leaned down to speak to her.

"I tell you this to help you, Mademoiselle Darla. It will not be as difficult for you if you try to want me. Try to wish this thing inside of you. Your body will not fight it as much, and you will have less damage. Understand?" He looked into her eyes, and she could tell that he was not in favor of causing her pain. His brown eyes seemed to reflect a pain of his own.

"Oui, je comprend. Merci." She acknowledged with thanks. Perhaps he could lessen the pain. Then it began. Oh, God! How it began!

It felt as though she was being torn asunder in a hundred different directions. They could have achieved the same feeling with a hand grenade, she imagined. Then she realized she was fighting it, and tried to reverse her muscles. It was impossible. To get to the point where she could will the damned thing to be inside her, she would first have to relax. My God, I can't relax when I'm being torn apart!

Then the black hands were on her breasts, caressing them, kneading the nipples to full erection, gently massaging their sponginess between the dark fingers. She felt herself tingling, becoming impassioned in spite of the pain, and then his hands were squeezing both nipples firmly, and she started to moan her involvement.

The burning sensation just inside the entrance to her tender passage had not increased, but it was a constant reminder of the camel which was straining to get through the eye of the needle. She gasped her need for air, and gulped some into her lungs. Then the kneading hands were replaced by the moistness of a hot mouth, and she felt nipple, aureole, and a large part of the firm mound itself being drawn into the hungry mouth.

She gasped at the sensation, and her throat opened to moan her surprised delight. Then she felt the ripping-tearing-spreading pain of the fleshy instrument which bore into her tender depths.

It's tearing my cunt apart! It's plunging right into my guts like a giant knife. She almost couldn't bear the pain, but as she started to pass out, she felt the delicious sensation of his massaging lips and tongue on her breasts, and she tarried just a second to savor the feeling. Then the pain in her depths lessened, and she thought she might be able to stand it.

Until the pulsing started. The head of the big shaft was now pressing snugly against her innermost defenses, and when it swelled within her, stretching the tender passage in throbbing pulses, she thought she was going to be sick. The hurtful spasms brought her to the borderline of extreme nausea several times, and then it began to feel almost good.

Her body was moving without her willing it to motion; the suction of the hungry mouth on her breast and the pressure of the black padded pelvis against her hard, wet bud carried her past the pain of the gross invader's violation. Her hips thrust upward, and she could feel the rope tension on her ankles as her heels sank into the bed. The Moroccan began to stroke into her depths, pulling the now slippery shaft almost out of its fleshy scabbard, then sinking it again to the hilt. Darla could feel the hairy luggage of the invader as it slapped with a wet smack against her buttocks and crotch. The tingling tremors which were running through her body carried her back once more to the night by the swimming pool, and her passion tripped the memory banks as the black flesh plunged into her.

"Fuck me deep, Daddy! Stick it in hard! My cunt's starved!" She heard her own voice with surprise, and it shocked her, but the intensity of her feelings was so great she couldn't control herself. As it became even more intense, she heard herself cry out again.

"Squirt it in me! Now! Ohhhh!" Then the roller coaster took her up, up, clear to the top of an unbelievable peak, and as she started to fall, she felt the pumping, squirting streams of warm liquid splash into the tender walls of her being.

She fell a long way, and then floated softly in a fuzzy cloud. When she opened her eyes, the Moroccan was leaning back from her, and the black flesh of his rod was retreating from her passage. As it came all the way out, she watched the purplish head appear, trailing strings of white, sticky semen behind it.

The side of the dark sword were streaked with blood, and she knew why as the burning sensation returned to her torn tissues. Her breathing was a labored panting, and it seemed as if she'd never get enough air. She gasped deeply, and felt her lungs start to fill normally again.

The dark lance was bent, curving downward in a tired arc, the purple head resting on the sheet in a little pool of liquid white that gleamed in the morning sun which came in the barred window.

"Yvette! Make Le Boeuf ready again!" Gerault commanded.

The brunette had been doing something at the dresser. When she moved away from it, Darla could see several curved photos lying on top of the dirty wood. The girl came over to the bed and kneeled on the edge, then leaned over Darla's thigh and placed her mouth on the black shaft. With a sideways movement of her head, she stroked the dark length, using lips and tongue, until the dormant rod began to stir slightly.

When the purplish-red head lifted off the sheet, Yvette took it into her mouth and began to rotate her head, working the fleshy tip between her teeth, then snaking out her tongue to lash around the coronal ridge, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. Darla, hearing the wet sounds as Yvette sucked in the remnants of semen, felt truly nauseous. Then the tongue slipped down and stroked the side of the shaft again, cleaning off the streaks of white and red from the dark skin.

Darla fought to keep from getting sick. She knew she would get herself covered with it, and have to lie in it. She forced herself to think of other things, but then she saw the great shaft swell into its former size and hardness, and Yvette gave it a last sucking tug, then slid off the bed.

Le Boeuf leaned over her, and the big meaty stick lay snugly in the canyon formed by her swollen lips. His mouth again sought her breasts, and soon she was inescapably caught up in her passion once more. He was moving the hardness slowly against her excitable surfaces while his hands and mouth worked at her breasts.

She began to moan and move under him, as the burning sensation was gradually dwarfed by the mounting feelings from within. Then both hands were on her breasts, and the Moroccan's mouth was pressed to hers.

As her lips opened to gasp, his tongue entered and plunged around inside, teasing her lips and toying with her tongue, until she could not remain passive. Her pink tongue pushed out to fence with his, and he drank deeply of her warm, sweet juices, then sucked her hot tongue until she shivered in ecstasy.

He leaned away from her, and then the head of his lance was at the opening of her torn passage. He thrust it inside slowly, until it filled her chokingly. Then he resumed the long, heavy strokes that drove her wild. His mouth moved over to her shoulder, where he nibbled and sucked at the tender flesh.

There was a sinking of the bed near her head, and she peered from passion-swollen eyes to see Gerault kneeling by her face. He was as naked as Le Boeuf, and he held his own pallid member in his hand. She watched as the blood-engorged head of the white tool came toward her, then it was against her lips.

"Take this! You watched Yvette. Now do the same!" He pressed the meaty head between her lips before she could turn away from it. Then it was in her mouth!

She almost gagged, but the things Le Boeuf was doing to her had her in a passionate trance, and she closed her lips over the hardsoft thing and soon found herself tonguing it in a rotation which drew groans from Gerault's throat.

He pushed the shaft further into her mouth, until it touched the back of her throat, then yelled to Yvette.

"Cut the ropes, Yvette! Quick!" In a few moments, Darla felt her ankles and wrists freed, but instead of struggling, she was amazed to find that her legs were wrapping around the Moroccan, and that she had grasped Gerault's shaft with one hand, and was using the other to massage his soft bag.

Then the movements grew swifter, as the dark invader below and the white one above plunged into her deeply. She was thankful for the free hand which encircled Gerault's tool, keeping it from choking her completely. Then she trembled throughout her body, and her hips arched upward, thrusting against the Moroccans drive, and clinging around him with frantic leg tensions.

Her mouth began to move on the flesh it held, stroking it in hungry grabs. As she felt herself soaring upward in uncontrollable agony mixed with ecstasy, she felt the throbbing pulsations of the meaty mouthful, and Gerault's grunting sounds marked time with the spurts of his seed against her throat. She swallowed heavily, and managed not to choke.

Then the Moroccan was moaning and humming his release, and the pumping of his spurting liquid inside her passage marked the end of her climb. She fell suddenly into utter darkness.

***

As she recalled the degradation of the Thursday morning orgy, she felt more violated than she had when it occurred. She could still feet the sticky strings of semen on her cheek, as though she hod just now awakened from the faint which followed the assault.

That had been only yesterday. And most of that afternoon and all of last night, she had slept, exhaustedly. Her young body was mending itself, she knew. But the lack of food since that shocking extent, and the shame she felt as she thought about those photos being seen by her family, made her feel sick all offer.

She jerked to chase away the flies, again. Then the door opened and Gerault and Yvette entered. They removed the gag from her mouth and gypsy-type addressed her.

"You are going to join your family. If you promise to be quiet and cooperate, we will not replace this handkerchief in your mouth. Do you promise to do as you are told?"

Darla's mouth was too dry to speak, but she nodded. Yvette brought her a drink of water from the bathroom, and she held the first sip in her mouth a moment, then swallowed painfully. Soon she was gulping down the entire glassful.

They untied the ropes, and helped her up. She moved slowly to the bathroom on wobbly legs, leaning on Yvette's arm all the way. After relieving herself, she tried to clean up a little. There was no washcloth, but she did the best she could. There was a bidet in the room, and she managed to douche herself satisfactorily, though the clear water burned in numerous areas, as the protecting film of lubricant was rinsed away.

They blindfolded her, and led her off. She was helped into a car, and heard the doors close. Then they were moving. The trip seemed endless. Finally, she began to get frightened. Were they really taking her somewhere to kill her?

"Where are we going? We've traveled long enough to drive clear across Marseilles several times." There was a sob in her voice. She put her hands over her face, out of habit, as she started to cry under the blindfold.

"Do not worry, little cabbage. Your family is no longer at the hotel where you left them. We are going to a different place, and you will see them soon."

As one part of her mind absorbed this consolation, another part worked on his phrasing. The term petite chou had seemed ridiculous and alien in French literature. But these people actually did use the term. Little cabbage! She felt more like a used piece of meat!

She knew that Gerault sat on her left, and even if occasional bumps in the bad road had not thrown her arm against Yvette's breast, Darla would have known the brunette sat on her right, if only from the odor. This woman was a living example of the legend about the French use of perfume as a substitute for bathing. Yet, it wasn't all legend, she knew. In the days when bathing was considered detrimental to the health, even by the medical profession, scents were developed to mask the strong body odors. But there was no excuse for it in the twentieth century!

She realized with a little thrill that when her hands had been pressed to her face, part of her blindfold had been shifted, and a small slit of light was in her eyes. She hoped it hadn't been noticed. Stealthily, she moved her head about, pretending to relieve a stiff neck, adding to the effect by massaging it with her hands as she turned it.

Suddenly she caught a glimpse of a road sign ahead. She tried to memorize what she had seen, but they passed it very quickly. Her mind worked at it, trying to be sure what she had seen. Was it Salon 65 kilometers, Aix 32 kilometers? Or what was the other name and figure? St. Martin something? She didn't know. Maybe the little bit she thought she had seen might be of value later.

She tried to get an occasional glimpse of the scenery, looking for usable landmarks, thanking her special Providence that the thin material was coarsely woven, enabling her to distinguish quite a bit through its screening.

She could see that Le Boeuf, at the wheel, wore a chauffeur's cap, and that a heavy tint in the door glasses probably prevented anyone outside seeing into the car very well. It seamed to be an old vehicle, but rather well cared for. It was some kind of limousine, because there was a partition between the front and back, although the glass had been rolled almost completely down.

Then she began to see people on bicycles, and an occasional car coming from the opposite direction. Suddenly they were in a small town; she saw something which almost made her gasp. She stopped her reaction just before they would have heard her sharp intake of breath.

There before her, definitely recognizable from a photograph in Daddy Chuck's wartime album, was a building which had been called, in 1945, Hall of States. She could remember the signs from the photo; signs which ran around the upper part of the lower-floor facade, each with the name of a state. It had been a sort of service club for troops in the area.

Her heart pounded with the recognition. She had figured out that if she were blindfolded, it had to be because of some advantage she would acquire by knowing the route they took. So she had made some headway without their knowing it.

The big car took off on an oblique angle, down a street which soon became another semi-improved road. They rode for several miles before the car slowed, then turned up a lane between long hedgerows, and approached a big stone farmhouse. They stopped in front of the large door, and Le Boeuf got out and opened the back door of the car. Gerault got out, and reached inside, taking Darla's hand to guide her out.

Soon they were inside the building, and when the door closed, Darla's blindfold was removed. She made a great fuss over blinking and rubbing around her eyes, elaborating on her deception.

Then she was taken to a door at the back of the house, and as it opened, she saw steps leading down into a cellar. Gerault went ahead of her, and Le Boeuf followed behind, as they descended the wooden stairs. Gerault stopped at the bottom, and turned on a switch. As the place filled with light, Darla's breath caught in a gasping sob. The walls of the cellar were of the same heavy stone as the rest of the farmhouse. Arid along two wells of the dismal, dungeon are place, shackles were fastened to the stones with huge iron rings. She saw the three figures shackled to the cruel chains, and cried heartbrokenly as she ran toward them.

"Daddy Chuck!" she sobbed, throwing her arms about the nearest prisoner. She looked up into his face, and his eyes were fun of his mental agony. His face had a beaten look.

She left him in confusion and ran to her mother, who was chained on the adjoining wall, hugging the limply hanging body, which came tensely alive under her daughter's embrace. The two sobbed in unison at their plight, then Darla reached over and squeezed Tommy's hand above its manacled wrist, right next to Ann's position on the wall.

Darla whirled to their captors with the fire of anger in her blue eyes. She almost spit out her words at them.

"What do you madmen think you're doing! You'll never get any money this way!" She was so full of her hate that she couldn't say another word, but just stood there, seething. She didn't even realize that she had spoken to them in English, until Gerault answered.

"You have been treated with more gentleness than we ordinarily use, because you have spoken to us in the language of our country. Now, it seems, you have reverted to the Ugly American, which makes it easier for us to proceed with out next move."

"You see, your greedy father would not part with money, even after he saw the pictures of your little adventure. Now, we shall at least have some entertainment for our troubles. Le Boeuf! Chain her!" She felt the huge hands as they grasped her wrists, and she was taken to the wall and shackled next to her father. Then their captors went up the steps, turning out the light, and left them alone to their misery.

CHAPTER THREE

The closing of the heavy door at the top of the steps had a discouragingly final sound. The captives were silent for several minutes, as each suffered the individual effects of his imagination. Not knowing what was in store for them, their fears multiplied all that their imaginations could envision. To add to their mental misery, their physical discomforts were acute.

The chains to which they were shackled permitted just enough freedom to allow them a choice of standing or sitting. And the cuffs at their ankles and wrists were snug enough to prevent escape, yet moved freely in place, guaranteeing them the additional joy offered by increasing rawness, as the friction chafed their skin.

Darla's whereabouts had been a mystery to her family, but they had known that she was a captive. But the appearance of her family here was a great shock to her, and her lack of comprehension moved her to speak while the others were still lost in their own miserable thoughts and imaginings.

"What happened? How did they get their hands on all of you, anyhow?" She was even more frightened when only silence greeted her questions. "Talk for God's sake! Someone say something!" She almost started to break down and cry anew, when her father broke the thick, almost-tangible silence of the dark dungeon with his reply.

"Late last night, someone left an envelope at the door to our suite, rang the buzzer, and left. When I opened it, there was a note inside, and… and… those pictures of you… I guess you didn't have any choice… you were tied up in all of them except one… and maybe they had you drugged, too…" She could sense the questioning tone as he referred to the final picture Yvette had taken. She'd barely been aware of the final click of that spying shutter, because she'd been occupied with the two men invading her body.

Oh, God! He's thinking about the picture where my arms and legs are free. What was I doing? Oh, no! My legs were wound around Le Boeuf, and I was working on Gerault's cock with my mouth and both hands! It's better if he thinks I was drugged when that picture was taken.

"The note said that this was the last chance to pay, unless I wanted even more horrible things to happen." Chuck Fleming's tone made his daughter feel as if she had let him down by not answering his unspoken question, but she knew it was better to ignore the issue now. There were enough problems here without breaking his heart. And she sensed that he'd never get over it if he discovered that she had enjoyed any part of that degrading assault.

"I guess you know, Darla, that I just couldn't cooperate with kidnappers, no matter how worried we were about you." The question was back in his voice, and this time she knew that she had to answer, to set his mind at ease. He was miserable enough without having to doubt whether Darla forgave him for not ransoming her.

"I know, Daddy Chuck. I tried to tell them, but I couldn't get them to listen to me. I know how you feel about kidnapping, and I knew from the first they wouldn't collect, so I didn't have any false hopes shattered. I may not agree with your opinions on the subject one-hundred percent, but I'm proud that you stuck to your guns and left them hanging high and dry without the money. But that doesn't explain how they grabbed all of you."

"I'm not so proud of myself, right now. If I'd sacrificed my personal convictions, even if you might not have been freed, at least your mother and brother wouldn't have had to go through whatever it is they've got planned for us. But it's too late to cry over it, now."

"I delivered a package as they requested, but instead of the ransom, I wrapped a note in heavy cardboard. The note told them that I had not and would not change my mind. And that if any harm came to you, I'd spend several million dollars and the rest of my natural life in hunting them down and killing them." He heaved a hoarse sigh which sounded even more rasping than the dry-throated voice he spoke to her with. Darla wondered when he'd last had a drink of water.

"It might have worked with a professional of normal mentality, Daddy, but this Gerault is psycho. And the others will do anything he tells them to do. Lord knows what he's cooking up for us in that evil mind. If only…" She stopped speaking suddenly, as she had an idea. "If only what, honey?" Fleming asked.

"Daddy, do you have any idea whether we're bugged or not?" She felt overly melodramatic as she asked the question, but their future might depend on it.

"I'd thought of that, too. But I don't know if…" Now it was Darla's turn to wonder about an unfinished "if" statement. But she waited to see what he had in mind. Suddenly she knew, as she heard him speak again, and she had all she could do to keep from laughing her delight at his quick wit.

"I want you all to know that I have a plan in mind," Fleming announced, raising the volume of his cracked voice, as though trying to be sure all of the family could hear him. "When they searched me, they overlooked the knife I have strapped to my leg. The first time one of them gives me the least chance, I'll sink it in as deep as I can!"

"That's great, Daddy Chuck!" said Darla, faking it along with him smoothly. "They don't know they're up against an ex-OSS man."

"Good for you, Dad!" chimed in Tommy, as he sized up the idea his father had begun to put into use. "Chuck, I've asked you a hundred times not to carry any kind of weapon. It only leads to trouble." Even Ann Fleming had seized on her husband's brilliant strategy to smell out any spying microphones.

They all fell silent for a while, as if waiting to see whether the bait would be taken. Then Fleming realized the silence itself would betray them.

"I hope it's that damned Gerault who gets near me," he continued. "I'd love to feel a knife slipping into his sadistic gut!"

"And I'd love to see his insides spread out on the floor, too," replied Darla, not having to fake the hatred she felt for the sadist.

"Me, too," Tommy added. "But make sure he's got a key to these cuffs before you do it!"

"You shouldn't talk like that!" said Ann. "It puts you in the same class with…"

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and a dim light was reflected down against the opposite wall of the cellar. As the sound of someone descending the steps fell on their ears, all of them felt that their plan had born fruit, and that indeed the cellar was bugged.

The light at the foot of the stairs flashed on, and their eyes blinked as they adjusted to the sudden illumination. Then they saw Gerault moving across the basement floor toward them. He was carrying a plastic pitcher and some paper cups. He stopped beside Darla.

"We want our guests to be in good enough condition to provide us with satisfactory entertain ment. Here, Mademoiselle. Pour vous."

He poured a stream into one of the cups, then handed it to her. As she sipped, cautiously, she discovered that it was anisette and water.

Gerault moved down the line, stopping next to give Fleming one of the cups, then pouring it full of the aperitif. His casual behavior as he stood close to the tycoon convinced everyone that he had not heard the phony boast about the knife.

As Fleming sipped at the drink, letting it flow around his dry mouth and throat, Gerault moved to the wall where Ann and Tommy were licking their lips in anticipation. When he had given each of them a drink, he moved toward the center of the basement as if heading back toward the stairs, then turned to face them. He looked with deliberation at the captives chained to the two walls, from his vantage point almost directly out from the corner.

He's standing on the hypotenuse of our family triangle, Darla thought, realizing her silliness even as she thought it. This drink must be drugged! What are they planning to do?

"In a few minutes, we will bring you something to eat. When the food has had a chance to digest, then we will begin our little circus. Will that not be nice? The Circus Gerault, it may not get to become famous on the continent, but here in… here among our exclusive company, we shall have much amusement."

"Perhaps you may feel a little strange from your drink. It is not the Pernod of your American bar stock. It is genuine absinthe, and has somewhat more strength from the wormwood. Is it not so?"

Gerault laughed to himself, as he turned away and went back up the stairs, leaving the light on, this time. When the door closed, Darla looked at her father, and his gaze met hers with a quiet recognition of their victory in the bugging-test operation.

"Did you notice that he still doesn't want us to know where we are??" asked Fleming. "That can only be due to the fact that he expects us to live to tell about it. He doesn't intend to kill us, then. At least we learned that much." His eyes glinted with the realization that they had won a small beetle.

"Brace yourself, Daddy Chuck," said Darla. "I know where we are. At least, I think I can help you figure it out pretty closely."

"What do you mean, honey? Weren't you blindfolded on the way here, like we were?" He watched the elfin grin creep across his daughter's mouth and cheek.

"Yes, but it was pretty coarse material, and in one spot – a very convenient spot – it was only a single thickness, and I could see through it. We're just a little way from the center of Salon, Daddy. Remember the Hall of States in that photograph?"

"Yes, yes, honey. But, don't tell me that's still there like it was."

"No, Daddy. The signs aren't there, but it's the same building; the very same place. And as we came into town from Marseilles, we turned left there in front of the place, and I recognized it."

"Thank God! What a stroke of luck. Let's see. If only I can remember after all these years. What was it out that direction?" Fleming closed his eyes as he strained to recall the topography out of his past. Darla watched his knuckles turn white as his hands clenched in desperate tension to match his mental pressures.

"Okay. I think I've got it! Now, did you make any other turns?"

"No. I don't think so. We kept going until we came to the lane that leads up to this house."

"How far are we from the Hall of States. That's very important."

"I think it must be about four or five miles. One thing I'm sure of: right out front, as you turn into the lane, there is a hedgerow on either side of the lane. And to the left of the lane, there is a cabbage patch. Right down through the center of the cabbage patch, three rows have been harvested. There are heads of cabbage in all the other rows or there were when I saw it."

"Good show, Darla, honey! We mustn't let them know that we have the least idea where we are. It could mean our deaths, all of us."

"I've been thinking about something else," Darla said, wondering how to describe what she had in mind while the whole family was listening, hanging on her every word. Then she shrugged, and jumped right into it.

"Every little thing we can arrange to throw them off stride, even the smallest bit, will work in our favor. Isn't that what you used to tell us about your Intelligence training, Daddy Chuck?"

"That's right, honey. Hard to tell how much good it will do us in this case, but you never know. What do you have in mind?"

"They let me keep my purse, after they took out my nail file and a few other things. I see that Mother has her purse, too. The thought just came to me that there is no identification on the pill containers that Doctor Vaughn uses, except for dosage instructions. I could pretend that the pills in my purse are to prevent some kind of fatal attack, or something, so they'll let me take them. And I could slip one to Mother, each time, too."

"What pills are those, honey?" Fleming's brow wrinkled as he tried to imagine what his daughter was taking that he knew nothing about.

"Jussincases," Darla mumbled. She felt the flush move upward from her neck, and her face grew warm. Ann came to her rescue.

"It's something I thought Darla should use, just in case she got carried away by her female emotions on a heavy date, dear. We girls sometimes refer to them as 'just-in-cases' when we really don't expect to require the immunity they provide."

"Kee-rist! What's our younger generation going to come to? If parents provide them with the pill, they can live like the latter Greeks." Fleming turned to his daughter. "Have you been taking those things so you could give yourself to some guy whenever you got hot pants?" Darla sensed the protective jealousy emanating from her father. His face was almost livid.

"Of course not! It's just as Mother told you. Taking them is the same as getting all those shots when you leave the States. You don't really plan to expose yourself to typhus and plague, and all that, Father. Now, do you? But if something happens… unexpectedly, beyond your control, you have some protection."

Fleming didn't need the disgust in Darla's tone to tell him he'd goofed with his outburst. She never called him 'Father' unless she was really miffed with him. He turned and looked at his wife, as if she could help him take his foot out of his mouth.

"Don't look to me for moral support," Ann told him. "You ought to know your daughter's character better than that. Make your own explanations and apologies."

Fleming's face was pink as he turned back to Darla. He sputtered a little, but he managed to apologize satisfactorily, as Darla's relaxing features told him. But at her next words, he paled.

"If I have any free guesses, it might just be a good idea for us to take those things. Gerault has a one-track mind when it comes to entertainment."

"You did mention giving your mother the pills, too. Do you think that they… I mean, you don't really believe that they intend to… for the love of God, child, you don't think that… Yes, I can see that you do." Fleming's brow was beginning to exude the moisture he'd acquired from his absinthe. Beads of perspiration were starting to roll down into his eyes. He looked at Ann, then at his daughter, then back at Tommy, who had remained silent during the sex-oriented discussion.

Fleming's eyes looked haunted, and Darla thought that he seemed to age several years in a few seconds. She felt a surge of maternal protectiveness for this father whose selective naivete could render him into a small boy in his unsophisticated moments. She attempted to detour his train of thought.

"I still haven't heard how they captured you." Fleming's eyes responded, and he appeared to straighten slightly as he changed his leaning position against the stone wall.

"After I'd sent them that note, we stayed in the hotel suite for several hours. Then it seemed a good idea to check in at the Consulate, again. So we all went over there, and talked to the same attache I'd given the original report to. He'd been in constant touch with the Surete, and they had just turned in a negative report for the dozenth time, explaining that none of their informers seemed to have any knowledge of the kidnapping."

"We spent almost two hours there, hoping that the Consulate General would get back from Paris, and be able to trigger more action. Finally, we started walking back to the hotel. I was too nervous to ride in one of those taxis."

"Several blocks from the hotel, a car pulled up, and Gerault got out and walked up to me. He said that he had been asked to take us to pick you up. We all crowded around the cab, and he grabbed your mother and pulled her inside, where he held a gun on her to force Tommy and me to cooperate. He kept the gun on Ann until we pulled up in an alley, where he and Le Boeuf blindfolded us. All the time, he kept insisting that he was bringing us to meet you, but couldn't let us know where the meeting place was."

"We thought it was perhaps some more pressure; that they would let us see you in some sort of miserable condition, thinking that I would give in and pay them. But their note obviously meant what it said – they'd already given me the last chance to pay." Fleming's voice almost broke as he implied his failure to handle the situation properly. "Like you said, Daddy – they seem to intend for us to leave here alive. Whatever else happens, we'll just have to bear up under it."

Fleming had no chance to reply to this. The door at the top of the stairs opened, and all three of their captors descended, carrying trays of food. Yvette was her same, seemingly unemotional self, and Le Boeuf appeared only to be concerned with his duties as waiter. But Gerault was smiling evilly, and Darla knew he was anticipating the "entertainment" he'd mentioned. She shuddered as she tried to eat the first bites of the dish before her.

Trays balanced on their knees as they squatted, all four of the captives started their meal slowly, but hunger hastened their moves. The pieces of lamb and vegetables were actually quite palatable, although at this point, none of them really enjoyed it.

When the trays were gathered up, Gerault withdrew with his companions, but as he reached the middle of the stairway, he turned his head and addressed the miserable family over his shoulder.

"The fun starts in two hours. I'll leave you to think about it as your meal settles. A bientot!"

It seemed much less than two hours between Gerault's mocking departure and his return. But Fleming knew that the Frenchman's timing was precise; because their captors had permitted the family to keep their timepieces, Fleming had been able to check the big pocket watch he always carried – partly as an affectation, and partly because it was an heirloom.

During that compressed two-hour interlude, considerable conversation had accomplished only one thing for the prisoners. Discussing their predicament had lessened its effects. The feeling of togetherness, the sharing of the burden, made it easier. Darla felt this more strongly, since she had suffered the only solitary confinement. Now, there was hope that, combining their capabilities, they might be able to figure ways to escape.

But before any specific ideas came to light, they were interrupted by Gerault's appearance. Le Boeuf was with him. The pair descended the stairs and approached the wall occupied by Fleming and Darla.

"We shall establish some basic facts before we go any further," Gerault told them. He was gazing into Fleming's eyes, but both he and his audience of four knew it concerned them all.

"Any and all attempts to escape will result in punishment. You have my guarantee that no matter what you imagine, your punishment will more than compensate me for any trouble you cause. You will be wise to believe this and guide your behavior accordingly."

"Non-cooperation also will be punished. Certain things will be asked – no, demanded – of each of you. You will comply with every request; obey every command; accomplish everything you are told to do. Each and every failure will result in punishment. Hesitation, if it is enough to provoke me, will merit the same punishment as a refusal. Now, are there any doubts that I mean what I say?" He looked at each of the captives in turn, and as their eyes met the sadistic evil which glinted in his dark orbs, they accepted his statements without question. "Take Mr. Fleming upstairs, Le Boeuf." Gerault's words were barely uttered when the Moroccan inserted a key in Fleming's ankle cuffs. When these shackles were released, he unlocked the cuffs on the prisoner's wrists. Then he walked to the stairs and began to ascend. Le Boeuf followed him at a safe distance. When he reached the top of the steps, he found himself in a large old kitchen. Yvette was standing by the opposite wall, and the efficient-looking pistol she held was aimed at his stomach. It was equipped with a silencer, he noted. That, in itself, told him two things: only a professional, with good underworld connections, could acquire a silencer. And its use implied a continued desire for silence and secrecy. Obviously, their captors did not want anyone dropping in to investigate the sound of a gunshot.

He was herded through the kitchen and a connecting room, which probably was a dining room, but which was unfurnished, now. Then he was guided through a hall and into a large, ground-floor bedroom. It was furnished only with a large double bed and two chairs.

"Remove all your clothes," said Yvette, who had followed him as far as the doorway, and continued to level the gun in his direction. He looked at her sharply, but decided against argument. He undressed down to his undershirt and shorts.

"I said 'all your clothes' and that means everything!" Her tone advised him against hesitation. He finished, and stood there naked, glumly eying the neat pile of clothes he'd made on one of the two occasional chairs. His shoes and socks were on the floor beside the chair. A casual observer arriving now would give him credit for his neatness. Yvette grinned at this orderly display. Such arrangements were not part of her habitual characteristics.

"Inside!" Gerault's voice came from the hall. Fleming turned to see his daughter being shoved into the bedroom. She had seen her father's nudity, and was keeping her eyes averted. He grabbed his shorts from the chair and held them in front of his groin.

"Forget the modesty, Mr. Fleming. In a few minutes, you will be more familiar with your daughter than you have been since she was an infant – and she with you. Off with your clothes, Darla!"

The girl heaved a sigh of resignation, then slowly began to remove her blouse. In a few minutes, she had used the other chair to arrange a pile of clothing as neat as her father's.

"Bien! Now, on the bed – both of you!" Gerault's voice was like a whip. Fleming looked at him unbelievingly, and couldn't contain his anger and shock.

"You must be mad! What in the none of God are you thinking of?"

"You do not believe that, Mr. Fleming. Surely you are intelligent enough to know that you must humor a madman in his every whim. But I am a fanatic about being obeyed. You will cause no further delay, or you will see your daughter suffer for your folly! Now, get in bed with her. Immediately!"

Fleming sat on the bed, noting that Darla already had complied.

"Lie down, and embrace each other as lovers. Quickly!"

Fleming's shocked mind couldn't convince him that this was actually happening. Certainly Gerault was bluffing. No one could expect him to comply with such a monstrous command! He looked up at the Frenchman in disbelief, and the expression on Gerault's face told him what he dared not accept.

"Mr. Fleming, perhaps we can speed things up if I explain one more thing to you. I intend to turn you loose to permit you to gather up the ransom money, which now, by the way, has doubled, because of the additional trouble you've caused us."

"Naturally, I will expect you not to return here with the authorities. First, you do not know where we are; you will be released at a safe place in Marseilles, and you will return there with the money. Second, I am going to have some photographs of your entire family-photographs which I am sure you will not want to see fall into the wrong hands; in fact, you will very much want to destroy these pictures."

"Now, if you do as you are told, we will take the pictures, and you will go to get the money. When you return, and we wait a while to be sure that you have not been followed, we will take the money, let you burn the pictures, then release all of you. Do you not see the beauty and simplicity of my plan?"

"But… but… there must be some other kind of blackmail you can work. This… this… incestuous thing you imply is too… too grotesque to be rational. I beg of you…"

"No. There will be no changes in my plans. This type of photo I know you will be anxious to recover. Therefore, I am confident in the value of the plan. Now, do not waste any more time, or your lovely daughter will suffer for your hardness of head. Move!"

Fleming, shaken terribly, turned to his daughter. As he lay beside her, he whispered his misery and hopeless helplessness to her. As he put his arms around her, he hoped that she could keep her young mind from being affected by this horrible circumstance.

"Darla, baby. Forgive me for having gotten you into such a terrible situation. I don't think we have any choice, if he means what he says." He felt her tender young body tremble under his embrace.

"You couldn't help it, Daddy Chuck. Don't blame yourself. And he does mean everything he says. I know it! We'll have to do just what we're told, and try not to let it get us down."

"You're a great sport, honey. I've always known that, I guess. But I never would have believed that you'd be forced to prove it like this!"

"Enough of the tenderness! Let us now have some real poses. Yvette! Over here with the camera!" The sleazy Yvette moved around the bed until she had a good view of the models.

"Okay. Mr. Fleming, place your left hand on Darla's right hip, and take her breast in your mouth."

Fleming's eyes were full of pain as he slowly started to respond. Darla flashed him a look of compassion, then closed her eyes as she spoke.

"Go ahead, Daddy Chuck. The better we cooperates the sooner it will be over."

He felt the warm, young flesh under his fingers, and it stirred him, in spite of his horror at the immorality of the thing. And as his lips touched her firm, virginal breasts, he knew again the thrill that had run through him the first time he'd kissed Ann's tender globes. The springy nipple which blossomed under his oral caress popped between his lips, and he squeezed it in passionate reflex before he realized what he was doing.

"Take his tool in your hand, Darla. Quickly!" ordered Gerault.

She gingerly reached down between them and found his semisoft member. As her fingers moved through his wiry thatch and encountered their target, Darla felt a tingling tremor course through her. The forbidden nature of the act they were forced into made it even more exciting than she would have believed. In spite of her initial inner decision to remain aloof as she complied with Gerault's commands, she couldn't prevent the triggering of her libido.

It called back to her in vivid imagery the scene by the pool at home. The lusty member she had envied her mother's possessing was now in her grasp. She squeezed it gently, reveling in the erotic feel of his hardening length. A tiny moan escaped her lips.

"Now, Fleming, you repay her kindness by caressing her little pussy." His tone revealed his enjoyment with the scene, and his command of their actions.

Fleming tried. He honestly strained to force his hand into the forbidden forest of his daughter's genital area. But the knowledge of what he was about to do was too much for his years of prescribed morality, and his hand jerked back the moment it touched her golden feathers.

"I can't do it! I just can't!" he groaned, hating himself for his helplessness, caught between the inevitable hammer of the physical torture threaten ing Darla, and the immovable anvil of his innate psychic block.

Gerault had lit a cigarette as Fleming's hand reneged. Now, the Frenchman blew on the glowing tip, and swiftly pressed it against the girl's buttock. She screamed her pain and outrage as the tender flesh blistered.

"From this point on," promised Gerault, "it will be the face which is burned. Perhaps much plastic surgery will be required." The tortured look in Fleming's eyes underwent a change. The indecision was gone, and in its place was beaten resignation.

His hand moved into the golden curls of his daughter's most private area, and he felt the dampness surrounding the nether lips. Her thighs separated to receive his attentions, and his fingertips fell on her surprisingly swollen little bud. Her hips moved to help him get started, and soon he was providing the massage motions, with only an occasional thrust of her agile young hips.

"Take my breast in your mouth, again," Darla whispered. Fleming, taking it for a warning against not being cooperative enough, hastened to comply. His lips found the firm mound, and trailed up its satin slope to the pink-capped peak, and seized the spongy blossom. His tongue automatically toyed with the delicious morsel, and Darla's humming sound was a familiar melody, so much like Ann's responses.

The performers were dimly aware of snapping-shutter sounds, and the subsequential tearing of exposed film packs. But they began to be carried away by their treacherous sexualities.

Darla's hand was moving, slowly, gently milking the fleshy lance in her grasp, and Fleming's heavy breathing started to be interspersed with mild groans, as his passion increased.

The girl's lubricious flow was creaming Fleming's hand, and he used it expertly to provide continuous protection for her erect little thorn, as he continued to caress its tender surface. Her legs opened wider to him, and she maneuvered her hips to capture a finger in the swelling softness of her melting passage. As it entered her, the thumb took over the massage duties of the upper area, and her excitement became boundless.

She turned toward him more, and with her free hand moved his head to place the delightful suction on the neglected breast.

As his finger probed her flowing depths, the tender morsel of her nipple quivered under his tasting tongue, Fleming lost himself completely in the remembered lusts of his youth. It was the young Ann whose body he now possessed, so firmly but softly yielding to his assault. And the girl's nymph-like responses to his every action led him further into the trap.

Darla's mind also tricked her as her inner lusts were triggered by the circumstances, and she cried out her needs.

"Drink me! Oh, I'm so full I'm bursting! Drink me up!"

The lustful words triggered Fleming's own reflexes, and he let his hand slide from its slippery refuge as his mouth moved downward from the wetly-nippled breast, across the sleek belly and into the blonde forest below.

Darla's leg moved under his chest as she withdrew it from beneath him to lay it across his bask. Then his lips sought the swollen rim of the flowing fountain, and his tongue caressed the fleshy petals as they opened still further to him. His hands reached upward to grasp the twin fullnesses of her aching breasts, and she moaned constantly as her hips moved beneath his head.

Then a gigantic tremor shook her, and a rippling quiver traveled over her body as she found release.

But she could see under his chest and belly, and the extended rod of her sire magnetized her.

Oh! I've got to have that! It's so swollen and loaded, and it was my body that made it that way! She twisted herself around and pulled her flooding fountain from Fleming's lips, as she used elbows and hands and feet to reach under his arched body.

Her hand seized the fleshy shaft and brought it down to her questing lips. As she ringed the purple-red tip with her mouth, her hand slipped back to caress the sac behind it, then her other hand grasped the weapon at its base. She searched the entire circumference of the tip with her tongue, then thrust tenderly into the small orifice and wiggled gently. The throbbing of his pulse was communicated to her as it swelled in reflex.

Oh, cream for me, Daddy Chuck! Give me yourself! She felt his fingers as they searched out her brimming pool and buried themselves in her hot flesh. Her hand squeezed caressingly at the hairy luggage it held, and she let the huge wand slide deeper into her, until the tip touched the rear of her palate. Her lust-filled mind was screaming her animal passions as she possessed the forbidden fruit of these male loins. Oh, Daddy Chuck, I creamed so for you! My love flowered faster than you could drink it! Please love one! Pour your love into me!

Her thoughts seemed so loud to her, that she wondered why he couldn't hear them, too. They almost exploded her head. Then something did explode in her head.

She felt the quivering tremor start to travel from where he was probing her wet nest, upward throughout her body. As her entire being quivered, the hot, spurting streams in her mouth poured down to meet the other warmth. She swallowed and swallowed, and then everything went black.

When she came to her senses, she could hear the mocking sound of Gerault's laughter ringing in her ears. There were two suite strong odors in the atmosphere. One she recognized as the acetic-acid smell of the photo-fixative. It took her a moment to identify the other. Then she brought up a tentative hand and moved it across her mouth. As she withdrew it, she opened her eyes, and watched as a sticky string of semen trailed from her chin to her finger.

Her eyes lifted to look past her impregnated hand, and she met her father's gaze. With the return of his conscious mind to the sane control of his faculties, his eyes betrayed his sickness and misery with what they had done under the control of their subconscious lusts. She couldn't know just how much of his horror was due to her display of depravity, but at the thought of losing his love and respect, she was as heartsick as he possibly could be. The tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh, Daddy Chuck! I'm so ashamed!"

She thought that a little of the horror faded from his eyes, as his hand reached out to pat her consolingly. But when it touched the warm satin of her bare thigh, his hand jerked away quickly, and he blushed with the memory of their closer body contacts.

"Tres bien," said Gerault. "This set of pictures will do very nicely. But we make sure of our bargaining position, non? We now start the next act of our circus. You may use the bathroom. Yvette!"

The frowzy girl took Darla's arm and led her out of the room and down the hall. In a few minutes, they returned, and Yvette took Fleming to the bathroom. While they waited, Darla was turning over some frightening thoughts in her mind. Then she spoke.

"I am feeling very dizzy." She had put her hand to her head, and pretended to sway on her feet as if disoriented. Le Boeuf reached out and took her arm to steady her.

"I have forgotten, because of all that's happened," she told them. "I'm supposed to take a special tablet my doctor gave me. If I take one every day, I should be all right."

"Ah, yes. The medicine in your purse. You may take one when we return below."

The initial victory almost made Darla smile, but she continued her slight swaying, as she headed for "second base" on her hit.

"I think my mother has forgotten, too. You see, she has the same problem, and the same treatment, but I don't know if she had her tablets with her when you picked her up."

"Of this I am not sure. Yvette checked her belongings. In any case, perhaps you have enough to share yours? You should not be here many more days. I would not wish to visit your hotel suite to get her medication; the gendarmes may – how do you say it – may have staked out the scene?" Gerault seethed to enjoy displaying his knowledge of American slang.

"Yes, I think I have enough for both of us for a few days," Darla replied. But her joy over the victory she had won was diluted by the uncomfortable knowledge that it might be too late for her to resume her pill schedule. She knew that the two days she'd been without it were dangerous cays, due to the tremendously increased fertility which resulted from using the pill, then stopping at the wrong time.

She tried to drive from her mind the picture of the offspring Le Boeuf might have given her. She shuddered, and the Moroccan's grip on her arm tightened, and he led her to the bed, where she sat down.

Fleming returned, and Yvette remained in the hall. Gerault studied Darla for a few seconds, then looked at Fleming.

"I think we will give you a rest, now, and bring our other performers up here. Yvette, see to it that the girl has water with which to take her medicine." He nodded at Fleming. "Get your clothes on, and we will take you back below."

When they were dressed, they were escorted back downstairs to their shackles and Yvette brought Darla a glass of water. The worried girl took the container from her purse and removed two of the tiny pills. She swallowed one, using two sips of water from the tumbler Yvette provided.

"Merci bien," she told Yvette as she returned the glass. Then she handed over the other pill. "Pour ma mere, s'il vous plait." The French girl merely nodded, then walked over to Ann and handed her the pill and the glass. When she was finished, Yvette let her continue holding the tumbler while her shackles were being unlocked.

Le Boeuf had been releasing Tommy, and now the two of them were led upstairs. It was very silent in the cellar for several minutes, and then Fleming spoke to his daughter.

"God knows what this will do to your mother. Sometimes I think she's stronger, mentally, than I am. But what they're going to do to her now may be more than she can take. God have mercy on me for getting us into this!"

Darla, whose mind was busy imagining the scenes which were about to take place upstairs, did not answer.

The silence returned to the dungeon like atmosphere. The light was off, now, and to Fleming, it was as if he were a prisoner in the Chateau d'If. His ears strained to pick up any sounds from the rooms above them, but all he could hear was an occasional deep sigh from Darla, and the rasping sound of his own breathing.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ann Fleming had steeled herself to meet almost any kind of abuse she could imagine. What she had seen in the photos delivered to the hotel convinced her that she could expect sexual assaults from either Gerault, Le Boeuf, or both. She had not seen the photos taken just a few minutes before, in this room, nor had there been any opportunity to learn what Chuck and Darla had undergone while upstairs.

She didn't really want to know. She could imagine all too easily the further rape of her look-alike daughter by these Frenchmen. And she didn't like to think of that sleazy, smelly Yvette toying with Chuck's equipment, either. She didn't like the thought of those family jewels, which had given her so many pleasurable delights, in the garbage-like vault of that French whore!

Nor did she care to picture her son's defilement by the woman. Yet, she knew it must be intended. Just as she fully expected to be invaded by the Frenchmen who now ushered her into the bedroom.

"Take off all your clothing!" Gerault ordered them.

Ann almost protested against their forcing both the mother and the son to disrobe in the same room. But she remembered the threats issued downstairs, and decided to hold her tongue. As she removed her clothes, she detected the faint smell of semen in the room. A little shudder ran through her. That smell was always an aphrodisiac trigger for her. Even now, under these agonizing circumstances, it got to her.

She felt their eyes on her, and knew they were admiring her ripe body, which had retained its lushness with scarcely an added wrinkle or ounce of fat, since Tommy's birth. She was thinking of Tommy, and of the delight she'd experienced when he nursed on her milk-laden breasts as an infant. Now, as he undressed in her presence with obvious embarrassment – she noticed that he was very much the virile young man. In recent years, since he'd struggled through the first stages of puberty, she hadn't seen him without at least a pair of shorts or bathing trunks. He certainly was not her "little boy" any more. In fact, she colored blushingly when he inadvertently looked her way.

She stood there, vulnerable in her nudity try, and felt the quick touch of his gaze on her body. It made her feel more exposed to be seen by her own son than by these depraved strangers who were their captors.

Tommy was blushing, too. The sight of his mother's unclothed body affected him strangely. Mothers were supposed to be different from other women. He realized that they had the same basic equipment, but somehow it seemed indecent that this woman who had given birth to him and cared for him all these years, should have the ripe, exciting figure of a girl many years younger than her 39 winters.

Those full, firm-looking globes that he knew he had nursed as a baby showed almost no tendency to sag, and the sleek lines of her hips, swelling out from that tiny waist, were all too much like those of a pinup girl in one of the men's magazines. He kept his eyes completely averted, after that one accidental glance, but the femaleness of that golden-tanned body and the bright blonde triangle which decorated the juncture of thighs and belly, remained as an image burned on his brain.

"Okay!" said Gerault, startling them both with the suddenness of his voice in the embarrassed silence of the room. "Get in the bed! Quickly!" Ann moved slowly backward until her legs bumped the edge of the bed, then sat down.

"I am going to tell you what I told Mr. Fleming. Then I shall expect complete cooperation from both of you: Mr. Fleming has refused to pay us when his daughter's safety depended upon it. I am convinced that he will pay to protect the reputation of every member of his family. Pride can be a strange thing.

"Therefore, we will take pictures of all of you – pictures which he will be anxious to destroy, before they can be seen by others. If he then pays us what we ask, we will let him destroy the pictures. You see, this is the only way we have of dealing with a man of his stubborn convictions."

"Now, we have wasted enough time with this family. So, from here on, you will do exactement as you are told, quickly, and without hesitation. If you do not, there will be pain. Your daughter, Mrs. Fleming, already bears a painful proof of what I tell you. It is up to you if you also receive much pain. So! We waste not another minute! Into bed, both of you!"

Ann drew up her legs, keeping them chastely together, and lay out full length on the bed. Tommy crawled in beside her, keeping to the other side of the bed. There were several inches of space between them.

"Now, you-Tom-mee, is it not-you will place your left hand on her hip. Quickly!" Tommy's hand reached out, and he had to turn his body toward her to stretch the distance. Ann, out of the corners of her eyes, saw that he would have to slide his hand and wrist across the area of her womanly triangle to obey the command, so she rolled over toward him on her side, moving the forbidden forest out of the danger zone. When his hand touched the warm flesh of her hip, she gasped involuntarily. The ends of his fingers were lightly resting on the sensitive skin of her buttock a tingle went through her at the contact.

"Now, your mouth on her breast!" commanded Gerault.

Tommy hesitated a fraction of a second, then saw the Frenchman moving closer to Ann's side of the bed. He was blowing on the tip of a lit cigarette, and there was an evil joyful light in his eyes. Had Gerault been moving toward him, Tommy was sure he would have refused to obey. But he knew it was his mother who would pay for it. And Gerault seemed to want an excuse to display his sadism.

Quickly, Tommy moved closer, until his head was at the level of her breasts. He touched the side of the pale golden hillock with his lips, and Gerault stopped the advance of the glowing cigarette.

"Movement!" ordered Gerault. "Use your lips and tongue; stir up the nipple! We must have convincing photogrophaphs."

Tommy's lips parted, and he traced a light trail up the side of the tender globe to the irregularly textured surface at its peak. He felt a thrill as the softness touched the tip of his tongue.

Ann was struggling to control her outlaw sexuality, but the warm damp lips and tongue were too much for her. She felt the blossoming of nipple as it rose between the caressing lips, and her lungs filled with a gasp of air that almost whistled through her teeth.

Tommy felt the tender morsel spring into his mouth, and then the hidden memories of his infancy combined with the strong, urgent cravings of his virile young body, and he sucked at the springy tidbit, then teased it with lips and tongue. The thrill of such a forbidden act struck him unexpectedly. His defenses were not equal to the power of his cravmgs.

He worked hungrily at the tender meal, and the moaning of his mother's voice was a strange sound in his ears. Then her hands were grasping his head, moving him away from his exciting feast. He was panting as she guided his mouth to her other warm hemisphere, and the damp heat of his passionate exhalations stirred the nipple of this other globe to early blossom.

His lips seized it eagerly, and he sucked at its softness, stretching it from its first budding into a swollen sponge. Ann moaned loudly as the action stirred her to the core.

"Take his cock in your hand!" commanded the Frenchman, and Ann reached under Tommy's arm and sought the flesh of his manhood. As she reached, she had to roll slightly away from him with her hips, to make room for her exploring hand and arm, so that just as she grasped his excitedly stiffening rod, the hand he had placed on her hip was trailed across the front of her upper thigh and then halted in the blonde forest of her loins.

She felt him swell in her hand as he thrilled to the feel of her heated flesh under his fingers. Then she whimpered as she spread her thighs, and the swelling outer lips of her womanhood parted, capturing his fingertips in the damp heat of her fleshy canyon.

Tommy's pulse raced as he felt the hot lips under his fingers, and the wetness he encountered was an invitation to explore. His hand shifted as he sought out the uppermost cleft, then gently massaged the fleshy protrusion hidden there.

It was infinitely more exciting than previous experiences he'd had – most of them in the drive-in movie at home. This seemed so much more serious – so mature. Even as he felt the guilt of its wrongness, his passion increased. The hand which was closed over his pulsing hardness had started to move, and the friction was driving him wild.

"Now! Get above her, and put your cock inside her!" came the order.

He tried to move, but his knees were like jelly, and it took him quite a while to get up on all fours and position himself above her. Ann had started to spread her legs wider in anticipation, but suddenly she rebelled. A belated surge of conscience made her close her thighs to her son as he hovered above her. Then the pain struck!

Gerault's lighted cigarette pressed against her cheek, and he ground it against the tender flesh. She shrieked as the pain spread over her face, the tears rolled down onto the bed in streams. Tommy started to clamber up out of his position, ready to attack the sadist in anger. His stiffened member lost its rigidity, and his excitement cooled as if he'd been thrust into a tub of ice water.

The Frenchman watched him start to spring from the bed, then cut short any ideas about revenge.

"You will not help your mother by being troublesome. Au contraire! Every move you make against us everything you do to delay our little circus – will cost her another painful burn. You do not want that beautiful face destroyed, do you?"

Tommy settled back onto the bed, defected. He was half-kneeling, half-squatting, and his eyes were dark with his frustrated ed anger. But Gerault laughed at him, then spoke to Ann.

"The same is true with you. You have felt the taste of my displeasure. After this, when it is you who fails to cooperate, your son will suffer the pain. Now! You will both begin once more! At the point where you stopped! Quickly!"

Tommy looked down at himself, and both Ann and the Frenchman followed his gaze. It was obvious that he was in no condition to penetrate anything. Ann's heart went out to him. Even his virile father had suffered temporary impotency when lesser disturbances had interrupted his boudoir athletics. But Gerault was laughing at him.

"We will fix that. Yvette! See if you can't wake up the young man's sleeping beauty with your clever mouth!" The slattern moved toward the bed, dropping her cnrnera atop the pile of clothes on a chair.

"No!" Ann shouted. "I won't have her touch him! If it must be done, I will do it myself!" As Yvette stopped in her tracks, and the satanic Frenchman grinned his enjoyment of the maneuver, Ann reversed her position hurriedly, crawling toward the foot of the bed where her son still remained in his squatting-kneeling position.

She placed a hand on his thigh as she neared her goal, and gave it a loving squeeze. She spoke to him in a low voice, not looking up at his face, as if trying to avoid any further emotional pressures.

"Close your eyes, and think of nothing but the moment. Try to let your body function as it will, and enjoy what has to happen. It is the only way we will prevent further misery."

With no more hesitation than it took to get out the few words, she bent over him. As her lips touched him, high up on his inner thigh, he felt a thrilling tingle of contact. Then her tongue was snaking out, trailing up across the curly thatch of his groin, then down to the base of his limp penis.

She took the flaccid shaft in her mouth, right at the base of its connection to his torso, holding it briefly in her teeth, as a dog would grasp a bone. She gently shook her head, worrying the reluctant warrior in her mouth. Then her teeth relaxed their grip, and she slid her lips and tongue out toward the tip, noting the surprising length of this unarmed cannon.

He's just like his father, she thought. Every inch a man, and plenty of inches! Even when he's not ready for action! It feels so good in my mouth. Even Chuck doesn't know how much I really like to have his big cock in my mouth! He'd probably be shocked. I believe he thinks that I do this for him just to please him, but I can get creamed over the feel and taste of his cock quicker than any other way. I love it when he sucks me with it, but it's so much more exciting to have that hot, soft-hard flesh in my mouth! Oh, Chuck! Your cock excites me so!

As she gradually managed, by association, to convince herself that it was her mate, and not her son, whose stiffening flesh she was having with her lips and tongue, she felt her legs being moved by Tommy's firm, young hands. What a wonderful mother! Tommy was thinking. To keep me from being contaminated by that filthy, syphilitic whore, she's taking my cock in, her sweet mouth. And, God help me! I like it. It's driving me wild! I've got to do it for her, too, to help her try to get some relief from this, and keep her from worrying about what we're being forced to do.

He grasped her kneeling legs, and moved them out from under her, almost making her lose her oral grasp on him. Then he rolled her over, changing his position until he was poised with his mouth over her blonde-feathered loins. He moved her thighs apart, and watched as her fleshy nether lips – swollen from the blood they had engorged during the earlier excitement – parted to reveal the delightful pinkness of her most private area.

The faint, pissy muskiness of her rose to his nostrils, and he was surprised to find that the scent excited him. He touched his tongue to the swollen lips, stroking them as they darkened with the in creasing re-engorgement of blood. Suddenly they were beginning to be more wet, and the lubricious flow of her passion seemed to replace the moisture as fast as he could lick it up.

She was making little, whimpering, mewing sounds from around the swollen shaft of flesh that filled her mouth, and her breath, which had to come from her nostrils while her mouth was filled, felt hot on Tommy's hairy sac, which lay on her face. It aroused him to new levels of excitement, and he feasted hungrily but tenderly on the wet, magenta flesh of her opened blossom.

Her hips were rotating slowly beneath his head, with an occasional gentle thrust upward, making his tongue and lips press frequently at the erectly swollen bud of her sensitivity. He grasped the fleshy protrusion with his lips, reveling in its unbelievable soft surface and tender hardness from within. His nose was dipping into the wet, flowing entrance of her passage.

Who would have thought a woman's cunt would be so delicious! he marveled. It's so damned excitingly female, open like that, and helpless. I can plunder it all I want. He was lost in the depth of his passionate experience, and the body he assaulted so eagerly was now just an exciting female body.

Ann's juices were so stirred up – first by her oral satisfaction, then by the thoroughness of the attentions being given her heated nether flesh – that she was lost in the deep twilight that precedes a woman's complete fulfillment.

Finally, her flowing loins were so swollen with her driving pulse that she let the huge penis slip from her lips as it pulled back in one of the pumping strokes which had been thrusting into her mouth, and cried out in her aching passion.

"Drink me! Oh-h-h! Drink me all up! Eat me good! Oh-h-h!"

The mouth worked faster, trying to remove the lubricious cream of her overflow as fast as it could appear. The excitement was too much for him, and his penis – now rubbing against the lips and chin below it, started to leak its first drops from the safety valve.

Ann felt the first hot, damp drops on her neck and breasts, and she grabbed the pulsing shaft and forced it back into her mouth. As it pumped its spurting gobs of semen, she swallowed it, and continued to suck and swallow, while milking the rear of the long rod with the hand whih grasped it.

Tommy was moaning into the hot, musky wetness of the blossom in which he feasted, until he felt as though his very soul was being sucked from his body. Then he gave a loud groan, and rolled from his position, falling exhaustedly onto the bed on his face.

Ann, who had reached the second of her complete orgasms, lay there, as spent as Tommy. She felt Tommy's hand gently pat her thigh, and realized that it was not the aftermath love pat of a satisfied male, so much as a consoling gesture from son to mother. She was also aware of the final shutter click as Yvette filmed the evidence of their collapse.

She realized that her legs were wide open, and her wet nest felt cool in the slight breeze which lead begun to flow in through the bedroom window. She wondered vaguely if this were the beginning of one of the windstorms her husband had described. What was it they called it – a mistral? Yes, and she'd wondered if the name first belonged to the winds, or the famous poet laureate of Provencal.

"Okay. Now you may use the bathroom. You first, Mrs. Fleming."

Ann rose from the bed and allowed Yvette to lead her down the hall to the bathroom. She spotted the bidet, and headed for it. In seconds, she was feeling the vast relief which accompanies the emptying of an overloaded bladder. Then she was cooling her tingling genitals with the water from the bidet.

When she had squeegeed off all the excess water she could – there were no towels in evidence she turned to the open door where Yvette had stood, observing her. Then she was herded back down the hall to the bedroom.

Yvette motioned with her head, and Tommy followed her sign, leaving the others to be guided to the bathroom. He tried to shut the door, but Yvette prevented him, waving the silenced pistol at his belly.

"I am to keep you under watch at all times," she said. "Certainly a handsome man like you need not be ashamed to be seen by a woman. You should be proud of that beautiful thing you wear between your legs. I think I will ask Gerault if I can have some of it."

He blushed, but stood there, trying to relieve his bladder as she watched. He found that he had to concentrate, but finally his desperate physical need overcame his psychological block, and he urinated a heavy stream into the porcelain commode.

Yvette watched as he shook off the last drops, then – as he turned to look for the lavatory to wash his hands – she lifted her skirt with her free hand, keeping the pistol trained on him. As she grabbed it up past her thighs and held it against her belly, he saw the black hair of her mounded pubis and the slightly distended outer lips, a wet gleam of dark red flesh. As he watched, the lips winked at him, and Yvette chuckled lustily.

"See what a nice kiss it makes for you?" she asked. "Would it not be nice to have it kiss like that on the end of your so beautiful cock?" She continued to laugh as he washed his hands and shook them to dry them, then herded him back to the others.

"Well. The hero of our little drama is back. Now we can proceed." Gerault was relishing every moment of his domination over them.

"You did not yet complete the orders I gave you. It seems that you were both so hungry for soixante-neuf that you could not stop to do a little fucking for the camera. Eh, bien! You have just reversed the order in which we had planned to photograph you. Now, we will continue with the other: du meme chose, ne c'est pas."

He gestured them toward the bed, and they crawled onto the crumpled bedclothes and lay there, waiting to see what was next.

"Madame, you have expended the young man's seed with your hunger. Now you will make love to him a little, until he is ready to enter you, and then you will take him inside you for our final pictures." As he finished speaking, Gerault blew warmingly on the glowing tip of a freshly lit cigarette.

Ann turned to her son, reaching out to him, and his arms opened to take her. There was fear and guilt and shame in their eyes as their gazes met briefly. But there was something else. This first opportunity to look into each other's eyes told them both that they were sharing pleasure as well as pain and fear.

They embraced each other with a powerful need. The need to drive away the feelings of guilt and shame, and to drown themselves in the forced pleasure of their contact. Neither knew what the future held for them, after these forbidden activities, but they knew that the quickest way to end things was to resolve the problem at hand – meet the requirements of the sadistic Gerault.

Their lips met, and for the first time in his life, Tommy was not thinking like a son when he kissed his mother's lips. And Ann could only compare it in reverse, as she recalled the time when – at fourteen, and full of the bursting forces of her blossoming womanhood – she had kissed her father on the mouth, and knew that she must never kiss him again, excepting on the cheek.

Now, her memory of that journey into puberty seemed to stimulate her quiescent sexuality into fresh stirrings that trembled through her rapidly heating body. She thrust her tongue into Tommy's mouth, and he eagerly sucked at it, and caressed it with his own tongue. In seconds, she felt the stiffening evidence of his youthful virility rising steadily, its firm tip tracing a path up her thighs until it pressed against the soft flesh of her lower belly.

His hands were caressing her body, now. His fingers traced pencils of heat over her back and hips. Then he was clutching the firm cheeks of her buttocks, massaging them tenderly to the tempo of his increasing passion.

She moved her hips until his hardened flesh pressed her just where she wanted it, then made tiny movements which kept up a constant massage of her needy spot.

They were gasping for air, now, and their mouths separated. He moved his head, kissing her pantingly on neck and shoulders, then trying to kiss her swollen breasts. The shift of his body removed the source of her greatest pleasure, but she waited, giving him his feast at both breasts until the nipples were achingly distended, and she was moaning from the results.

Then she pulled his head up to hers, and kissed him again. As his head moved, his torso shifted, and the hot head of his tool was pulsing against her belly. She opened her thighs, and slipped her hips upward, then let them ride back downward with his wand captively sandwiched between the dip nether lips which had grasped it.

Once again, she started to move in short, gentle strokes, making the captured flesh massage her own tiny wand. Their mouths were tightly pressed together, their tongues thrusting and searching.

As the momentum of her passion gained speed, she suddenly sucked his tongue deep into her mouth, and his hands slid upward to cup the firm globes of her breasts. Her hands went down to grasp him, then she guided him into the spread petals of her wetly open passage.

Then he was inside her, and pressing deeply into the grasping, throbbing folds that seemed to pull him on, faster and faster. Until he felt the fluttering touch of some wildly moving thing inside her, nibbling delicately at the sensitive head of his penis.

My beautiful mother! he thought, from some subconscious area that refused to trigger his passion-mad conscience. I'm sucking my own sweet, juicy mother! Oh, God! What's that inside her that's grabbing my cock like that? I've got to get away from it. It's driving me out of my mind!

He pulled backward to escape the maddening teasing of her involuntarily grazing hold on him. Then he was thrusting, pumping, in and out, as she rotated her buttocks beneath him. Then she cried out in the throes of her heated excitement.

"Oh! Fuck me hard! Stick it in all the way! Oh-h-h-h-h!" She writhed under him, and her mouth was tight, teeth close together, lips barely parted. A hissing sound came from between her teeth as she fought for air while her jaws were locked in ecstasy.

Then she was trembling, and her body shook under him with the depth of her climax. He had just probed to her innermost wall, and the tiny hand-like grasping had him again! He felt the fluttering over his sensitive nerve ends, then he lost control, and his hot fluid poured into the fleshy folds of her pussy. He groaned as the ecstatic feeling overwhelmed him, and then he lay still, poised above her, weight resting on hands and knees, until he could stop shaking enough to roll off to the side.

I came inside her. He was horrified for a moment, remembering what he'd heard of the monstrous offspring which could result from such inbreeding. My God! I shot my load into my mother! Then he recalled the earlier discussion in the cellar, and the pill that he had seen her take before they came up here. Oh, God! I hope it works! Ah poor mother!

"You may use the bathroom again," said Gerault. Tommy was glad he could wait until his mother was through. He felt as if his bones had turned to rubber. Yvette was coating the surfaces of her last few pictures with the preservative which fixed them permanently, so Gerault guarded Ann as she went down the hall. She waited for him to leave the room, but he stood there, grinning at her.

She sighed in resignation as she moved over the bidet and squatted down. She busied herself flushing out the blobs and strings of whitish semen her son had spurted into her. Then she cleansed her entire genital area with the soothing water.

When she turned her head to see if Gerault was watching her, she sucked in her breath as her lips met the tip of the Frenchman's rigid member. He had stealthily moved up beside her as she sat there, washing herself, and had levered his penis out of his slacks, holding it right beside her cheek.

As her lips opened to gasp, he was ready, and the hard flesh went into her mouth so far that his hairy belly, which peeped through the open slot of his undershorts, pressed against her nose. His hands were around her head, and he began pumping himself into her mouth and throat, until she almost gagged.

Then he withdrew it a little, and she grabbed the rear part of the fleshy shaft to keep it from again going in so deeply. She was wise enough not to resist his attentions, and began to work on him, trying to finish the matter as quickly as possible.

But her rebel sexuality betrayed her, and soon she found herself hungrily mouthing him and stroking his shaft with one hand, while her other hand slipped into his shorts and kneaded his hairy sac with gentle, but eager caresses.

He was groaning at the sensations she induced in him, and soon he dug his fingers in her blonde tresses and cried out, as he worked his hips to drive his meat into her mouth.

Then he was spewing his lust inside her, and it flowed down her throat as she sucked the swollen tip so expertly that he groaned and withdrew it. One last trickle was just seeping out, and it made a sticky string that drooled across her lips and chin, then hung wetly, dangling over her breasts.

She leaned over the bidet and turned on the water, then rinsed off her face and stood up. Gerault was smiling as he tucked himself back into his clothes. Then he waited as she went to the lavatory and gargled with warm water. He laughed at her.

"It would seem that the juice of the Frenchman is not as tasty as that of the American," he said. "But then perhaps it is only that you are accustomed to the one taste more than the other." He laughed again as they went back down the hall.

Ann dressed while Tommy was in the bathroom. When he had returned and dressed, they were led out the stairway, and taken back into the cellar.

Darla was looking anxiously at them as they were brought in, but Fleming, from years of habit, was sleeping after his sexual episode. As soon as the mother and son were shackled, Gerault and Yvette came over and unlocked her cuffs. Then they unlocked Fleming's, after which they shook him until he was awake.

"We will now finish our pictures of you two," he said. "Then perhaps we can all get some sleep, non?"

CHAPTER FIVE

It was deathly quiet in the cellar after Fleming and Darla were taken away for the second time. Tommy could hear his mother breathing in long, sighing breaths, and he thought he could hear the pounding of his own heart. But all else was quiet. He thought about what he had just been through – really, what his mother had been forced to endure.

Like most well-brought-up young men, he idolized his mother, and he found it impossible to believe that she had been involved in the fantastic circus he had just left upstairs. It just couldn't be! And now, Darla and their father were back up there, being forced into still more shameful acts. When would it end? Would they really be allowed to leave if the ransom were paid?

Then his mind shifted again, and he was trying to assess his feelings during the recent episode. I knew it was my mother there with me. And yet I enjoyed it! I really wanted to taste her body in my mouth – I loved the smell of her cunt, and the taste of her juice – the feel of her heat pouring out of her body at me. My God! What kind of madman am I, anyhow? I even loved it when I was fucking her! The feel of her juicy cunt wrapped around me was like nothing I've ever felt before. And what was that inside her that nibbled on me? My God! Is there something wrong with her, too? Could I really have seemed like a lover to her, or something?

He was working himself up to a nervous tension that he had never known before. The perspiration was gathered on his brow and upper lip. He hadn't realized it, but he was panting with the effort of thinking and searching in the recesses of his mind for some answers. In short, he was frightened with the immensity of what he knew had been a very terribly wrong thing. A thing in which he'd been forced to participate, but which he had actually enjoyed, once he'd started!

It was several minutes after his teeth started chattering with his nervousness, and with the cold of the dank cellar, which chilled him as his perspiration dried, that his mother spoke to him. "Tommy! What's the matter? Are you ill?"

He was silent, except for his gasping and chattering. Then he bubbled over. All of his fears and guilts and shame – all the things that were threatening his sanity – he poured out to her. After all, for the greater part of his young life he'd turned to her whenever he couldn't solve his own problems. He thought he'd outgrown his need of her as a confessor and comforter. But he could never have foreseen such events as this.

Ann heard him out. At times he was almost incoherent in his eagerness to get everything off his chest, hoping that complete confession would relieve him of his aching, bursting burden. But she understood him all too well everything he said. When he finally finished, running down like a record on a hand-wound phonograph that needed another cranking to get it up to normal speed, it was again silent in the old cellar. She thought a long time before she spoke. She had to be sure that she said the right thing. This could affect him for the rest of his life!

"Tommy, I may be able to answer you on everything, and I may not. I'll try to do my best. You know that I love you very much, and that I'll always love you. You know that, don't you?" She waited until he pulled himself together sufficiently to answer.

"Of course. I've never doubted that!" he replied.

"Just keep that in the back of your mind, then, no matter what else we discuss. Will you – can you do that?"

"Yes. And Mother…? No matter what else I said… I'll always love you just as I have since I could remember."

"I know, Tommy. I knew that the moment you turned to me to help you with all this that's bothering you so much." She almost choked up on her emotions, then got a grip on herself, and continued.

"Tommy, I'll have to talk to you awfully plain. I know that your father, thank God, has brought you up with all the basic sexual knowledge you need, but this mess we're in now is something no one could be expected to foresee."

"You've taken enough of the basic elements of human psychology to understand how closely we parallel the lower animals in certain of our normal functions. What always seems so hard to understand is that the entire package we call civilization – all the things we try to instill in ourselves, educate ourselves with, as it were really is only a very thin coating which we manage to keep pulled over the more basic, more deeply ingrained things inside us."

"Of course, everyone is an individual, because he has his own very special formula, which combines the things he has inherited, the things he has learned, and the environment in which he is brought up. There are other factors, too, but these affect us most."

"Now, you won't find two men much farther apart as individuals than your father and that Gerault." She used the Frenchman's name as if it were the filthiest thing she could utter.

"Chuck is a big, husky, he-man type, who pretends that he doesn't have a good education sometimes, especially when he's with those who really haven't. He talks as if he'd just as soon beat you as look at you, sometimes. But you know as well as I do – almost as well, anyhow – that he's really an old softy, and more gentleman than anything else."

"Gerault, on the other hand, pretends to be a gentleman, uses flowery speech to cover his crude thoughts and drives. He pretends to be so very refined in all other ways, yet you know – when he tells you he'll do something very horrible that he means it, for there seems to be nothing too foul or brutal for his mind to dream up or his conscience to object to."

"And yet, if those two were facing each other in anything like an equal battle, I'd bet on your father. Because underneath all of the veneer that we see his personality that we know, his many fine characteristics – lies that basic that we do not know. I think he might very well break the Frenchman in little pieces."

"Something like that can take place in any of us. No matter what we are like all the rest of our lives, underneath we are, after all, very basic creatures. Some of us have as many surprising differences in our basic nature as we do in the side of us which we show to the world everyday."

"Now, your father and I are both highly sexed individuals. And I'm afraid that both you and Darla have inherited more than your share of whatever genes may cause that trait. I can only say that I am not surprised you are so much like your father. And Darla is probably much more like me than I have wanted to believe."

"When we were forced into a situation such as this, Tommy, it was inevitable that we burst out of our civilized wrappers and exposed the depth of our sexualities. We were at those moments just two human individuals who were unfortunate enough to be placed in that very set of conditions."

"Sure, we could blame ourselves for breaking down, for giving in to our baser natures. But what would it buy us? It's happened. We couldn't undo it if we spent the rest of our lives and all of our family's resources. So, the only thing to do is to try to shove it into the back of our minds as far as it will go. If we find that we have trouble living with it, we'll just have to bring it out and discuss it again. But I hope we can think of it as a very unfortunate but irrevocable part of our lives that we need not think of, again."

"Before we do try to forget it, honey, it might be well to get the last bit of value out of it. Let me tell you that if you ever have one of those moments when you doubt yourself as a man, for any reason, you can remember that your mother gave you top honors."

"You're every bit the man your father is in all ways. You're thoughtful, gentle, and very exciting to a woman. The girl who gets you for keeps – and any others in the meantime will be very lucky. I'll always be proud that you're my son, Tommy."

She was silent, and the cellar was full of her presence as it had not been all the time she spoke. Tommy felt the magnetism of this wonderful woman who was his mother, and almost – not quite, but almost – he was glad that they had shared the rigors of this day. It was a lot of female, and a lot of heart that he had the good fortune to call mother. He wept quietly, unashamedly, for a while. Then he spoke his gratitude.

"You're great, Mother! I've known that for a long time, but after today, I'm afraid that you're some kind of impossible combination of saint and sweetheart that just might have spoiled me for all the other women in the world. I only hope that I'm lucky enough to get one just a little bit like you."

"Thank you, Tommy." She stopped for a moment, then thought of something else. "It's a hell of a way for it to happen, but I don't think we've ever been so close as right now. We've shared the very worst moments of our lives together, and yet found joy in them. Not many people can say that."

CHAPTER SIX

"L'eclairage, c'est ne pas suffisant pour la photographie, maintenant," protested Yvette.

"What did she say?" Fleming asked his daughter. His French had been limited, in the old days, to slowly spoken phrases of simple vocabularies. Now he remembered very little of that.

"She says the lighting isn't good enough for taking pictures, now." Darla hoped that this meant a reprieve. If further photography was postponed until moming, maybe they could find some way to escape in the night.

"We will use the parlor," decided Gerault, dashing Darla's hopes for a delay. They were herded out of the bedroom, which they had just entered before Yvette's protest, and soon found themselves in a fairly large living room. The wall-to-wall carpeting was old but good, and there were a few pieces of furniture scattered around, none of which seemed to belong.

On the walls were a number of mirrors, which seemed to be built into the structure, or cleverly affixed to seem very permanent. In several places, the faint outlines of rectangular shapes revealed where pictures had been hung.

The place gave the appearance of a house deserted by its former occupants, then commandeered by Gerault and company as a temporary headquarters. Darla wondered where the furniture had been obtained, guessing that it might well have been stolen from other homes in the area.

Fleming paid little attention to the details of the room. He was just barely awake, and beginning to feel again the resentments and discouragements which had bothered him since his capture, and the guilt and shame he had experienced after the previous episode with his daughter.

"Here, on the sofa," commanded Gerault. They moved toward the huge sofa, which seemed to be rather new both in design and manufacture. As they approached it, the Frenchman tugged at a corner, and it opened out into a fair-sized bed.

"The clothes – quickly!" he ordered, and the father and daughter sullenly removed their clothes again. This time they piled them on a long coffee table nearby.

Yvette had opened the drapes which covered glass-paneled doors leading onto a terrace. A poorly tended garden could be seen through the dusty glass panels. It was on the side away from the road, and the shrubbery hid the doorway from outsiders.

The light which entered the room seemed to be magnified by the several mirrors, and it was considerably brighter than the bedroom.

"Let me see; I think Monsieur Fleming will sit on the edge of the bed…" Fleming obliged. "… And Mademoiselle will sit on his lap to begin." Darla obediently seated herself across her father's legs. She could feel the warmth of him against her thighs, and the fine covering of hair tingled where it touched her skin.

"No. Not like that. Turn and face him, with a leg on either side of him." Gerault was playing by ear, as if he were a directive genius setting up a scene for the movie cameras.

Darla lifted a leg and swung it over and around, past Fleming's head. He couldn't help but see the pink flash of her spread vulva as her thighs separated so widely. That, and the way her one breast bounced briefly after her knee had struck it during the move, returned him to the illicitly excited plateau he had reached earlier.

Darla, who had grasped her father by the shoulders to make the shift, leaning back on his lap to clear his head with her leg, had caught a glimpse of me soft, white penis which she had coveted until today, and which she had possessed with her mouth less than two hours ago. It made the same little thrills run through her now, no matter how she had intended to control her reactions this time.

While they had been in the cellar alone, she tried twice to talk to him, hoping they could help each other in some way. She felt that if she must continue to carry the burden of her incestuous enjoyment all alone, she would crack up. But Fleming had slept soundly, and she hadn't had the heart to make more than a token attempt to wake him with her quiet words. Now, she was more tensely strung than before. She was really up tight.

As she settled into the new pose Fleming automatically put his hands on her hips, helping her to balance on his lap. The contact doubled the sensations which traveled between them with Darla's hands on his shoulders. "Let us have some kissing, now," said Gerault.

As if hypnotized, they moved their heads together. In the beginning it was a zombie-like maneuver, as they reacted to the command, knowing the penalties for hesitation. But as their lips met, both of them knew the defeat of their individual resolutions.

The damp warmth of their bodies conducted each tiny tic and movement of every muscle. Even the slight tensions caused by trying to stay balanced in their positions as they moved to kiss, were amplified into caresses and meaningful movements, as the animal lusts within each body interpreted the small contacts and responded in kind.

Darla's moist lips parted, and she felt the hot tongue enter between them and caress the inner sides of her lips. As she sucked at the intruder hungrily, she felt the hard pressure of Fleming's stiffening member as it rose under her, slapping meatily against the tender sensitivities of her anus.

Her buttocks squeezed together in reflex, and they trapped the head of the hard instrument between them. This further excited the man, and he reacted by a muscular contraction which made the rod pulse into life, increasing its size and hardness.

It was a vicious circle. The feel of the swelling penis between her cheeks stirred Darla's inner juices, and they began to seep from the parted outer lips of her fleshy blossom, warming and dampening the base of her father's penis.

Something like a low growl emanated from Fleming's lips as he tore them from hers, and then trailed a fiery thrill down her neck to the peak of a breast. Her nipple erupted into a rigid erection which popped into his mouth, and he sucked at it thirstily, as though it could provide him with drink.

Darla's fleshy fountain was melting her juices all over his thighs as she writhed under the treatment. Then she tilted her hips and pulled back to release the rigid prisoner from her buttocks, letting it slip forward to dip into the slippery trough of her passion.

As it slid upward, between the swollen petals, gathering juices as it moved, it became trapped where the upper extremes of the lips were joined, and pressed tightly against her fleshy nubbin. She gave a squeal of joy, and rubbed herself against the newcomer with little wriggling movements.

Fleming's mouth switched to her other breast, and it blossomed under his kiss, eager to be taken and sucked. Then Darla whimpered her weakening defenses as the nether massage culminated her lower tensions. She arched her back and pressed harder against him, then shuddered a giant tremor, moaning as it shook her. When she relaxed, Fleming felt her wet heat leave him briefly then her hand reached down and grasped him tucking the achingly engorged head of his member into her hungry flesh.

As he felt himself slip within the inner lips which encircled her passage, his head was pulled from her breast, and drawn back up to place their mouths together again.

The tender, wrinkled folds of her passage seemed to suck him within her depths, and he thought he could feel every part of that pulsating passage as it worked at him, drawing him farther inside. She sucked his tongue deep into her mouth.

I'm swallowing him at both ends, she thought, exulting at the sense of possession it gave her. His sweet tongue in my mouth, and his wonderful cock in my hungry cant! I don't care what happens after this – Daddy Chuck is filling me from head to pussy, and it feels so good I hope I die before it stops!

Fleming was less fortunate – or unfortunate, as the case might be. He was experiencing the miserable coincidence of having his lusts and his conscious mind fully awakened at the same time. As he felt the hungers of his strongly sexual nature seize him and take control, he began to realize what was taking place, even more vividly than he had at the earlier session in the bedroom.

A creature of habit, Fleming had been used to using the period right after waking in the mornings, to lie and think about the recent successes and failures in his business involvements, and to plan the strategy for the day or days to come.

His mind, now fully awakening after the refreshing sleep in the cellar, began to function so well that it spotlighted his present involvement all too brightly. It was bad enough to be forced into this, but to be unable to close off the conscious mind – to be forced to think on it, concentrate on it mercilessly as it took place – that was agony. Especially when it was so damned enjoyable!

God! She's enjoying this as much as her mother does! The little minx is literally eating me up! And I love it, God help me! That little cant of hers is SO juicy and hot and squirmy, and it grabs at me as if it were starrved! What in the name of God is going to happen to us? Our family is being turned into a bunch of perverted animals!

Darla could hear her father groaning, but she took it for the sounds of his lustful enjoyment of her. Unaware of the misery he was experiencing, she gloried in the way she was exciting him to vocalize. It stirred her to even greater passion, and her lubricant was literally streaming from her hyperstimulated glands.

"Fuck me hard! Oh-h-h-h! Fuck it into me! Dig it way up inside me!" Her words were growled out as she lifted her mouth from his to beg him for more. "Oh-h-h…! Fill my whole cunt with it…! Oh-h-h…! God…! I'm leaving you…! Don't let me go empty…! Squirt me full…! Oh-h-h-h…!" She panted and gasped as she bucked around on his lap like a wildcat.

"Oh! Daddy! Fill me or kill me! I can't stand it hungry and empty like this! Argh-h-h-h!" She stiffened as she reached her peak and began to topple. Then she felt the pumping of his pulsing fluids as they splashed against her innermost walls.

"God! I'm coming in you, baby!" Fleming moaned as he loosed himself. Then he was holding her tightly, pulling her soft buttocks to him, pouring himself into her as deeply as he could, even as he hated himself for it.

He toppled over backward on the bed, taking her with him. They lay there, breathing heavily, still locked together, until Fleming felt a strange sensation, as though he were being tickled at the base of his now overly sensitized penis. Then his balls were being tickled. He knew that Darla's hands were both on his neck. What could be happening? He looked downward past the creamy body that lay on top of him. A mass of flying black hair was moving around at the edge of the bed. Then he looked up to the mirror just opposite the sofa on a nearby wall, and he could see what was taking place.

That damned Yvette! She's licking my cock and balls, and slurping around Darla's little cant as if she were starving! My God! What a bunch of perverts and sadists! I've got to get us out of here! Quick!

He moved to separate them, wanting to halt the Frenchwoman's intrusion into the episode. From seeing and smelling her, he didn't want any part of her touching him or his. But as he felt his limp member pull out of the snug sheath of his daughter's vagina, the sucking sound it made was followed by another, similar sound.

God! She's sucked me into her mouth! He tried to pull away from the feasting harpy, but Darla's weight on top of him kept him from freeing himself. And Yvette had both of Darla's legs in her hands, one of them very high up. As Darla's hips began to gyrate, he realized where that hand really was!

"Gerault!" he called out. "We've done what you told us to do – you have your pictures – now let us out of here. What that woman's doing has nothing to do with your pictures!"

"Monsieur Fleming! You would not begrudge the photographer a small bonus, would you? She has had to watch very much and it makes her very excited. Relax and allow her a little pleasure. Then you can clean up and put on your clothes."

Fleming's head sank back on the bed, and he heaved a sigh of resignation. He felt his member stiffening in spite of his revulsion, as the girl expertly tongued its tingling surfaces. Then it was rock-hard again, and she was sucking and milking it with her mouth, while working her hand in the depths of Darla's hot, wet flesh. Darla was moving wildly on top of her father as the trained fingers delved into her.

Then Darla's head moved over her father, and her mouth found his. She tongued his lips until they opened, and plunged her tongue between them into his mouth. The feel of her warm breasts on his chest, and the going-over Yvette was giving him, loosed his animal once more.

He brought his own tongue into locked combat with Darla's, and then he was sucking her tongue into his mouth, famished again for the sweet nectar of her youthful juices. She was wiggling in her excitement as Yvette worked at the center of her passion, and began to moan into Fleming's mouth as she neared her goal.

Then he felt himself opening up. As Yvette took more and more of him into her mouth, Darla took back her tongue, and then sucked Fleming's up into her mouth with a surprising strength. He felt his insides explode.

Darla bunched up in a writhing bundle as she popped her release, and her hot, wet feathery flesh came down on his belly, accompanied by Yvette's sloppy wet hand, and he was draining out the tip of his member, as if the French girl were stealing his soul. He groaned at the awful completeness of his orgasm; it seemed as if it would never stop. Then he felt her mouth leave his organ with a final, milking tug.

Darla, moaning faintly, rolled off him and lay beside him on the bed. Both were replete. It was almost as if their insides had been surgically removed.

Fleming looked up to see Yvette regaining her feet. She lifted her filthy skirt with a shiny-wet hand and wiped her moist face and chin. As she dried her face, her free hand massaged her black-haired pubic mound, parting the thickened lips until her dripping pinkness gleamed wetly at the observers.

"You can go to the bathroom, now," conceded Gerault.

"But I am not finish with them!" Yvette protested, rubbing her swollen nether lips with one hand, and her upper lip and nose with the other.

"Go see Le Boeuf, then. I want these people to rest. Tomorrow, Monsieur Fleming goes for the money, ne c'est pas?"

Darla had pulled herself together and started for the bathroom. Gerault followed her out of the room. Yvette pouted sullenly, watching Fleming as he sat up on the edge of the sofa bed. She walked over to him and thrust her hips out.

"Be nice to me. Give me some pleasure. You will not be sorry!" She reached out and picked up his hand, trying to place it in the wet nest of her excitement. He jerked it away from her grasp with a curse.

"You filthy, stinking whore! I wouldn't touch your diseased cunt for anything! You're lower than the dirtiest animal. You're even worse than Gerault. At least he tries to look clean!" His anger boiled up at the disgusting uncleanliness of her.

Gerault and Darla came back into the room, and the girl started to dress as Fleming got to his feet and headed for the bathroom. As he went into the hall, he heard Yvette yell after him.

"I will make you sorry, rich American! No one can talk like that to Yvette!" She lapsed into French, rattling it off at Gerault, who had followed Fleming into the hall. He cut her off with a few words, then accompanied Fleming to the bathroom.

When the victims had been led back to the cellar and shackled, and the family was again left to themselves, Fleming asked his daughter what the conversation was about. She was quiet for a minute, then answered him in a low voice, so that the other two could not hear.

"She was very angry with you for scorning her and calling her names. To get evens she asked Gerault to give her Tommy to play with."

"What did he say?" Fleming felt a chill travel up his back.

"He told her that he'd see – after you left to get the money!"

"Damn! He can't do that! It's not part of the bargain. We did everything they ordered and they have the pictures. Now I have to get the money, or even if they release us those pictures could turn up anywhere to haunt us. God! What a horrible mess!"

"Actually, Daddy Chuck, he can do anything he wants. Until all of us are free, he has all the winning cards! You'd better talk to him and try to reason with him about Tommy. It wouldn't do to make him mad. He thinks you've caused him enough trouble by refusing to pay the ransom in the first place."

Fleming studied his daughter's face, then took a quick look at Ann and Tommy. Both had their eyes closed. He turned back to Darla.

"You think so, too, don't you? You think I should have paid when you first turned up missing, don't you?" His voice was bitter. Darla couldn't be sure whether the bitterness was directed at himself or at her. He could have come to the decision that he'd been wrong in his lifelong opinions about ransoming. Or he could just suspect that she blamed him for all they'd been put through.

"You did what you thought was right, Daddy. No one could ask you to act against the things you believe in. Like I told you before, I'm proud that you had the courage of your convictions when it came to a real test. I know it wasn't easy for you."

"Don't patronize me, Darla!" Fleming roared. He was losing his grip on his temper as his frustrations increased. After years of giving orders, he had been forced to take the kind of orders that he wouldn't have believed anyone capable of giving. His guilt at letting his personal convictions cause the capture and torture of his whole family was now compounded by the guilt he felt about the wildly sexual joy he'd experienced with his own daughter. For her to sympathize with him now was another thorn of guilt in his prickling hide. He blew up.

"Could it be that you're trying to keep me busy thinking about how I got us all into this, just to tout me off the train of thought you don't want me to follow? You wouldn't want me to wonder, would you, about how accomplished a bed partner you are?"

Darla gasped, shocked at what he was insinuating.

"You're a regular bundle of passion, aren't you? A vixen who loves cock so much she don't care how she has it – or even if it's her own father, by God!" He was panting as he sputtered the last words.

Darla was sobbing, now. She knew again the shame she had felt before as she realized her unnatural passions for her father. But one of the excuses she'd had was that he was a desirable person in so many other ways. She couldn't get excited over just any male. But her father had always been so special. He was so understanding and gentlemanly and solicitous for others. This wasn't like him at all. She felt lost – truly lost – for the first time since the whole kidnapping thing had started. She was alone in the midst of her family. The father she'd loved more than anything in the world had turned against her. He hated her.

"Charles!" Ann's voice was like a sharp icicle piercing the thick atmosphere of the cellar. Even in the depth of his angry frustration, Fleming's ears burned at that address. When she called him Charles, Ann was not about to agree with anything he said or did. And the coldness of her tone now promised even more than the usual rhubarb.

"If I weren't chained to this damned wall, I'd come over there and beat you to death with your own damned pocket watch!" Her tone had not gained any warmth since she first spoke to him.

"This whole family is suffering because they trusted you to do the right thing. I could have raised hell back there at the hotel and insisted you pay the ransom. Rut I let you make the decisions. And I'm not about to cry on your shoulder now, just because your handling of the affair has landed us here."

"But I'll be damned if I'll have you condemn that girl for having the depth of sexuality she inherited – in part – from you! As did your son! And I admit to at least half of the genes that are responsible for their passionate natures."

"Just what the devil do you think Tommy and I were forced to do up there? Play pattycake? We gave in to their threats in pretty much the same way that I imagine you two did. And we did things that mother and son should never in God's world do. And we enjoyed it! Both of us! And we were sorry it happened. And we talked it over like two intelligent, educated, enlightened people should. And we decided not to let it ruin our lives."

"But that could all go by the board. You come along with your self-pity and anger at your own weaknesses and accuse your daughter of habitual promiscuity, and you can ruin all our lives!"

"Well, you're not going to do it! I won't let you! This mess is a time for all of us to stick together. And it seems to be a time for revelations, too. Well, let me do a little revealing of my own."

"You seem to be shocked to discover that your daughter is responsive to the stimulation of a healthy male body controlled by a mind that – when it's thinking properly – commands respect and admiration. Would YOU rather she was a frigid bundle of inhibitions that would go through life looking for a storybook romance that never came?"

"And don't tell me that you're unaware of that very normal phenomenon known as a father fixation? Damned few girls don't idolize their fathers, if the men are worth a damn at all. Take a gal like that and force her, naked, into her father's naked arms, and let her feel his naked cock against her very vulnerable body, and what do you have?"

Ann paused for breath, but not for long. She was fighting for the very foundations of her family, and the battle was going against her by its very nature. It was an unprecedented situation for any family to find itself in.

"We've been forced to learn a lot about ourselves, and about each other. At least that holds true between Tommy and me, and between Darla and you, Charles! And we may not be pleased with what we learn, but we can surely forgive in others the same weaknesses we find in ourselves; and in case there are any doubts, let me hear you right now, Charles Eldon Fleming, deny before God and your family that you did not find pleasure in the incestuous relationship you were forced into with your own daughter! Go on! Let's hear it for old Charlie!"

Fleming came apart. He began to sob great, tearing, gasping sobs as he broke under Ann's complete spotlighting of his weaknesses. When he could get his breath, he tried to speak.

"God, I'm sorry! Can you forgive me? Any of you?"

"I forgive you Daddy," said Darla, crying herself at the emotions which tore through her.

"Sure, Dad," said Tommy, shakily. "Like Mom says, we all were forced to learn all too much about ourselves. I sure couldn't cast the first stone, the second, or the third."

It was quiet for a minutes then Fleming dared to ask the question. "Ann?"

He waited, and as he waited, he thought. Then he knew he hadn't said enough.

"Ann, I know that I have to ask your forgiveness especially. You gave me the two finest kids there are, anywhere, and I've not only let them down, but I've caused them unnecessary misery. And by implying that Darla had gone wrong, and that it angered me, I intimated that it was her mother who was at fault."

"God! I don't know what came over me! Here I am, taking out my mad and my helplessness, as Uncle Curt used to say, on the very ones who should be applauded. Most kids would be in shock from having to go through all this, but my whole damn family except me is riding out the storm beautifully. I'm not too sure I want to get out of this alive, myself. As long as I can get the rest of you free. I'm not sure I'll be able to live with myself after this."

"Chuck," Ann's voice came softly to him, and he got up the courage to look over at her for the first time since she'd scalded him with her words. "You've been carrying the load for all of us. Sure, each one of us suffers from all this. But who is it that the other three have been looking to for a way out? Who's been straining his brain to figure out how to protect the people he's always been responsible for? With all you've had on your mind, it took the very worst straw to break the camel's back. I think you've done pretty well. How about it, kids?" In unison, Darla and Tommy answered her.

"You'd better believe it!" Everyone chuckled at their simultaneous use of the same words. Then, as the laughing died down, Fleming spoke.

"We'd better make use of whatever time we have left. I think I'm supposed to be dropped off somewhere in Marseilles in the morning. I'm supposed to get the money, then be brought back here. By the way – the price has doubled. But that's nothing. I hope you all know that it wasn't the money that made me refuse before." They all assured him that they knew that.

"Holy cow!" said Tommy, "I've seen you give bigger checks to the USO than what they asked to release Darla!"

"Well," replied Fleming, "just so you understand that I did what I did because I thought it was the sensible thing to do, based on my own observations of past kidnappings throughout history."

"Daddy! Since you know where we are, from my description, you can bring the police back here, can't you?" Darla asked.

"I'm going to have to play it pretty cagey," said Fleming. "I can't be sure what they might have up their sleeve. I know for one thing, Yvette has eyes for Tommy, and that Gerault has half-promised her she could have him for a playmate once I start for Marseilles. We've got to think of some way to stop that. Can you imagine that filthy, smelly woman getting that close to you?"

"Yukh-h-h-h!" said Tommy, feeling his insides squirm sickeningly. "She made a pitch earlier, when I was washing up in the bathroom. I almost tossed my cookies when she exposed herself to me. Why would anyone want to be so stinking dirty?"

"We'll probably never know, thank God!" said Ann. "But we've got to think about how to keep her from contacting any of us. Heaven knows what kind of diseases she's liable to carry."

"I'm going to refuse to bring back the money unless she goes along to Marseilles," said Fleming. "I'll insist on her accompanying me when they drive me to wherever they're going to let me off. That's the only way I can think of to derail whatever train of thought she has about Tommy."

"Where could the Moroccan be, I wonder," mused Tommy. "I haven't seen him since be was down here earlier, just before Mom and I were taken upstairs."

"I don't think that Le Boeuf really likes Gerault, although he takes orders from him," said Darla. "Le Boeuf seems to have a little conscience, and I think he hates the way Gerault enjoys being sadistic with us."

"Maybe so," replied Fleming. "But he also could be out somewhere laying some kind of groundwork for tomorrow. After all, they have to plan pretty carefully before they turn me out some place in the city, and they'll probably have me followed while I go to get the money."

"I'm curious about how you're going to contact them after you get it," Tommy said. "They must have something pretty sneaky figured out – after all, you might be suspected of having yourself followed by the police or something."

"I imagine they'll contact me. Probably have me return to the area where they let me off and wait until they're sure I wasn't followed before they reveal themselves."

"However it's done, you can be sure they'll take plenty of precautions to protect themselves," said Ann. "Be careful every minute, Chuck! Don't take chances!"

"I won't," Fleming promised. "If I did something stupid, and they decided to kill me, you might all be left here to rot in this Godforsaken dungeon. You can bet I'll be plenty careful!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

As the Citroen carried him on his blindfolded way to Marseilles, Fleming was concentrating on the routes and distances. Yvette was driving, and he was seated beside Gerault in the back. He knew that the dim interior of the car would not permit any perception of his blindfold by those outside the vehicle. Darla had told him about the tinted glass.

He began orienting himself as soon as the car started down the lane of the farm, and tried to guess at distances and speeds as they proceeded. By the time he began to smell the sea smells that announced their approach to Marseilles, he was fairly certain that he knew the entire route he'd traveled.

In late 1945, he'd been a young artilleryman with the 66th Infantry Division, and he'd logged a lot of time on the roads between the big port city and the towns and villages of the Camarguc the back country of Provence.

He'd had a lot of adventures in the short months spent here, and much of it was refreshed in his memory as he sniffed the unchanged atmosphere of the filthy harbor district.

Somewhere around here was the surprisingly clean little cafe – if it still stood – where he and several of his buddies used to come late at night to get sandwiches. They were nothing more than tomato and onion slices on the dark "black" bread which was the only staple bakery product available in the area. But those sandwiches had tasted great with the beer they smuggled into the billets.

And somewhere not too far away was the spot where he and Fabrini had almost been caught by the MP's. They'd been out on the town, having a few drinks and trying to find a couple of young, pretty girls who might also be clean by the soldiers' standards.

Fleming had just finished buying a black market Beretta pistol from a Senegalese soldier, with whom he'd bargained for almost a half-hour before arriving at an agreed price. Fabrini had been forced to interpret for them, though he'd been leery of Fleming's having the pistol on him while they were on pass. It could go hard with anyone – a GI at least – caught carrying a weapon on pass there.

Just as Fleming had wrapped the tiny pistol in his handkerchief and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his "Ike" jacket, Fabrini had spotted the patrol moving toward them from the other side of the street almost a block away.

They'd panicked, and as they turned and ran in the opposite direction, they'd become separated. When Fleming had caught his breath, huffing and puffing in an alley next to a ruined building, he looked around him, and discovered that he was right behind a temporary post of the Military Police. There was a jeep parked in the alley, and he could hear voices from within the alley entrance way. Fearing that he'd be surprised by a pair of MP's exiting to climb into the jeep, he looked around for a place to ditch the gun.

Frantically, he'd clambered up a pile of broken pieces of concrete until he reached the top. He spotted the jagged opening of what had been the approximate center of a stone chimney. He wrapped the handerchief-covered pistol in the raincoat he'd been carrying over his belt, and dropped it into the opening. Then he'd half-stumbled half-climbed back down the pile of concrete to the alley.

When he'd gone back to the billets, and discussed it with Fabrini, they'd come to the conclusion that there was little hope of retrieving the gun without the help of heavy equipment or a company of men. When they'd casually meandered past the site the next day, they confirmed their estimate.

Fleming had finally managed to get another Beretta before he left for the States, but it was an older model. The one he'd abandoned had been brand new, still coated with its sticky packing of thick grease or whatever it was that the manufacturer or arsenal had used to preserve it.

The big Citroen came to a halt, and Fleming's blindfold was removed. He was able to see that they were parked inside some kind of garage. The three walls around them were bare. The floor was entirely clear except for a small steel drum in one comer.

The light which came through the big door behind them did not penetrate the windows of the car, but the smells and sounds told Fleming that they were in the waterfront district.

"You will return here in exactly twenty-four hours," ordered Gerault. "And you will wait here until you are contacted. I need not tell you that you will be observed during that time. One of the reasons for the large amount of the ransom we demand is that we have many people in our pay."

"You will go to only those places I tell you. You may go to the bank, of course, where I know you have connections. That is necessary to arrange for the money. And you may stay at your hotel tonight. If you wish to eat at any place other than your hotel, it will have to be Le Cafe Noir. Any other stops will be suspect, and your family will suffer for your attempts to be clever. Understand?"

Fleming nodded, and then the door opened and Gerault shoved him outside. He just had time to step backward before the Citroen backed out with a roar into the alley, and sped off into the bright morning sun. He stood there, gathering his thoughts for a few moments. Then he stepped out of the garage and looked around. He couldn't recognize the immediate neighborhood, but the smell and direction of the wind told him which way the harbor lay. From this, he could orient himself, and find his way to the hotel. He'd decided against taking a taxi here.

The only plan he had in his mind was still half-formed. And it had a prime requisite: he couldn't be followed! He had to shake off anyone who might be trailing him. They would be prepared to follow him on wheels, he was sure. The European idea of moneyed Americans almost assuredly would lead them to believe that he'd never walk if he could ride.

So he intended to walk until he had spotted his tracker or trackers or convinced himself that there were none. Then he'd catch a cab and initiate his plan. They might not be prepared for this, and if he could do it innocently enough, they might not suspect anything.

He paced casually down the alley to the street, then turned and headed along the sidewalk, watching from the corners of his eyes and trying not to appear interested in either the people or places around him. Most of the pedestrians at this hour were longshoremen, dock workers, market workers and truckers. The fishermen had long been gone, out to catch the morning tide and look for the seafood that would feed Marseilles and many other cities tomorrow.

He was specifically trying to detect anyone who seemed to be on the same route as himself, and traveling at the same pace. What was a normal rate of walking speed to an American, he knew, would be inconsistent with the stride of the average Frenchman, so it did not take long for him to spot the short, wiry character who appeared to be hurrying on his way to some office.

He'd never seen a Frenchman that eager to get to work. Those short legs were really pumping to maintain the pace that the long-legged Fleming was setting.

He spotted the ideal setup almost a block away. One of the old-fashioned pissoirs on the sidewalk was very close to a bunch of marketing trucks parked at the curb. He assessed the layout as he neared it, and tried to gauge the relative pace at which the pursuer trailed him. He slowed a little as he approached the trucks and the men who moved about them.

Just as he neared the center of the busy area, he sidestepped into the pissoir. It was accessible from two sides, and he knew that his tail would not dare give away his presence by pulling to a halt and waiting or tracking him inside. He heard the click of the heel plates worn by so many small men as the bloodhound walked on past the iron structure.

As expected, he found that the slope of the terrain was such that, if he stayed near the end of the pissoir where he'd entered, the top of his head would not be visible to the pursuer as he got down the street a few paces.

He took advantage of the facilities, and as he mentally counted off the seconds, he urinated in the long trough. When he had counted what he thought was about the right amount of times he backed slowly out of the entrance through which he'd come, keeping the sheet metal bulk of the pissoir walls directly centered in line between his own position and the sidewalk beyond.

He reached the mouth of the alley he'd included in his plan, and rejoiced in the accumulation of trash cans and crates piled out from the building next to the alley entrance. They electively blocked all view of the distant sidewalk which was not covered by the pissoir farther down.

He dashed up the alley and chuckled to himself. By the time the pursuing Frenchman decided that his quarry could not have had such a full bladder as to take all this time, and tracked back to find out what was up, it would be too late. And it had been engineered so that he couldn't be quite sure whether it was intentional. Fleming may have walked into that block specifically to use the pissoir, or may have decided while using the facilities to take a different route.

They couldn't very well get nasty about this kind of thing.

He hastened through the alley and came out on the next street. As he crossed the street, heading toward a likely-looking place to catch a taxi, he slowed to a crawling walk. Just inside the alley entrance was a familiar spot. His pulse raced, and the hair at the back of his neck bristled as he thought of the possibilities. Then he dashed on into the alley and stopped before the vacant lot. Of the concrete rubble that had been there almost twenty-three years ago, only a few of the smaller pieces remained. And the big old chimney had been knocked down until only a little over three feet of its former height still stood above ground. And there were two fair-size pieces of concrete lying against its base. He strolled over to it and walked around it. There was little hope that his cache remained after all these years. Not that the pistol would be likely to be usable after the long exposure to the rains which must have poured down that chimney.

But he couldn't resist the feel of the treasure hunt. The memory of that day came back to him as he reached his arm down the maw of the broken stone structure, trying to reach the bottom. He felt the tips of his fingers encounter a piece of stone, smooth all over excepting a slight ridge where the cement had held it in place before it toppled or was knocked out.

There was no hope whatsoever of his getting a grip on the stone to pull it out. And even if he could, he then could not reach lower to feel around for the bundle which just might still be there. And he couldn't fool around any longer, because his tail might accidentally run across his path again. He had to get out of here!

As he started to leave, heavy-hearted, he knew he'd been foolish to waste the time on such a hopeless longshot. Before he could reach the alley, he heard footsteps approaching. There was no sound of the heel plates, but if that were Fleming tailing someone, he'd be walking on his toes about now, anyhow. He quietly tiptoed back to the chimney and got behind it, keeping it between himself and the alley. He was down on his hands and knees, peering between the base of the chimney and the craggy hunk of concrete which leaned against it. He tried not to breathe loudly.

The figure moved into sight and on up the alley. It was a gendarme. Fleming started to move, but caught himself in time. He couldn't take the risk of being spotted talking to the law. He'd have to make contact with them where he couldn't be seen.

He watched as the figure disappeared up the alley, then his eyes took in something that made his pulse pound again. The light coming between the chimney base and the concrete chunk had shown him the reddish-brown outline of a rusty iron door.

Of course! This was the cleanout-access for the chimney! He struggled with the rough surface of the concrete. It was pretty heavy for one man to move, but he managed to shift it enough so he could pull open the corroded iron door. It shrieked in protest at being disturbed after so long a time. The brittle hinge pins broke, and he grabbed to keep the door from falling loudly to the ground, where chips and pieces of cement could make the ringing sound that might bring unwanted attention!

He reached inside and felt something dank and slippery. He pulled at it, and the pieces of stone inside the chimney opening rattled as their foundation was shifted. Then it was in his hands. He peeled away the slimy, musty layers of the raincoat, and the grayish-white of the Irish linen handkerchief was exposed. He unwrapped the pistol and rewrapped it in the handkerchief he carried in his pocket. Then he shoved the old wrappings back into the chimney hole and got to his feet. Stuffing the pistol into his coat pocket, he returned to the alley and headed in the wake of the now-vanished gendarme.

He caught a taxi two blocks farther from the spot where he'd intended to hail one. And soon he was at his hotel. The desk clerk looked at him strangely, then gave him his key.

"There 'as been some concern for you, Monsieur Flam-meeng," he said. Fleming wondered why a first class hotel would have desk clerks whose accent was stronger than that of a hoodlum like Gerault. He forced a smile.

"We decided suddenly to take a short trip in the country," he lied, not knowing belt what the clerk might be on Gerault's payroll. Even if he weren't, Fleming didn't want anything to occur which might bring the Surete to the hotel. That would be bad for Ann and the kids! "They are staying with friends for another day or two. I had to return on business." He smiled again as he headed for the elevator.

The gingerbread grillwork of the iron-caged elevator moved downward past his eyes as the car moved up to his floor. Then he was in his suite, going into every room to make sure that he was alone.

He sat on the chaise longue near the Winslow by his bed, took the package from his pocket, and unwrapped the handkerchief. As he looked at the gummy surface of the pistol, he realized two things. The preservative had done its job. The metal was still in excellent shape. Blat what good would it do him? The preservative itself told him it was new, fresh from a factory or a miltary arsenal. Such guns do not come loaded!

And where could he obtain ammunition for it without being spotted?

Fleming, you're a damned fool. You keep proving that to yourself every time you turn around. You took the risk to get this useless gun without even thinking about ammo. Christ! Have you ever gotten rusty!

He sat there with the gummy weapon in his hand, marking time. The bank would not be open for a while. Idly, he activated the clip release, and felt the slow response as the preservative clung to the clip, impeding its ejection. Then it was in his palm, and the weight of it made his heart pound inside him.

He looked at the top of the clip, gave a little yip of delight, then went to the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed. He opened it and removed a can of lighter fluid and a couple of handkerchiefs.

Reseating himself on the chaise, he began to clean the gummy preservative from the weapon with the petroleum product, thanking his lucky stars that he'd decided against making the trip with butane lighters.

By the time he'd cleaned the entire weapon, stripping it down with the sure hand of a gun lover, removing the goop, then covering every part with a fine film of oil from his electric shaver kit, it was a beauty. But it wasn't new!

That dirty, double-crossing Senegalese! He cosmolened this damned gun to make it look like a new one, fresh off the line! But he didn't know that it wouldn't come from the factory loaded. The sneaky sonovabitch! But he may have saved my ass, he and good old Lady Luck!

He finished reassembling the little Italian marvel, and then worked the slide, ejecting cartridge after cartridge. It had been loaded with four rounds in the clip and one in the chamber when he disassembled it. Another stroke of luck. With four instead of the six rounds the clip normally held, the spring had not been under complete compression, and it was forcing the top cartridge into exactly the right position each time, right up to the last round.

He reloaded all five in the clip, slammed it into the handle, and cocked it, throwing the top round into the chamber. Then he flicked on the safety, wiped the outside again to remove all visible oil, and put the gun in his hip pocket.

He went into the bathroom and shaved and washed, performed a few other functions, and then dug up some clean clothes. He changed quickly, then went to the phone and had the switchboard get the bank for him.

In less than fifteen minutes, he had completed initial arrangements for picking up the funds he requested. He would have to go down to the bank at two o'clock to pick up the money.

Then he flaked out on the bed for a while, resting as he tried to visualize all the possibilities of what might occur in the next twenty-four hours or more. The longer he thought, the shakier he became.

He called room service and ordered up some whisky, ice and soda. When it came, he built him self a triple load, and as he sipped at it appreciatively, he thought with guilt of the others, chained in the musty cellar back at the farm.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It had been so early when Gerault unshackled Fleming and escorted him up the stairs, that the rest of the family were hardly aware of the procedure until the door at the top of the stairwell closed loudly.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as each of them felt the finality of the way the morning had begun. All night long, everyone had slept fitfully. The small mattresses which were tossed at their feet at night padded the hardness of the floor, but it could not be said to be plush accommodations for the Flemings, who were used to the best of everything.

Now, the three of them were shifting their positions miserably, as they sensed the separateness of their plight and that of the man who had gone to get their ransom. In addition to their apprehension about the outcome of today's events, they were all suffering with the pressure of full bladders.

Just as both Ann and Darla doubted their ability to hold out a moment longer, Le Boeuf came down and unshackled the two women. He preceded them up the stairs, then herded them to the bathroom, where he stood in the doorway, watching, as they relieved themselves.

Darla had deferred to her mother's seniority, and stood with her legs crossed, waiting to get her turn. After Ann finished, the younger girl hopped onto the commode, just in time. Le Boeuf laughed, and both of them looked up at him in puzzlement.

He told them, in French, how amusing it was that Americans could not get used to the bidet. There it had stood, all the time, while Darla was bursting, waiting to use the more familiar accommodation her mother had monopolized.

Soon, they were laughing with him, and Darla was reminded again that she felt less than anger toward the Moroccan. In fact, she thought that she rather liked him. She recalled with gratitude his attempts to lessen her pain when he'd been ordered to break her hymen.

As long as it had to be a rapist that got my cherry, I'm glad that it was someone with a little feeling for others. Even if that was about the biggest cock any human is likely to have! She gave a shudder as she recalled the way the monstrous tool had probed into her.

Then she saw that Le Boeuf was leading her mother back down the hall, not waiting for Darla to finish. In a few minutes, he came back, just as she was flushing the commode and starting to wash up at the lavatory. He stood in the doorway as she washed, using the small, new cake of soap that obviously had been filched from some hotel.

When she had finished, the Moroccan held out a small towel to her. As she dried, she wondered why he had brought it now, after they had been forced to squeegee their faces with their hands, then shake off the drops from their hands, each time they had been allowed to wash. Even her mother had just now had to do that.

As she finished, her eyes caught the legend on the towel, and she knew that even that had been stolen. Le Boeuf spoke to her in French.

"I stole it last night. A young lady of refinement, such as yourself, should not be denied so many things she is used to having." He smiled at her, and she realized that – in spite of his hugeness, and the blackness of his skin – he was very handsome by many standards.

"Thank you, Monsieur Le Boeuf. I wish that my mother had been allowed to use it, however." He blinked at her.

"I saved it for you, because I felt that I owed you something I can never repay. Even though I was acting under orders, I did take from you that which you can never replace. I have some guilt because of this." He had a pained look in his eyes.

"If you did not want to do it, why didn't you refuse?" she asked. "Jean – Monsieur Gerault – has knowledge of something I once did. If I do not do as he says, he will see that the gendarmerie learns of it. And then even if I do not wish to admit it – when I saw the beauty of your perfect body before me, I had a great hunger for you. The two things together – they were too much for me!"

Darla smiled at him sympathetically. And then she thought of something else that perturbed her.

"Where does Yvette fit into this company? Is she Gerault's mistress?" Le Boeuf laughed heartily.

"They call her La Crasse or La Femme Crasseux in Pigalle, where Jean found her. He would not touch her except with my cock, as the unfortunate joke tells it. When he is very drunk, and wants to have his cruel amusements, or when he wants it to happen for a special reason, as when he had me show you there in Marseilles, then he orders me to stick my cock in her. But most of the time, he ignores her, because she disgusts even him. He is not without appreciation for the clean, only without compassion."

Darla thought about this. So, even in the less than sanitary confines of Pigalle, the heart of the Paris section noted for its prostitutes and pimps, Yvette was named The Filth, or The Dirty Woman. She shuddered as she recalled the sight and odor of what could otherwise be a very pretty and desirable young woman.

Then she realized that she was standing here, relaxed, talking as if she were not a prisoner, and that Le Boeuf was eying her with renewed interest. She became a little frightened, as the thought came to her that she was separated from her mother and Tommy, and that this big, horny Moroccan – whatever his kindness and intents – actually had her at his mercy. He had admitted to becoming intoxicated with the sight of her body before. What was to stop him from taking her here and now?

Oh, God! I don't know if I costed take another attack by that huge prick! It's so big and beautiful and horrible that it fascinates me, amost hypnotizes me – but it hurts so awfully when it's stuffed into my cunt. "If Mademoiselle will confer a kindness upon me, I will try to repay her with every sort of favor that I can." Her eyes widened at his words. What could he have in mind? Oh, God! Does he want to buck me with that monster cock, again? "What do you mean?" she managed to ask.

"I can make no precise promises. Mademoiselle can understand that. If Jean gives me a direct order, I have to obey. But at all other times, I will try to help Mademoiselle and her family, and to do such kindnesses as I can do without Jean finding out. At the very least, I would rebel the moment he might decide to… to kill you!"

Darla gasped. They had pretty well come to the conclusion that their captors would not want to get involved in murder. But now, Le Boeuf, who surely knew them better than the Flemings, indicated that there was a possibility of Gerault's wanting them dead! Now she was really frightened. "What do you want me to do?"

"I wish to make love to Mademoiselle gently, to taste the wonders of her body without bringing pain. And Gerault must not know of it! It must be a secret between us. I believe that he has plans to take you in his own way, and he is very jealous!" Darla thought about this for a moment, and then decided that she had very little to lose, and perhaps much to gain. If she could win the big Moroccan over to their side – and it seemed possible, since he already had demonstrated his sympathy – they would have that much less to fear in the event anything went wrong. And she had resumed taking the pill, and if the harm hadn't already been done, she stood little risk of anything occurring, now.

But how could he make love to her without hurting her?

She drew in her breath and smiled bravely at him, knowing that she must make the most of this opportunity.

"I think I would like that, Monsieur Le Boeuf," she lied.

He took her hand and led her into the living room, where the sofa-bed was still opened to its most functional position.

"We can hear better from this room when the car comes back from Marseilles," he explained.

Then he helped her undress, and soon she was naked under his hungry gaze. As she watched, he peeled off the sweatshirt he wore, then his con toured slacks and undershorts.

The magnificent hard flesh of his invader was already firmly saluting her desirability. It poised, cobra like, extended from his dark loins, and pulsing with a life of its own. The uncircumcised foreskin was peeling back of its own volition as the purplish-red tip swelled within the confinement of its folds. Darla's eyes were wide with awe as it seemed to stare at her with its one eyeless socket.

She sank onto the bed weakly, and Le Boeuf's eyes followed the flash of her creamy thighs, and the wink of her pink nether lips as she drew one foot up onto the edge of the bed.

Then he was down on the floor on his knees, and kissing her legs, moving his ravening lips and tongue slowly and wetly up the soft, satin contours of her calves, then her thighs, until his mouth met the first feathery tendrils of her blonde curls, as they lay damply against her inner thighs. The healthy musk of her youthful but very womanly femaleness drew him to the fleshy lips which lay slightly parted, overhung with a stray wisp or two of the soft, blonde hair.

He placed his lips against one of the fleshy folds, and nibbled at it delicately. As Darla whimpered her surprised excitement, the thickness of the tender fold increased, and the deep pink of her inner flesh, as it became exposed, turned to a dark, purplish red as it filled with the rushing blood of her impassioned pulse.

The swelling made the lips part even more pronouncedly, and the slightly lighter hue of the wet flesh beneath them showed more and more. His lips nibbled up one fleshy fold and down the other, then his tongue snaked out and captured a drop of the jewel-like lubricant which appeared.

Darla watched in the nearby wall-mirror as Le Boeuf paid homage to her desirability. As his tongue searched out her erect bud, standing in its cozy hiding place at the apex of the fleshy lips, she cried out a hoarse wail of need. He licked at the small hardness until she felt she would go mad.

Then the flow of her juices really began, and he was drinking deeply of her passionate fountain, as she whimpered and moaned, then wrapped her legs around his head, hugging to her the source of this maddening excitement.

Then her back arched as she felt the tightening of every nerve and muscle in her body. A shimmering haze filled the air in front of her eyes, and a strange heat flowed through her as a great tremor pulsed from the very center of her body, reaching every fiber of her being. She relaxed and lay there, gasping for breath.

Le Boeuf gave the delicate blossom a final lick with his long, hot tongue, and then trailed a tingling path up across her belly to the dimple of her navel, where he inserted the exciting whip for a thrilling search of its wrinkled surface.

Darla's hands had been cupping her aching breasts, and now she wanted the feel of his lips on them, the suction of his mouth which might relieve the fullness they felt so painfully.

Then he was there, sucking deeply at each swollen, straining nipple, and squeezing the sponges of their erection with lips and tongue.

The hard hugeness of his dark member was thrust against her loins as he leaned over her, and in spite of her passionate involvement, she felt fear that he was going to penetrate her with it.

Then his lips left her breast, and he removed his weight from her. She felt his hands on her buttocks, as he rolled her over onto her belly. Then his hands were under her, dipping at the wet flow that still poured from her openings. He spread the slippery juices up past the bottom of her natal lips, along the crease of her body seam, to the tiny, tight opening of her anus. As his hands spread her creamy buttocks apart, he wet the tight exit with the juices he had robbed from her flowing fountain.

Then the head of his monstrous erection was pressing at the rear door of her body! She tried to scream, but her mouth was buried in the bedclothes, and she bit down on the fabric viciously as the unbelievable hugeness of him invaded her rectum!

Oh, God! He's fucking me in the ass! It wasn't meant for that! I'm not built to take that giant prick in my asshole! Oh-h-h! It hurts something fierce! It was like a white-hot truck driving up the path into her intestines. Her bottom raised up in self defense, trying to ease the tightness of the entrance. But she couldn't get away from the largeness of the invading flesh. It plowed deep into her body, forcing its way through the tender wrinkles of her guts as if nothing could stop it.

Then his hand slipped under her belly and began to massage the wet, pulsating flesh of her hot natal lips and the hardness of her erect and burning clitoris.

She felt herself responding to the stimulus, even though the pain of the swollen tissues inside continued. As his hand moved, slopping the juices around in the heated flesh, she began to move, until all she could feel was a horrendous fullness a swelling, aching, burning fullness that threatened to burst her from within. Then she began to feel the onslaught of her orgasm, climbing, working its way through her tortured flesh, until she wanted to scream at the absolute completeness of the sensations that throbbed through her, tearing her asunder with their strength.

She felt the fullness at her blossoming flesh as he thrust two fingers deep into her passage, and then the horribly wonderful swelling of his meaty maleness in her rear as it began to pump his fluids into her belly.

She moaned loudly as the twofold invasion of her body brought her up the steep, tortuous slopes to the cliff that had no retreat, then fell, gasping, to the bottomless depths below.

She felt, vaguely, the withdrawal of his shrinking but still large organ from her bowels. And his fingers retreated from her flowing fountain. Then she lay there, panting, wondering how she had lived through the sheer pain and pleasure of it all.

Le Boeuf's weight was gone for quite a while before she managed to gather enough strength to roll over onto her back. Then she saw that he was not in the room. She wondered if maybe she could make a break through the French doors, out into the garden and across the farmlands to somewhere – maybe to someone who could get help for the Flemings. Then she thought about her father, maneuvering at whatever plans he might have, in Marseilles. She might foul it all up if she went off on her own and did anything wild on the spur of the moment.

But she knew that the truth of the matter was that she was too weak, too spent, to attempt anything until she could get back her wind and her strength. The ordeal with Le Boeuf had left her a limp, quivering bundle of gelatin.

Then he was back in the room, standing over her, looking down on her defenseless body as if he could eat it up in a few bites.

"I apologize to Mademoiselle. I did not intend to enter her from the back, like that. I know it is not easy to accept a man that way for the first time. But I was carried away by my passion when the so delicious juices of Mademoiselle were in my nostrils and on my lips. I hope that I have not given Mademoiselle too much pain."

Darla looked up at him, and noted that his huge, limp organ was dripping water. Obviously, he had retired to the bathroom and washed after the anal engagement. She was still quivering and weak from the terrible onslaught, and he seemed to waver in her gaze as she looked up at him.

She tried to smile, but had no way of knowing whether her facial muscles responded. It was like the time she had been alone at home one weekend, when Daddy Chuck and Mother Ann were Christmas shopping in New York. She'd been lonely and bored, and had grown bold in her solitude. She'd gotten into the liquor shelves back of the bar in the den, and drunk herself into a solitary stupor. She recalled that she had tried to make faces into the bar mirror, and laughed at her inability to command her facial muscles to respond properly.

Le Boeuf smiled down at her adoringly. Then he sat on the edge of the sofa-bed beside her, and she felt the surprising heat of his flesh as his thigh touched her own. She wondered at the effect this chain of events was having on her mind. She felt absolutely amoral as she lay there, enjoying the play of the mild breeze on her nude body, and the contrasting heat of the Moroccan's flesh against hers.

She rolled over halfway and leaned up on her elbow, then looked at the dark skin of the huge man as he sat there, looking for all the world like an African prince in his nuptial chambers.

He was a clean man, as evidenced by his immediate repair to the bathroom to wash after the episode he'd just completed. And he was a good man, basically, trying to be honest with her, when he really needn't have, because she was absolutely under his power.

She felt a strange tenderness for this big Moroccan who had just violated the previously inviolable entrances of her body. He had torn her maiden head several days previously, and now he'd plunged his raping flesh into the tenderness of her anal privacy. Yet, he had brought her a wild, primeval pleasure in the midst of her otherwise bland existence if one were to discount the sadistic influence of Gerault on the scene.

She leaned over Le Boeuf's lap, inspecting closely the resting length of this flesh which had torn the tissues of her two most private body openings. It looked so tender and harmless, now, almost as if it were incapable of the ravages it had wrought on her vulnerable body. She leaned over it, looking at the dark skin and the fine lines of the veins which ran through its intriguingly patterned surface. Something came over her which she could not then or later define. It was a compulsion born of her strangely maternal feelings for this big man with the tender heart, and the fantastic pain-pleasure he had given her.

She lowered her head closer and closer to the fascinating display of black and pink flesh. Then her lips touched it, and she felt a deep thrill of combined revulsion and hunger as its softness contacted the sensitive tissue of her lips.

Her hand stole out beneath her poised mouth, and lifted the limpid member. It lay gently, softly, vulnerably on her fingers like a sleeping snake. She brought its intriguingly soft darkness up until it lay helplessly exposed in her palm.

Then she wrapped her lips over it, letting its satin slide through the grip she gently imposed on it. When the tip slipped into her mouth, she tongued it delicately, then made her hand peel back the soft skin from its extremity.

The dark head glided into her mouth, and she made her tongue test every soft, tender spot on its surface. Then she began to suck on it. As she vacuumed its round fullness, it began to swell. In seconds, it had doubled its size, and it was pulsing within her mouth as though it had a life of its own.

Her hand squeezed the base of the stiffening organ, then slid back to cradle the fullness of the wrinkled, hairy luggage which hung below it. Groans were emanating form Le Boeuf's lips as she sucked at the swelling head, and massaged the tingling bag.

"Mademoiselle! I cannot contain myself! I will flow into you!" He sounded as if he were in pain. She continued to lick at the soft hardness, of the fullness in her mouth, and then she felt the pressure of his hands, on her body, and she was rolled over with him onto the bed. He had spread her thighs in the air, and was licking at the wet heat of her loins.

She felt the approach of another strong current sweep through her, and then the fullness in her mouth was more full as the pumping, throbbing pulse of his enlargement filled her mouth and throat. She swallowed to keep from choking, and it seemed to fill her forever, then it was through, and she relaxed her lips and jaws as the full tide of her passion carried her over the crest.

When she came to, she kept her eyes closed for a long time. God! she thought. What have I done? I literally sucked that big cock of his, and he didn't even force me to do it! What's happened to me? As she realized the enormity of her perversion, she started to get sick.

Quickly, she got off the bed and ran out and down the hall into the bathroom. When she had emptied her queasy stomach, she gargled with clear water from the lavatory, then drank several swal lows.

When she had half-collapsed onto the bidet, she relaxed a little, and felt the tension decrease as her bladder emptied. Then she summoned up the strength to operate the controls, and flushed herself out with the rushing water.

When she had dried herself, Le Boeuf was standing in the doorway.

"Mademoiselle has been more kind to me than I asked. I will do all I can to protect her and her family. I shall always remember the joys of today." He disappeared into the hall, and waited politely until she came out of the room.

When she had been led back downstairs, her mother looked at her strangely, and after the Moroccan had re-shackled her to her chains, Ann spoke to her.

"What's been going on, honey? He kept you up there a long time after he brought me back."

Darla drew a deep breath, tempted to tell her mother all, and then thought better of it. She refused to lie, and she couldn't stand the shame of telling what she had done without the threat of torture.

"Le Boeuf and I were talking," she said, revealing the semi-truth. "I think he will try to help us, if he can."

CHAPTER NINE

C. Eldon Fleming was sitting at a sidewalk table in front of the approved cafe. Le Cafe Noir did not look like its name. Its facade was a grayish white, with red trim. The only black thing around was visible under the nails of the waiter who brought Fleming his vermouth.

Other than the neglect of his manicure, Maurice – as the waiter had introduced himself – could not be faulted. His courtesy and the speed with which he appeared when required were much better than the American had found in the hotel dining room. He wondered how much of the service was due to the "coupons" Frenchmen vied for. These clever paper incentives were furnished tourists when they entered the country, and they were to be given to citizens who met high standards of courtesy and service in dealings with the visitors.

Fleming listened to the accordionist inside the cafe. He was playing Julie la Rousse. The American remembered sitting in sidewalk cafes in 1945 when other tunes were more in vogue. He looked at his pocket watch. Still almost an hour before he was due at the bank.

He'd spent all of this morning in planning and preparing for what was ahead. He unconsciously patted the breast of his jacket, feeling the papers which he'd put in the inside pocket. A rough map of the Salon area, pinpointing the farmhouse, a slightly less rough sketch of the floor plan, with suggested approaches for the Surete when they closed in, and a brief few paragraphs describing the situation there.

He didn't pat his hip pocket where he again carried the Beretta. But he could feel its reassuring hardness as he leaned back in the chair. What worried him was the probability that he would be given some kind of search when they picked him up. He argued with himself that he had lost their original bloodhound only for a few minutes. He was sure that they also had the hotel staked out, and that they knew he hadn't had time for any lengthy conversations.

He'd checked the suite, and knew that it had been searched thoroughly during the family's absence. He knew that it hadn't been the Surete, because his.38 DA Special was missing from his luggage. It had been registered upon entering the country, and would not have been confiscated. So presumably Gerault and company wouldn't expect him to be armed. They knew how much cash he had on him – he seldom carried a lot of cash – and the American Express money orders had been in the hotel suite, so they should know he couldn't have purchased a pistol in the short time he'd had after evading their "tail" up to the moment he arrived at the hotel.

Still, they might want to be certain he hadn't acquired a knife or something. Yes, he had to expect that he would be frisked again. He gambled that it would happen after he'd entered the car. He'd try to slip it into the seat while they went over him, then get it back before they arrived at the farmhouse.

He ordered shrimp and a green salad, and Maurice brought a fine bowl of bouillabaisse to start him off. It was the best version of the famous fish soup which he'd had since his army days here. He mentally saluted Gerault's taste in restaurants, as he enjoyed the rest of his meal. He promised to bring the family here after he'd gotten them out of this mess.

He ate slowly, and after he'd tipped Maurice and paid the cashier, he returned and gave the waiter one of the prized coupons. The man's face flowed as he thanked Fleming profusely, begging him to return.

At the bank, Monsieur Guiyesse took Fleming through the wooden gate into the plush office area reserved for VIP's. Guiyesse was a thin, tall man with graying black hair – a typical Man of Distinction. He presented the draft for Fleming to sign, took it to one of the clerks, and returned to sit with his patron until the cash was ready.

Fleming slipped the papers from his inside jacket pocket, and handed them to Guiyesse.

"Wait until after I leave here, then find some way to get these to the Surete without being followed. It shows exactly where and how to apprehend the kidnappers who are holding me and my family."

Guiyesse's eyes narrowed as he accepted the papers, then he put them in the top drawer of his desk.

"I could telephone them and have them send a man over here to get them," he suggested.

"No!" Fleming insisted. "They may have someone watching the bank who might know the man they send. Better if you phone them and have them pick them up somewhere else after you drop them off in a safe place. We can't take any chances. The leader of this gang is very vindictive, and a sadist. He would enjoy the excuse to torture us more than he has already." Guiyesse nodded understandingly.

The clerk arrived with the money, and Guiyesse counted it out into the attache case Fleming had brought with him from the hotel. The moment the case was latched, the American stood up, shook hands with the banker, and thanked him.

"We'll be very grateful for your help in delivering those papers, Monsieur Guiyesse," Fleming said.

"Please call me Henri," said the banker. "I am happy to be of service."

The taxi which pulled up as Fleming came out of the bank could very likely be a plant, he knew. But it didn't matter. All that counted was that he would appear to be following orders. If he conducted himself properly from here on, and came back with the money, they would have little to say about the few minutes during which he'd shaken off his first tracker. After all, he had made it look very innocent and accidental.

When he was again in the hotel, he talked to the desk clerk.

"Do you have a paper cutter in your office that I could use in my room for a while?" he asked. "You mean scissors?" queried the clerk.

"No. A cutter for working with a small stack of paper. Something to cut several thicknesses at once."

"Ah, yes. I believe there is one in the manager's office. I'll send up a boy with it."

"No. I'll take it with me, now. And wrap it before you bring it out of the office. This is a very private matter, and I wouldn't want any of the other members of your staff to know about it."

The clerk looked at him curiously, then disappeared into the manager's office. In a few minutes he came out with a newspaper-wrapped bundle. Fleming thanked him, then went up to his suite, where he phoned down, requesting that all the newspapers available be sent up to him. Today's and for the previous two days, including the American editions.

The stack which a bellboy brought up later was much larger than Fleming had expected, and more than he required. He busied himself cutting packs of newsprint into the exact size of the banknotes.

Then he opened the attache case and laboriously duplicated the packets of money. He placed a genuine banknote on top and bottom of each phony pack. When he'd completed the project, anyone looking inside the case would believe it to contain exactly what it looked like: a hell of a lot of money.

He took the loose bills which had piled up on the bed, and put them into one of the travel cases which were a part of his wife's luggage, then shoved it under the bed.

He took the remnants and scraps of newspaper into the bathroom and tore the larger pieces until they could be flushed down the big drain. After he'd erased all the evidence of his trickery, he rewrapped the paper cutters went back down to the desk, and returned it to the clerk, who carried it back into the office.

Fleming then went into the boutique in the lobby and pretended to browse for a while, after which he went back up to his room.

He was thinking about the timing of the events to come, as he undressed and got into bed. If he could get to sleep this early, he'd be up very early, refreshed, and able to think fast when the time came. What bothered him was whether the Surete would do as he asked, and wait until he'd been taken back to the farmhouse before closing in. He wanted to be there with the family, in case of anything unforeseen.

He dreaded the first moments following his return. If Gerault looked at the money packets closely, there would be trouble. But he hoped that he could convince the Frenchman that he wasn't trying to be cheap and greedy. He just wanted the payoff to be on his own terms.

If Gerault would let the others go back to the hotel suite, then phone him, Fleming would remain at the farmhouse under captivity as hostage, and when he was convinced that Ann and the kids were safe and could not be recaptured, then he would tell Gerault where to get the money. He planned to wait until Ann phoned him from the hotel suite, make sure from her that they were safe, then have her get the money from the suitcase under the bed, and have a bellhop or other messenger deliver it to wherever Gerault wanted it.

He tossed for quite a while, and was just getting drowsy enough to sleep when his phone rang. It was Gerault's voice that greeted him.

"The schedule has changed. Bring the money down and get into the taxi which is waiting for you in front of your hotel."

"But, I'm in bed! It will take me a while to get dressed."

"You have five minutes. Hurry!" There was a click as the Frenchman hung up. Fleming started to worry. Things were bad, this way. The Surete would not come to the rescue until late in the morning! He'd better be able to convince Gerault about the phony money!

When he came out of the hotel, a taxi pulled up from the rank and opened its door. He got in; the driver pulled out into traffic without asking the destination, so Fleming sat there quietly, expecting to be driven to the garage where he'd been dropped.

But within ten or twelve blocks, the cab parked at the curb. The Citroen limousine pulled up beside it, and Gerault got out and paid the taxi driver. Fleming was hustled into the car, and they drove off. Yvette was again driving, and the sadist was seated beside the American, who wondered why he wasn't being blindfolded.

When they were well on the road to Salon, he turned and looked at Gerault, noting the tight corners of the Frenchman's mouth, and the way his eyes were narrowly slitted, even though very little light entered the darkly tinted windows. "No blindfold?" Fleming finally asked.

"Of what use would it be to a man who can map the route we take and diagram the house to which we go?" The Frenchman's voice was hard and sharp, and it made a warning bell ring in Fleming's mind. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"You heard me quite well, Monsieur Fleming. Let us not play any more games with each other. You have tried to enlist the aid of the Surete, and you have failed. You have attempted to double cross me and you have failed. Let us see if you have the money." He pulled the attache case onto his lap and opened it, then stared down at the packets for a moment before he closed the case.

"At least in this you have not failed. It is the only thing which has saved you and your family from a number of unpleasant experiences. Now, scoot forward in your seat, while I see if you have brought with you anything we do not want you to have in your possession."

Fleming put his hands behind him as if to push himself forward. He pulled the Beretta from his pocket, and almost decided to use it there and then. But Gerault's silenced gun was aimed at him. He tucked the Beretta behind the seat cushion and scooted forward. The Frenchman used his free hand to feel and pat around for a few moments, then he leaned back and kept the gun aimed at Fleming.

"Pull out your pockets, one by one, while I see what you have." Fleming obeyed, and when he had exhibited the contents of every one of his pockets, including the lining itself, the Frenchman lowered the pistol slightly. "Bien. Sit back in your seat and relax."

They drove on, and Fleming studied the countryside, remembering the times he had driven through it in a jeep or truck. He wished that his reflexes were as fast now as they had been in those days. And that he had been sharp enough to guess that Gerault might have recruited someone at the bank, for it had to be that which had tipped him off. Whoever it was undoubtedly had followed Guiyesse and grabbed the papers before the Surete picked them up. It was a hell of a note!

His only hope now was that Guiyesse might have studied them before he dropped them off. And that the Surete, having missed the pickup, would check back with the banker and get enough information to find the place.

When they pulled up in front of the farmhouse, Gerault forced him out of the car before he could manage to get the Beretta back into his pocket. He barely had time to shove it down far enough behind the cushion to hide it from the Frenchman, who stayed inside until Fleming was clear of the car.

The hidden gun had been his last hope to turn the tables by himself. If the Surete didn't come through, the Flemings could be tortured to death!

Damn! Damn! Why the hell did I fool with that phony money? I only wanted to get Tommy and the girls out of there before the shooting started between Gerault and the Surete. Now, it looks like I've killed us all!

All the way down to the cellar, Fleming was sweating cold drops which beaded on his brow and upper lip. It would be only a matter of time before the newsprint "banknotes" would be discovered.

When the family was again alone in their dungeon, he confessed to the faulty planning and warned them of what might happen. He couldn't let them have any false hopes, and he was so disgusted with himself for having come a cropper, that he wanted them to hate him for it as he was hating himself. "Exactly where is the gun, Dad?" asked Tommy.

"What difference?" Fleming countered. "We can't reach it from here!"

"Mother gave me a hairpin they missed when they frisked us. I've been practicing, and I can open every one of my cuffs excepting the one on my right wrist. I lock them all up again, each time, just so I won't get caught at it before I'm completely loose."

"I'll be damned!" said Fleming. "Listen. Keep working on that stubborn one until you get it. If we can get one of us loose, and he can get out of here, we'll have it made."

"I know! I know! It's just that I can't seem to do as well when I'm working with my left hand. But I'll keep after it, all right!"

"Okay. Well, you all should know, anyway. Just in case. The gun is exactly like the 7.65 Beretta I have at home. You've all had training in how to use it. It's tucked between the seat and seat-back of the car out front – the rear seat, of course. There's a round in the chamber, and the safety's on. If any one of us manages to get to it, remember this: besides the round in the chamber, there are only four others in the clip. So make your shots count if you have to use it on these bastards."

"I'd hate to think of Le Boeuf getting hurt or killed, Daddy," Darla interjected.

"What are you talking about?" said Fleming. He was shocked to hear her defend the Moroccan. "Isn't he the sonovabitch that raped you first?"

"Yes, Daddy, but he was acting under orders. Gerault has something on him, and if he doesn't cooperate, Gerault will turn him in. He's really the only one of the bunch who has any compassion at all. And he's really a lot more intelligent and humane than you might guess from the way he acts."

"Darla, honey, you're inclined to romanticize a little too easily, you know. But even if you're one-hundred percent correct in your opinion of the Moroccan, we can't take chances. All of our lives es depend on getting the upper hand with these people."

"Yes, Daddy, but he's promised to help us all he can. He doesn't dare do anything that Gerault might discover and use as an excuse to turn him over to the police. But in any other way, I really believe that he'll honestly try to help us. He just can't refuse a direct order from Gerault if he's likely to be found out."

"What if Gerault orders him to kill us?"

"Oh, Daddy! You don't think they'll go that far, do you?"

"Honey, we are very likely to be skating right now on thinner ice than ever before in our lives – and I hope we can get lucky enough to get out of it somehow!"

"Well, the worst thing that Gerault can be holding over his head is murder – right? He wouldn't commit one murder just to keep from being turned in for another, would he?"

"Of course, he would! He'd have to! Whatever Gerault has on him – even murder – is unknown to the authorities at present. If he had to kill us on Gerault's orders, that could be presumed to be without the knowledge of the authorities, too. What he really has to fear is Gerault's telling on him. And that will happen, supposedly, the moment he refuses to do anything Gerault orders including our mass murders!"

"I think he'd kill Gerault, first!" said Darla. "I really do!"

"Well, honey, we can't take chances. The only thing we can do is plan to overcome them, no matter how we do it. If Le Boeuf goes along with our takeover – if we are lucky enough to make it – then he'll be spared. But if he resists us, we'll have to fight him in any way we can. It's survival, honey. Surely you can see that."

"I guess so," said Darla, feeling strangely sad about this discussion which might lead to the kindly Moroccan's death.

They ceased any further discussion as the stairway door opened. Gerault descended slowly, and as he entered the circle of light provided by the naked bulb in the center of the arena, they saw the black look he wore on his face. "It seems that we have need of the services of Madame Fleming," he announced. He moved to where Ann was chained, and unlocked her shackles. He led her up the stairs as the others looked at each other and then followed the departing pair with anxious eyes.

Ann was taken to the living room, where the sofa bed was opened and ready for occupants. She looked at it, then studied the dark face of Gerault.

"Your husband has seen fit to play a dangerous game," he said. "I have examined the ransom he brought from Marseilles, and it seems to be somewhat less than the agreed amount." He was looking at her with mocking eyes, and the arch of his brows made her think of the prototype of all the Mephistopheles characters she had seen or imagined in the role.

"We shall now begin a very interesting series of adventures. You are honored to be the first member of your family to inaugurate this series. Take off your clothes and get on the bed!"

Ann slowly removed her clothes, wondering what was going to happen to her, now. When she had removed all but her bra and panties, she hesitated, wondering again what she was in for. Gerault stepped toward her, and tore the brassiere from her, making the straps cut her shoulders and arms, cruelly.

Then his hands were under the band of her panties, and he gave the elastic a mighty jerk downward, pulling them from the area of her blonde-feathered genitals, and off her thighs. Another jerk, and he had them down past her calves, at her ankles. She stepped out of them, and her eyes were wide as he moved her rudely back onto the bed. Then he was spreading her legs, and his mouth found her opening blossom of flesh, as it split asunder.

He's eating me. I hope it ends these! What can he have planned? Oh! He certainly knows how to get at the heart of a cunt! He's licking and slurping at my little erection as though he's going to devour it! Oh-h-h! That tongue! It's pushing right into my hot pussy! What's he doing, now? Oh-h-h-h! He's biting at my cant lips with his teeth! Oh-h-h! It hurts so good! This is torture, all right, but I think I can stand it, of I can just hold on!

Then she felt the lips and tongue depart, and her hungry flesh lay there, exposed and throbbing with her need. Suddenly she felt the entrance of a hard intruder, as Gerault's rigid member penetrated her passage.

He's fucking me, now. I can stand that. Le Boeuf gave me one of Darla's pills this morning, and I can take whatever he dishes out. In fact, I think it feels good!

Then the meaty invader was pounding at her, and she felt the slap of his hairy bag on her buttocks and anus as he plunged repeatedly into her depths. She began to groan as the frictional contact of his loins rubbed her sensitivities excitedly. Then he was moving faster, and she felt his mouth on her breast. He sucked and nibbled at the delicate bud which formed excitedly under his teasing mouth. She felt herself going, and the thrilling plunge into oblivion was an ecstatic pleasure, until he started to bite her. As she felt the shuddering tremors start to spread from the center of her being, his teeth clamped down on her tender nipple, and she felt pain such as she'd never known before.

Then he was grabbing her buttocks with his pinching hands, clawing his nails into her soft flesh until she wanted to die from the agony. Her scream started deep in her throat, and rolled out loudly onto the afternoon air.

He reached up with one hand and grabbed her by the throat, cutting off her sounds at the source. But the teeth didn't let up. They bit deeply into the sensitive flesh of the spongy nipple, and the shock traveled through her like an electric current.

Then he was speeding up his movements still more, and she felt the beginnings of his pulsing end.

He's coming in me, and I hurt so much that I can't come with him! God! He's a beast! I'm hanging high and dry, and I'm about to lose out while he fills my helpless cunt with his hot old cream. He's a bastard – worse than I imagined! And I thought Frenchmen were great lovers. Oh-h-h! Fuck me some more, and stop that biting!

But she was out of luck. Gerault was only out to relieve his animal lusts, and to make her miserable. She was furnishing the first payment on what he felt Fleming owed him for the double-cross!

Then Gerault was grabbing her buttocks tightly, pulling her to him, as he pumped his heated fluid into her in spasms. The flow was filling her, and she realized it, but she was dying for a release of her own. Then he rolled off her, and she felt the wet trail his member left across her thighs.

She looked up as his weight was lifted from her, and he got to his feet, and disappeared from her sight. She could see in the wall-mirror the results of his attack. Her left breast was streaked with blood, and the nipple was still bleeding slightly. The streak of white, stringy semen that trailed across her thigh from the pinkly wet slit of her opening was also visible.

She reached down and wiped it off, then smeared it onto the bed-linen in a far corner remote from her head. As she looked up to see what was going on, the gigantic figure of Le Boeuf filled her field of… vision.

He was stripped for action, and the hugeness of his member was all she could see. It was stretched to full length and seemed to be throbbing and pulsing as it stood there, extended from the blackness of his loins. Its own darkness seemed to threaten her, and yet she felt no real fear. It seemed large, but her hungry passage was unfulfilled, and anything that would fill her needs would gratify her, now.

Then heavy, large hands were grasping her buttocks, and she was rolled over onto her belly. The same large hands pulled at her soft skin, around the stomach area, and her butt rose in the air, until she felt the firm cheeks spread by searching fingers.

She turned her head, and looked into the wall-mirror. She could see the giant Moroccan poised over her, and his hands separating the cheeks of her ass. Then one of his handy disappeared under her, and she felt the fingers probing at her flowing crotch.

He's dipping his hand into my cunt, but only for the juice, she thought. What's he doing? Then she felt the wetness on the tight circle of her virgin anus. My God! Even Chuck hasn't fucked me there! My ass is too tight! That horrendous cock of his will split me in half!

Then she felt the head of his weapon press at the tight ring of her anus. Its heat and hardness seemed to tolerate no resistance. She felt her burning tissues part as the stiff invader pressed at the tender ring of flesh. A monstrously swelling sensation began to spread through her as his bulk slowly forced its way past the tight, puckered exit he was using as an entrance.

The aching pain of it was unbelievable. The force of the huge, meaty invader violated her with steady, brutal pressure. She was being spread open where she had never before been touched.

"Stop! Please stop! I can't stretch there like this! Fuck me right! You're killing me! Oh-h-h!" She was gasping with the agony of her fullness. Then she started to pass out. As her muscles automatically relaxed, the pain lessened, and she started to come to before completely losing consciousness. This made her tighten up her muscles, again, and the pain increased.

Oh! I've got to relax. It helps to relax, but I can't! Oh, God! There's no use begging. They're going to hurt us as much as they can! Ooh-h-h! He's fingering me. That helps. The way he's digging around in my sloppy cunt, helps take my mind off the pain. Oh! Not enough, thought. God! That hurts! He's pumping at me, now. It burns so! His finger's in my cant so deep, too. Oh! It's like being fucked with two pricks at once! If he wasn't so big it might feel good. Oh, if he only weren't so God awful big! Le Boeuf was thrusting at her hard, and she could feel the wet slap of his giant sac against her parted cheeks as he banged against her. It felt as if he must have torn up everything inside her. Then his arm, which was around her lower belly, shifted as he changed the position of his hand. In addition to the long finger which was sunk deep into her passage, another finger or thumb now was splashing in the soup of her flowing flesh to massage her throbbing bud. It felt so good that she started to move her hips. She was on her knees, and as she reacted to his stimulating fingers, the movement also gave added impetus to his unorthodox penetration.

Suddenly his size within her seemed to increase. It swelled and pulsed deep in her bowels.

He's coming in my ass. That hot cream is gooding my guts. It's like being fucked by a stud horse! Oh-h-h! I'm coming, too!

Then a red, shimmering curtain closed her off from the outside world as the big, black organ pumped its load into her body. Her flesh seemed to separate from her mind, melting into blobs of wet, hot, red meat that gleamed fluorescently in the blackness of space.

In a series of colorful explosions, she lost consciousness.

CHAPTER TEN

The return to the dungeon was different this time. Gerault had thrust her clothes at her – minus the torn bra and panties – and told her to dress. There was no time to clean up. He let her stop just long enough to urinate in the bidet, then pulled her off and forced her down the hall to the stairs.

She could walk only with difficulty, and going down the steps was a painful ordeal. When she had been shackled in place, the Frenchman unlocked Tommy and shoved him toward the stairs. As the boy began the upward climb, Gerault leered at Fleming over his shoulder, and spoke as he followed Tommy on the stairs.

"Madame has been well-fucked for you, Monsieur – at front and back doors. Later we will bring her up and give her something to eat. A lot of meat and a little gravy!" He laughed maniacally as he disappeared through the stairwell, and the door closed in the middle of his mad gurgles.

"God! Ann, I'm so sorry for you. I'm such a dumb sonovabitch for getting us into this mess! If I could just get my hands on that sadistic bastard for ten seconds!"

"Don't, Chuck! It won't help to berate yourself. And don't feel so bad about me. After all, I'll heal up. We have to keep our minds occupied with planning and scheming. We don't have time for recriminations and worrying about individual problems. There's only the one problem – getting loose, somehow!"

"I know. You're right, Ann. If only Tommy can get that last lock picked, we'll stand a chance."

"Mother," Darla said, "it might help to know that you'll stop hurting sooner than you expect to."

"Darla! Do you mean that you were… that they…"

"Yes. Le Boeuf got me from the back, too. It hurt like anything, but it's not so bad now. Although it burns for a while, every time I… I mean… I think I'm going to eat awfully light for a few days, to ease any additional problems."

"You poor kid!" Fleming groaned. "These maniacs all ought to be killed. They're a menace to the whole damned world!"

"I wonder how poor Tommy's making it," Ann said.

***

Tommy wasn't making it as well as he might.

He was flat on his back on the sofa-bed, and Yvette's mouth was working on him. She'd started on his belly, worked her way juicily down to his thighs, then back up to his slowly responding genitals.

She's a filthy animal, but she sure knows how to stir a guy! That tongue of hers must be twice as long as normal, and it maneuvers about like an anteater's! He felt it swirl around the end of his organ and then seesaw across the tip like a fleshy file. Damn! That tickled and hurt at the same time.

Then she had the greater part of him in her mouth, and began to strip it in long strokes, sucking deeply each time she neared the tip. Oh, God! That crazy Bruce Bowers and his story about the milking machine! It couldn't hare been any worse than this! Nothing could be worse. I can't stand it! But there was worse to come!

Yvette pulled her dirty skirt up around her middle and swung her unbathed body onto the bed until her legs straddled Tommy's chest. She hadn't let go the captive flesh with her mouth for a second! Then she backed herself into position and shoved her hairy bush into Tommy's face. The smell was overpowering!

Was it only two days ago that he had found himself surprised by his enjoyment of the faintly pissy, musk like scent he'd discovered between his mother's legs? Somehow, he reasoned, that had seemed a healthy male reaction.

But nobody could be attracted by this! The red wetness suspended over his face was dripping with the girl's excitement, and the drops struck him on the nose and mouth. Then she lowered it on target! The wet heat of her flesh smothered him. He rolled his face away and spat at the wall.

Then his right hand was grabbed, and Gerault's glowing cigarette tip was pressed against his wrist! He yowled loudly before he could close his mouth. He hated showing his pain.

"You will cooperate with Yvette, or you will be a mass of blisters when we take you back downstairs!" the Frenchman promised.

Tommy wondered which he could stand the longest – the burning or the sickening flesh in his mouth. He tried to think clearly through the smarting pain on his wrist. He had to stay in condition so he'd be able to help with an escape. He'd have to force himself to do whatever they ordered – for now. But if he got half a chance, he'd make them pay for it!

The slimy flesh pressed again to his mouth, and he nibbled at it halfheartedly. She rotated her hips, making the wet meat move on his mouth. When the surprisingly long, hard bud of her passion had rubbed up against his lips, she held it there and wiggled to massage it against him.

"Lick it Tom-mee! Suck it for me!" the said, removing her own mouth from ham just long enough to get out the words. The initial shock of her odor and wetness at his face had softened his manhood, but now she was awakening it again. As it stiffened in her mouth, he tongued her and sucked at the small fleshling between his lips.

She was humming as he treated her, and the vibration of the sound seemed to act like a tiny electric massager as her humming lips encircled him. The rhythm of her oral movements became faster, and he tingled all over as she seemed to pull at his nerve centers.

He could tell that she was getting more excited, too. The juices flowed liberally from her large, open gap, and she was wiggling in the same fast tempo as she was using at the other end. Then she lifted her head to yell at him.

"Stick it in me! Put your tongue in me, deep! Quick!"

He reluctantly thrust his tongue into her sloppy passage, and it seemed to suck and swallow at him. Then he felt it go into her until his teeth were pressed roughly against the fleshy outer lips of her canyon, and she wriggled excitedly, frictioning snugly on his lower lip and chin.

Then he was spurting his soul out through his loins, and Yvette was pumping at him hungrily, sucking at his tip with each stroke, until he felt completely drained. But still she wouldn't stop. She pulled and sucked at him until he thought he'd go mad. When he could take it no longer, he risked another cigarette burn. He bit her as hard as he could on a fleshy, swollen lip of her womanhood.

She let go of him and rolled off, laughing with glee.

"I take more than you have to give, non? Even a healthy young man like you will have to have a rest before you can make enough to feed me again! But I am better than you. Even now I am ready for you to suck me so nice some more. Can he, Jean?" She turned to look at Gerault pleadingly.

"Later. Le Boeuf, take him down and bring up Papa."

"Just one minute, Jean. Please?" Before Tommy could get up, she rolled him over on his belly and parted his buttocks with her fingers. Then her tongue dug into his anus and wiggled hotly. It was a wild sensation! But the thought of what she was doing made him nauseous.

She probed and licked at him, washing the ring of his exit until he groaned with the unexpected ecstasy of it. Then she let him go, again laughing happily.

The Moroccan motioned at him, and he went back to the cellar, after slipping into his clothes.

"The blister on my wrist… do you hare to use the cuff? I can't go anywhere with the other three locked." Tommy's pulse beat swiftly as he awaited the Moroccan's reaction.

Then Le Boeuf nodded, slowly, as he locked only the three shackles. When Fleming was released, he winked surreptitiously at Tommy as he turned to precede Le Boeuf up the stairs.

As he was herded into the living room, which had remained the base of operations, for some reason – even though the light was not essential in the absence of the camera – Fleming saw the gleaming eyes of Yvette boring into him.

As he started to strip on Gerault's command, the girl peeled off her dirty skirt and blouse. For the first time, he saw that she was really a pretty girl with a terrific figure.

But when she threw her naked body on him, the brief admiration was dissolved by the scent of her unwashed skin. She forced a hard breast against his mouth, cupping the globe with one hand as she tried to maneuver the nipple tip between his lips.

"Tom-mee, he suck me good! You 'ave more experience, nor?"

The revulsion rose up in his throat, and he swallowed, hard. But his lips did not open. Gerault's cigarette tip against his left buttock made them open as he gasped, but his teeth were clamped together in agony. Nevertheless, Yvette had wig gled the rising tip of her nipple between his lips, and was cooing in his ear.

"Chew eet for me, gently. Make eet hurt a leetle for me, non?"

Having earned his battle scar, Fleming slowly obeyed. He wanted to make this last as long as he could stand it, to give Tommy as much time as possible to get free. But if he got too many of those burns especially if any of them were in the wrong places and serious enough, it might hamper him in aiding the boy when the time came.

He nibbled with his teeth at the dark, spongy flesh, and Yvette moaned as he chewed. Then she made him switch to the other breast, and he gnawed at its springy peak until she was gasping. Her body slithered over him, and she grasped his wand and began to stroke it.

When it filled her hand stiffly, she arched her back and scooped her hips downward. Her hot, dripping maw gulped at him and began to engulf him within her. Her passage was like a throat, and he could feel it swallowing him. The folds of her lining were like grasping hands, pulling at him, sucking him in.

Good Lord! What a machine! She must have been fucked by millions to get that kind of muscle development! And she's probably had all the diseases there are in the books – maybe still has them! But she sure has an educated cunt! It's milking me like I was a cow's teat!

As she moved her hips above him, squeezing his rigidity with her practiced muscles, she covered his mouth with hers. He got a quick blast of her garlic breath, then her hot tongue was plunging into his mouth. She sucked at his lips and probed with her tongue until the expertness of her treatment broke him down despite his distaste.

She vacuumed his tongue up into her mouth and sucked at it as her hips rotated and her buttocks rose and fell above him, pulling and swallowing at his manhood.

Raped, by damn! I'm actually being raped. After all the times I've joked about it, I'm being fucked against my will! Fucked? Hell, I've been fucked by what I thought was the greatest. I'm being milked and that's all you can call it. Her cunt must be a living lake. The juice is all over me!

She worked at him faster as her own excitement built. Then she turned into a fiery tornado. His stretching flesh was caught in the vortex of the sexual cyclone, and it felt as if it were being pulled out by the roots! She was sucking his tongue deep into her mouth as she pressed tightly against him and shuddered. Her whole body shook with her tremors, and something deep in her passage wrapped an iron hand around the tip of his wand and squeezed at it.

He spurted hotly into her in spasms, and they were shuddering together for several long seconds.

Yvette's weight lifted from him, and he rolled to the edge of the bed to get up.

"Wait! We are not through," Gerault said. "Yvette, lie down on the bed. We are going to have a special soixante-neaf party." The girl stretched out, this time with her feet at Fleming's head.

"Okay, Monsieur. Now you get the pleasure of eating Yvette's very hot pussy. Climb over her and get started!"

"Hell, make her take a douche, first, at least!" demanded Fleming.

"You are in no position to dictate terms," replied Gerault. His tone was deadly, and so was the look in his eyes. He was moving toward Fleming, and blowing on his cigarette as he approached.

"You're all crazy! Filthy, crazy-mad animals!" Fleming muttered. But he climbed aboard just in time to avoid the cigarette's kiss of fire. So he thought. But as he positioned himself over the dirty brunette, he felt its fire boring into his thigh in back.

"There will be no more angry words from you, Monsieur. Or you will go back to the cellar looking as if you had the plague. Do you have any idea how many places I can burn you with one cigarette?"

Fleming was boiling, and the blister rising on his thigh was a constant agony. He steeled himself to what was coming, then tried to hold his breath as he dove into her wet, hairy canyon with his lips. Her head was hanging over the edge of the bed, so he had to stand his toes on the floor and lean his thighs against the edge to poise over her in the proper place. She spread herself wide for him, and the first breath he had to take was pungent. But he had to admit that a large portion of the odor comprised the smell of his own semen, which had flowed heavily into her, and was dripping at her fleshy opening in whitish strings.

It's not bad enough to have to suck ok this filthy cant! I have to eat my own come. Makes me a second-hand cock sucker. If I just get my hands on these swine, I'll make them sorry they were born!

Suddenly he was shocked at the slimy, wet feel of something in the crack between his buttocks. A hand had slipped into the crease and deposited something greasy there. Now what? Did this dirty whore park her chewing gum in my asshole?

But he found out all too soon that Yvette was blameless. Hands separated his stern cheeks, and something hard pressed at his anus.

"Give it to him, Le Boeuf!" Gerault shouted, and Fleming felt the muscle tissue around his tightened ring stretch as the hardness pressed at the greased, puckered flesh. Then he swelled inside as the fullness entered him.

Bastards! Dirty, filthy animals! They haven't done enough to me already – now I get fucked in the ass to boot! He was so mad that he bit Yvette's swollen entrance, and she wailed her surprise. Fleming expected another blister, and tensed him self for it. But he got his punishment in another way. Yvette wrapped her arms around his waist and took the head of his penis in her mouth.

She bit on it, and he gasped in pain. Then she started to lick it, and in seconds he had another stiff problem. The pain of the bite increased when he swelled up, and it throbbed like a toothache. She worried it with her tongue and lips as he started to carry out his orders again.

He lapped his tongue in the flowing fountain of her red flesh, and she thrust up her hips to meet him, smearing her juices and the leftover semen on his lips, chin and face. He abandoned all hope of avoiding disease, and determined to get it over with. He licked at her erect passion bud until she writhed under him with ecstasy, sucking hard on him as she moaned around the mouthful of his flesh.

The Moroccan was plunging into his bowels up to the hilt, and each stroke ended with a smack as the huge balls slapped against Fleming's crotch. Each thrust forced his own organ hard against Yvette's mouth and throat, but she seemed to take it without too much discomfort. At least, her attentions to him did not slow down.

Then Le Boeuf let loose his loins, and the warmth being discharged in Fleming's bowels triggered his lust. He sucked and lapped at the meat below him, then sunk his tongue deep into her passage.

Yvette moaned heavily around her mouthful of flesh as she began to shudder out her finale. Then Fleming was turned on, and his flow pumped into her mouth and throat. He could feel her swallowing, as the head of his tool touched the back of her throat. It coaxed an additional flow from him, and he felt drained.

And then she sucked at him still more, drawing his guts right out through the tip. It felt like he was dying. As she sucked a last, long string out of him, the Moroccan pulled his limp member from Fleming's rectum.

The combined feeling was like genuine death from fatigue. Fleming fell over on the bed and lay there. He couldn't move a muscle. If his life depended on it, he couldn't have gotten up by himself.

Gerault's laughter was filling the room, as he reveled in the ultimate revilement of this American millionaire who had refused to meet ransom demands.

"Wait!" he yelled at Le Boeuf, who was leaving the room. "Don't go yet. We are going to get the camera for the next step. I am going to have a picture of this rich American sucking your big black Moroccan cock!"

"Jean!" Le Boeuf was even shocked, now. "Let me wash it off."

"No! To use his own native phrase, I have taken enough shit off this man. Now I will see him take a little of his own shit off you. And get my prize picture at the same time. Yvette, get the camera."

"Yvette is not going to move," said Tommy from the doorway, as he calmly took aim and shot Gerault in the kneecap.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Frenchman's screams filled the room. It sounded loud enough to be heard in the dungeon. Fleming thought of this, and imagined what the girls might be going through, not knowing who had been shot.

He moved carefully away from the bed, staying out of Le Boeuf's reach, until he got to the lamp table where Gerault had placed his pistol; he checked it to see if it was loaded, then kicked off the safety.

"Okay, Tommy. You can get the girls loose, now. Gerault, toss him the keys!" The Frenchman was moaning between clenched teeth, as he held the shattered knee in both hands. The artery had not been hit, for the blood was only seeping slowly between the white-knuckled fingers.

"They're already loose. I picked their locks before I went out for the gun. I figured that they could wait at the top of the stairs and trip anyone who showed up before I got back with this."

"That was taking a risk, son. But good work, anyhow. But we still want those keys." Silently, Le Boeuf moved a hand up to his shirt pocket, and pulled out a ring with one small key on it. He held it out to Tommy.

"Use mine," he said. Fleming and Tommy both had covered him with their guns as he reached for his shirt pocket. Now they relaxed.

"How about your key, Yvette?" Tommy asked. She shrugged her shoulders and nodded toward the back of the house.

"In my purse on the table back there." Her eyes were tired, but they showed no fear.

"Okay, Yvette. Now get down there on the floor and get Gerault's key from him." She looked at Tommy, and then grinned.

"There are only the two keys. They were in the houses just like the shackles and chains. Gerault thinks this place was used by the Underground or the Boche during the war." Her accent was less pronounced, now, as she spoke slowly, without excitement.

Tommy looked at his father, who nodded at him, then at Yvette.

"Let's go, Yvette." The Beretta motioned her up onto her feet, and she preceded Tommy down the hall. Fleming heard two short raps, then three more harder raps on the cellar door. He grinned to himself as he thought of Tommy planning the signals with Ann and Darla.

The women came down the hall, but Fleming motioned them back.

"Stay out of here. Keep to the back of the house, until there bastards are under chains." The girls disappeared back down the hall and he heard them using the bathroom.

When Tommy returned, he looked to his father, then at Le Boeuf, then at the moaning Gerault.

"We'll do it the easy way," Fleming said. "You go down first and wait for us. Stay clear of the bottom of the stairs, in case Le Boeuf drops his burden. Okay, pick him up and take him down there!" The silenced pistol centered on the Moroccan's belly.

He stepped over to Gerault and amid much groaning and protesting, picked up the smaller man and started down the hall. Fleming followed at a discreet distance, all the way to the cellar.

Le Boeuf put his load down by the wall where Tommy stood, pointing with the Beretta. Le Boeuf saved them trouble. He walked over to another set of shackles, then fastened them around his own ankles and wrists. There was only resignation on his face.

Tommy checked the locks on the Moroccan, then he and his father got the cuffs locked on Gerault.

"I have to have a doctor!" the Frenchman protested. "I could bleed to death! You could not have that on your conscience!"

"Couldn't I?" asked Fleming. He regarded the deflated sadist with disgust. "You're not bleeding that much. If you're smart, and hold that leg still, you'll be alive when we get you a doctor. If you move it, a piece of that bone or cartilage might just puncture an artery."

"You did not have to shoot me! I wasn't even holding my gun."

"Be thankful you weren't. Tommy's a crack pistol shot. He knew that if he'd just threatened you with it, you might have gone for a gun, and he'd have had to shoot to kill. You see, we aren't taking any chances on the safety of our family with a madman like you. Now, shut up and consider yourself lucky."

Tommy had gone upstairs, and now he returned with Ann and Darla in tow. The girls had cleaned up quite a bit, but they still showed signs of fatigue and the ordeal they'd been through.

"I've cased the whole place, Dad, and there's no phone here," said Tommy. "Guess we'll have to go somewhere and call the Surete."

"I'll tell you what. You keep your eye on things here, and I'll go get the law, and bring some clean clothes for everyone from the hotel. I know the girls won't want to go back to town looking like they do now." The wry smiles and nods told him he'd been right. "Don't forget the doctor!" groaned Gerault.

"I'd like to," Fleming told him, then he kissed Ann, patted Darla's cheek, and winked at Tommy. "Stand loose. See you as soon as I can make it."

He went up the stairs, leanng the door open, and soon they heard the engine of the Citroen as it left.

"I think I'll go up and lie down for a while," said Ann, smiling apologetically at her children.

"I don't blame you, Mother," said Darla. "I'll join you later. Right now, I think I'll keep Tommy company for a while." Ann went upstairs, and Darla leaned against one of the pillars which supported the floor joists of the house, as she studied the nude form of Yvette, who was sitting on the mattress parked below her wall chains.

Tommy was studying her, too. He was remembering the humiliation she'd put him through. Then he tensed as Darla picked up her skirt and held it at her waist, walking slowly over to the filthy Frenchwoman. Tommy was aghast as Darla pushed the girl over onto her back, then squatted over the brunette's head.

"Stick your tongue in this," she whispered, her eyes daring the prisoner to refuse. Still she seemed surprised when the long, pink tongue snaked out and lapped greedily at her widely opened slit. It twirled expertly around Darla's little fleshy bud, making her tingle all over. Around and around it moved, then licked out and caressed daintily the swelling lips on either side of the slit.

Darla had intended to humiliate Yvette, but now she was caught up in the pleasure of what was happening to her. Her breath panted as the expert tongue made passionate love to her excited flesh. She could feel the juices start to flow from her, and every once in a while the brunette's mouth would move up to cup her entire fleshy canyon and suck at it, draining it of its nectar.

Tommy was fascinated by whatever it was that his sister was up to. He walked slowly over toward them, and squatted down to see it all.

Darla was too involved by now to think or care who saw what. She was breathing heavily, and the wind hissed through her teeth as the sensations built up inside her. Her eyes were closed, and a whimpering sound was issuing from her nose.

Tommy's eyes dropped from his sister's face to her crotch. He stared at the beautifully enticing pinkness of her open slit, and watched as Yvette's tongue lashed out and upward, sliding along a fleshy lip up to the top, then dipping in and caressing the tiny sentinel inside.

When her lips reached up and sucked at the meaty splendor, he felt a thrill unlike any he'd experienced before. In spite of his recent activities, he felt himself getting an erection. He hadn't known that watching one female do this to another could affect a man so deeply.

Squatting down as he was, his slacks were stretched so tight that the erection was painful. He groaned, and Darla's eyes opened to look at him. Her gaze fell on his stiffening problem, and she made a tiny moaning sound, then reached out and unfastened his fly.

Her hand dipped inside, and came out with his hard lance. While Yvette continued to pursue her involvement, Darla leaned over and let her weight go onto her knees, then she took Tommy's wand in her lips and kissed it gently.

Oh, God! These people have really made perverts of us ad! My sister is kissing my cock, and no one's even forcing her to. Oh-h-h! It's wrong, but it feels so good. Ah-h-h! She's licking it, now.

Darla had snaked out her tongue, and it began to keep time with the rhythm of Yvette's caresses, which were stimng the blonde's hot fluids steadily.

I can't help myself! My cunt is so swollen I don't know what to do, and that lovely hard thing made me so hungry I couldn't leave it alone. God! I hope Mother doesn't come down here, now!

Her hand was wrapped around the pale shaft, moving the soft skin back and forth over the hard core, as she licked and sucked at the darkened head.

As the chained brunette worked faster and faster, she sneaked a hand over and dipped it into her own heated pool, where she fingered her hot depths while licking and sucking at the blonde's canyon.

Tommy's hands had slipped into his sister's blouse and cupped the unfettered treasures there. The nipples were rolling between his fingers, and his excitement was at its peak. Then Darla's most intense moment came, and she trembled all over, just as Tommy lost his load. It spurted hotly into her mouth, and she swallowed as it gushed over and over.

Then she rolled back on her hips, and sat on her feet and on Yvette's chest, catching her breath. The brunette looked up at her and grinned, licking the juices from around her mouth with a weak tongue.

"That is a lovely cunt, with the so-soft blonde fur. I am very grateful that you let me eat you." She giggled, and let her arms fall out from her shoulders, the chains clanking on the hard floor.

Darla grabbed the arms near the elbows, then placed herself once more over the brunette's mouth. Yvette began to struggle, and Tommy wondered what his sister was up to. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Something you can't do. I'll bet. I'm peeing in her filthy mouth!" Then she squealed as Yvette bit her, and raised herself up away from the anry teeth, but Tommy could see that a tiny stream still ran down the red canyon into the prisoner's face.

Then Darla backed away and jumped free of the angry hands which grabbed out at her. She stood at a safe distance and laughed. "La Crasse! La Crasse!" Darla spit at her.

"What's that mean?" Tommy wanted to know. Darla told him.

"She doesn't mind being called that," said Le Boeuf. "It is what everyone in La Place Pigalle called her. She would laugh at the other whores, because even though Yvette was not clean about her person, she told them that there was one thing she never had done, and never would do, although many of them had done it. And as long as she held that over them, they could call her what they wished, but they were dirtier than she."

"What was that?" asked Darla and Tommy tot gether.

"Non! Non! Le Boeuf, I keel you eef you tell!" Yvette was white around the eyes, and almost foaming at the mouth.

Le Boeuf laughed. He looked at the dirty brunette, then at the wounded Gerault, and appeared to think about it. Then he shrugged. He was chained next to Yvette, and he studied the scene for a moment.

"Unlock my right hand and right foot, and I will show you."

Tommy studied the Moroccan's face, particularly the eyes. After a moment, he went over and unlocked the cuff around the black right ankle, then right wrist, being careful not to get grabbed.

"Pull her over here a little closer," said Le Boeuf. Tommy and Darla dragged the mattress and its protesting burden as close as it would go toward the Moroccan. She was trying to kick and pull with her arms, but the chains hampered her. The Flemings held her down easily.

There are certain men – perverts of a kind – who get their joy from only one act. They have to pay high to get a whore to go along with it. And Yvette has resisted all these years just to be able to say she is that much cleaner than the others who call her La Crasse.

The Moroccan suddenly shifted his body, placing his naked bottom over Yvette – he hadn't been allowed to put his slacks on before they brought him from his final act of sodomy.

The girl was screaming, now, but she couldn't escape. A slight sound and a sudden odor told the Flemings what was coming. Then the dark excrement fell onto the girl's lower belly. She went limp, and ceased all resistance.

The Moroccan moved back to his place, and with unbelievable dignity stood there, a faint smile in his eyes, and around the comer of his mouth.

"She has needed that for a long time. Perhaps it will change her." He held out his wrist and waved it at Tommy, who slowly walked over and refastened the freed wrist and ankle. Then he grinned at Le Boeuf, who returned one of his own.

"I think we'd better get her upstairs and cleaned up before the marines arrive," said Darla. Tommy unlocked Yvette's shackles, trying to avoid the smelly decoration she now wore. Then he stood up.

"Come on! Wouldn't you like to get cleaned up?" He looked down at her, and she lay there limply. Then her eyes moved to study the brown mess on her belly, and she slowly slid of the mattress, holding her hands cupped over it. She went up the stairs and Tommy followed closely behind her, all the way to the bathroom.

He looked in often, as she splashed in the big bathtub, and when she had finished, she came out an entirely different person. It was almost a shame to chain her up, again. Then she surprised him. She asked if she could wash her clothes before she went back down. He agreed, and she soon had them washed, rinsed and hanging on a line she'd hung up there in the bathroom.

When he locked her up, be told her that he'd bring the clothes to her when they were dry. As he reached the foot of the stairs, she called out to him, softly.

"I really never let anyone do that to me before. I did it to them – the men who wanted me to. But no one ever made me dirty that way. I don't think I'll ever be clean again, now."

"If you take a bath every day, you'll be cleaner than you've been for a long time," Tommy told her. "You've got a good start; why not keep it up?"

"I don't know how often they'll let me bathe in prison," she said.

He turned and walked up the stairs, not wanting to think about her problems. As he got to the doorway, he sensed that something was not right. He stepped through and turned to look both ways. In the hall between the kitchen and the living room, his mother stood. A strange man stood behind her.

"I have a gun in her back," the man said. "Drop that pistol you're carrying in your waistband, or I shoot her!"

Slowly, Tommy pulled out the Beretta and let it fall to the floor.

"Your mother has answered enough questions for me to tell me what is going on. Call your sister up from the cellar." His eyes were strangely burning, and Tommy wondered if this man was perhaps even more insane than Gerault.

He turned and called over his shoulder into the stairwell.

"Darla, you'd better come up here." His sister rushed up the stairs and burst into the kitchen. When she saw what was going on, her face paled.

"Get in here with your mother, Mademoiselle." Darla obeyed. When she and Ann were in the living room, the man spoke again.

"I'm going to take the young man downstairs. If both of you are not here, sitting quietly on the sofa-bed, when I come back up, I shall return down there and kill him. Do you understand?"

They nodded, and he herded Tommy down the stairs and shackled him in the remaining chains.

"Henri!" yelped Gerault. "You have come just in time. Get me a doctor, so we can get out of here."

"To you I am always Monsieur Guiyesse, Gerault," snapped the distinguished man. "You have bungled this whole thing, and I will get you no doctor. You can lie there and die!" Guiyesse looked at the other prisoners, and shook his head. He went back upstairs, and closed the door behind him.

Ann and Darla were sits ing on the sofa-bed, and bight was in their eyes as Guiyesse approached them.

"I would advise you to give me no trouble, because I will kill either or both of you if I must, and then the young man. Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed. Hurry!"

Ann and Darla looked at each other, then began to undress. They had thought themselves finished with disrobing before strangers. But they obeyed, and when they were on the bed, he took some cord from his pocket and tied Darla's hands to the frame at one end of the sofa, and Ann's legs to the frame at the other end. Then he tied Ann's fight arm to Darla's tight leg, and her left arm to the girl's left leg.

He removed all of his clothes, and placed the gun on the lamp table, pulling it close enough to be reached from the bed. When he turned toward them, they saw that he had the smallest piece of male equipment they had seen in this house. It was infantile.

He climbed up on the bed with them, and his face hovered over Darla's exposed blonde bush with its pink gaping slit. Then he lowered his tiny genitalia over Ann's face, letting his hairy bag lie on her chin.

He looked down at Darla's quivering flesh, and even from her awkward position she could see that he was pouting like a child.

"They've had all the fun, after I did all the planning, and they spoiled the whole thing. Now it's my turn to have fun!" The petulance in his voice was that of a maniac. They were now more afraid than at any time in the horrible days they'd just weathered.

"Now, Maman, kiss it for me as you used to do, while I have my little feast." He rubbed his pitiful equipment against Ann's lips as he grabbed Darla's buttocks in his hands, and buried his face in her silky mound.

Ann, frightened, began to kiss the wrinkled thing that dangled over her. It was so small and soft that she doubted if it would ever become anything useful. She wondered if his mother really had kissed it for him. What a way for a man to develop or rather, not to develop. She prayed that Chuck would come quickly. There was no telling what this madman might do.

The tiny thing slipped from her lips, and she could not recapture it with her hands tied. He half-turned and gave her a clout on the side of her face.

"You stop that! You just want to make me feel bad. But I won't let you! I'll kill you if you don't be nice to me!"

She stretched her neck out as far as she could, and finally managed to seize the miniature target, and hold it. She didn't dare let it slip away again! She vacuumed it into her mouth and held it tightly between tongue and teeth, then tried to work on it, hoping she could make him change his attitude.

Darla was ready to scream. This maniac had meant it when he said feast.

God! If he bites my cunt lips like that much longer, I'll have to bust out and scream. Then the mouth lifted from her pained flesh, and he laid his head down with his cheek where his lips had been. He seemed to be going to sleep!

She listened for a while, and his breathing grew heavy. She decided to chance it.

"Mother!" she whispered. There was no answer, but the head on her pubis did not move. "Mother!" she increased her volume this time.

No answer. She wondered if he had struck her mother harder than it had appeared!

Then she heard it. It was muffled, and sounded far away. But it definitely was a sound, though it barely reached her.

"Hi-m-m?" was all Ann could get out past her slippery little ward. And the dead weight of the madman's lower torso covering her face muffled the sound considerably. "Mother, I think he's asleep!" she said.

Ann took a chance, and let her mouth open to try to converse.

"So? We can't get loose. That damned cord cuts into the flesh, and it's tough – probably nylon."

"Wait a minute," Darla said. "I've got an idea." She told Ann what they might do, and soon they decided to try it. It was a slim chance, and if he woke up, it might mean the end!

CHAPTER TWELVE

Slowly, carefully, Darla inched her buttocks sideways on the sofa-bed, leaning slightly to hold the sleeping head on its pillow. Then she worked to get her leg close to the wall.

It seemed like an eternity, and it must have taken them at least a half-hour, but finally Darla's left foot almost touched the mirror on the wall. Ann's left hand turned, twisting in its bonds, until she could place the back of her hand against the glass.

Then she pressed her diamond to the glass and tried to keep up the pressure as she described a triangle on the slick surface.

The cracklingg hiss of the hard stone on the glass sounded loud enough to wake the dead, but their baby slept on.

Then Ann made a fist and pressed it to the center of the triangle she'd cut. She pressed hard, but nothing happened.

Then she moved away a few inches, and told Darla she needed help.

"You'll have to swing my fist with your foot. Can you see where it has to hit?" she whispered. "Yes, I think so," Darla replied.

"God! Be sure! Honey, we may not have time for a second try if the sound wakes him up!"

"I know. But I think I can see the exact spot. It's just that I don't know if I can hit it right on the first try."

"Listen, honey, do like a blacksmith – you know? Swing right up to it the first time, but just touch it. If it's the right place, then hit it hard on the next swing. Like a golf ball on the tee, okay?"

"Okay."

Gingerly, the foot and hand moved out, then swung against the glass. It touched, but the hammer of flesh started to shake, and Darla rested her foot on the bed.

"I can't do it!" she said. "If I swing it with enough force, I'll lose my balance on my hip, and his head will slide off, and that'll wake him up for sure!"

"Okay, honey. But can you relax your muscles and let me try to swing your foot with my hand? We've got to try something."

"I think so. Try it once."

Darla tried to let her leg become limp, and concentrated on the balance of her right hip, which held the crucial support for her dangerous burden.

Ann lifted upward, and from the first moment that the dead weight of Darla's foot, ankle, calf, and thigh rested completely on Ann's wrist, she knew there would be no second swing. It was too much weight for the leverage she had. "First time or nothing, honey – pray!" she said.

She swung, and Darla's leg moved dangerously far, making the sleeping head tilt slightly. But as Ann's balled fist struck the glass, there was a sharp crack.

The hand and foot rested on the bed, and Ann tried to see if the piece had fallen out. No! It was still in place.

Then, as she looked at it, it dropped onto the bed! Both of them sighed and tried to catch their breaths. Then Ann got the glass in her fingers and turned it around, arching it back toward her wrist.

At first she thought the piece was too small – that there wouldn't be enough reach. But she managed to get a shorter grip on the sharp glass, and then she had its edge against the cords.

In seconds, she had freed that hand and Darla's leg. Next problem was what to do first.

She could hold the glass against Guiyesse's throat and make him stay still until Chuck came. But he might be crazy enough to try to out jump her, and she'd have to cut his throat. The thought was too much for her.

And when she visualized the gendarmerie pouring into the house and seeing the scene on the sofa-bed, she had another reason to play the longshot.

Carefully, she turned toward her right, pivoting slowly onto her right shoulder, while raising her left hand with the glass triangle over and across the legs which lay on top of her. She had to got the glass over the right spot, or it would fall on the floor, or else somewhere out of reach of hercaptive right hand.

Just as she thought she was poised over exactly the right spot, Guiyesse stirred, and the glass crashed onto the nearby lamp-table.

There was a loud noise, like a plank cracking in two, and then Guiyesse was once more a dead weight on top of the two. There were heavy footsteps, moving swiftly away from them, and then the sound of the French windows opening and slamming.

"What happened?" asked Ann, too frightened to move, although she knew somehow that Guiyesse was not conscious.

"It was Le Boeuf," Darla said in a hushed voice. "He came in the hall doorway just as the glass fell. He hit our crazy friend on the back of the neck with his fist, just as his head was coming up. The way it fell back down, I think his neck's broken."

"Let's see if we can get out of here," said Ann.

They managed to roll Guiyesse off onto the floor. Then Ann cut another triangle of glass and popped it out onto the bed. She cut her ankles loose, then the other wrist. It didn't take long for her to free Darla.

"Get dressed, and hurry!" Ann said. She was worrying about Tommy, and wondered what might have happened if the prisoners had all escaped.

Darla was even more worried about her father. She hadn't told her mother that the Moroccan had scooped up the gun from the lamp table. If he ran into anyone on his way out, he might have to shoot to kill. And C. Eldon Fleming could arrive at anytime.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ann fished in Guiyesse's pockets until she found the key for the shackles. By the time she'd located it, she was sure he was dead. She felt sorry for him. Somewhere he'd been twisted, probably as a small boy with a less than capable mother. And he'd used his twisted mind to plot against the Fleming.

If what he'd said had meant anything, this man must have bed behind the whole thing.

She took the key and the Beretta she spotted on the floor near the stairs where Le Boeuf had missed seeing it in his haste. Tommy was white faced and shaking when she got to him. He'd been worried sick about what might have happened to them upstairs.

He took the gun from her, and the key, and rushed back upstairs to look things over. As soon as she saw that Gerault was still there – holding his leg and moaning through whitened lips – and that Yvette was sleeping peacefully on her mattress, Ann went up to join her children.

She could hear Tommy moving about in the living room, so she started to go to him. Then she halted at the bathroom doorway. Darla was just getting the bleeding stopped at the several places where Guiyesse had bitten her natal lips.

"My God, honey! That maniac must have bitten damned near through you! Is it stopped bleeding? We'd better get you to a doctor right away. A bite can be dangerous."

"It's not as bad as it looks, Mother. It's several bites – bleeding a little – not one bleeding a lot. Until I douched and started it bleeding again, I'd forgotten it. I know this towel looks like I'm mortally wounded, but get that deathbed look off your face. I guess his head lying on me there made it coagulate, and then the water got it going again. But it's stopped."

Tommy appeared in the doorway, and both he and Darla blushed darkly before he excused himself and moved down the hall. Ann shook her head sadly at the brief scene. These two wouldn't be comfortable around each other for a long while, if ever again. Neither would any of the family, probably. It had been a hell of a ghastly experience for them all.

When the Citroen rolled up out front Ann panicked. "My God, kids! We forgot all about the pictures! We've got to find them and burn them before anyone but your father gets in here! Tommy, run out and tell him that. Darla, help me look."

"I think they're right over there in that drawer, Mother," the girl said. "I saw Yvette putting some in there once."

She raced over to the table in question and pulled out the single, large drawer so fast that all the curved photos spilled onto the rug. They gathered them up, hastily and ran with them into the bathroom. They closed and locked the door, and started tearing them into little pieces. Frequently, they'd flush an accumulation down the drain.

Just as they watched the last ones disappear in a swirl of water, someone pounded on the bathroom door.

Ann opened it, as she stepped out, Fleming jumped inside and closed the door, yelling "Emergency!"

It was several minutes later that she recalled the fact that Darla still must have been in there.

Fleming was unlimbering and aiming as he ran to the commode. It wasn't until the final relieving feeling that he realized his daughter was standing at the lavatory with her dress up, daubing at her tender parts with a bloody towel. Her eyes were wide with wonder at the sight of the once coveted member of her father, streaming like a fire hose in front of her eyes.

Their glances met, and both darkened and averted their gazes.

"I'm sorry, baby doll I didn't know you were in here, too." He'd started to get an erection, as he looked at his daughter's pinkly spread blossom, and it was difficult to shake off the last drops, now. He did it quickly, and swore as a last drop ran down his leg after he tucked himself away.

Darla had rushed to the door, and when she heard the sound of the flushing water, she bolted outside. Fleming took a deep breath and followed her out. Ann was standing there with a strange look on her face. "What's the matter with Darla, Charles?"

"I'm sorry, honey. I guess I shocked her. I didn't know she was in there until it was too late. She wasn't where I could see her when I went in. I'd been holding that back all the way into Marseilles and back here. Didn't take time for it at the hotel, because I didn't want to leave you here any longer than necessary. I was about to jet spray my jockeys."

"This family is sure fouled up sexwise," Ann replied, looking at him as if trying to read something on his face.

"Some of this family got sex-wise under pretty foul conditions," Fleming retorted. "I hope we can get readjusted pretty damned soon."

"I don't think it's going to be very easy or very quick," she told him. She didn't add that she was still trying to shake out of her own mind the way that Tommy has stirred her with his amazing virility. Chuck hadn't stirred her up so, himself for several months.

She damned herself for a pervert and forced herself to take a walk in the weedy, ragged garden outside the living room. It was a good fifteen minutes before she felt the fresh air clear her mind. Then she watched several busy members of the Surete leading Yvette to one of their cars. Shortly afterward, a stretcher was carried out to the waiting ambulance. Two gendarmes flanked Gerault as he started his bloody ride to the hospital.

Tommy showed up in the frame of the open French windows. He ran to meet her as she came toward the house.

"I hope you got rid of the photos. I couldn't get to Dad to tell him in private, and then he went on inside. I showed the law where the dungeon was, and I guess that kept them off you for a while."

"We destroyed them all right. But don't mention it to your father. When he finally remembers those photos, I want to see the look on his face." Tommy grinned and shook his head. "That might require a transfusion."

"The shock might just be what he needs," she said, mysteriously. And she wondered what kind of shock it would take to straighten her out. Tommy, she observed, as he headed blithely back into the house on his own, seemed to be the least affected of any of them by the incestuous entanglements they'd been trapped into.

Suddenly, she almost felt all of her thirty-nine years for the first time she could recall. Then she remembered that Chuck had promised to bring them clothes. At least she needn't look as old as she was… if he'd also brought her overnight case. She headed down the hall searching for him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was the end of the first of many weeks to be spent in France. Weeks of waiting for the slow mills of French justice to start grinding. Weeks that were to have been spent in Italy, Switzerland, and other places.

Tommy had gone out to see if he could make any sense of a French movie. Darla had decided to stay in and perhaps write some letters. Chuck and Ann were dining with the Consulate General.

It was only about seven-thirty when Tommy returned to the suite, disgusted with the silliness of the film, and fed up with trying to follow the dialogue by the action. He ordered some sandwiches and Cokes sent up, suddenly craving a taste for the bottle of the bulge, and then peeled off his clothes and put on a robe.

He answered the door and took the tray from the bellhop, and set it on the table while he got out of his shoes. As he swapped the oxfords for a pair of slippers in his closet, he thought he heard something like crying.

She's probably having a bad dream, poor kid. No wonder, after what she's been through. He opened the intercommunicating door to Darla's room, and started to enter and wake her from a nightmare.

There were no lights on in her room, but the moon was bright, and additional light poured in from reflections of the hotel marquee lighting. He took two steps into the room and halted.

Darla was lying on top of the covers. Her feet were drawn up snugly to her buttocks, her knees tightly together and raised. Her face wasn't visible behind the raised knees, but he could see that her hands were busy massaging her full breasts.

The hand nearest him was almost fully in view, and a darkly pink nipple was peeping from between her fingers. She was squeezing it and rolling her cupped hand on her breast, and all the while she was moaning low, but steadily.

"Oh-h… Oh-h… Oh-h… oh-oh…" on and on and on.

He tried to move to back out through the door way and close the door on her privacy. But he seemed rooted to the spot. And when her knees began to separate, he couldn't have moved at the point of a gun.

As the dimpled knees parted, the soft light etched the creamy inside pillars of her thighs, spreading as they separated, until they fell to either side, of their own weight.

The bright blonde gold of the soft feathers in her crotch caught gleam of light and sparkled. So did the diamonds that he saw were dewy drops of her passion. They sparkled at the edges of her swelling natal lips, and the lips were parting as they engorged with blood from her racing pulse.

Tommy's pulse was racing, too. He'd let his robe fall open, and the rayon sash lost its slippery hold further down. The whole front of his robe hung wide open, and the painful hardness of his instant erection was like a steel bar being drawn to the magnetic power of the sight before him.

He groaned as his feet moved forward, carrying him nearer to the awful temptation. Darla's face was visible, now. Her eyes were shut, and her constant moans continued as she massaged her breasts.

If there had been a framework at the foot of the bed, he might have been able to halt. But the way was open to him. He slowly moved forward onto the bed, pulling himself up to the gleaming wet pinkness of her spreading slit.

Then he caught the hot, musky scent of her, and he plunged his lips into the brimming pink vessel of flesh. Her juices flowed out around his lips, and he licked out his tongue and caressed her most sensitive spot.

Her moans were heavier and louder as he licked and sucked at her flowing juices, and then his hands were moving upward until he stole her breasts from her own hands, and began to knead them, and tweak the taut nipples.

Her legs wrapped around his back, and her heels pressed against the back of his neck, holding him snugly to the heated slit which was opening still farther to his penetrating tongue. He knew that her eyes were open, now, as she replaced the moans with words.

"Oh, Tommy! You're a darling lover! We shouldn't! We mustn't! But don't stop, for God's sake! Oh, it's good! It's so good! Oh-h! Eat me good, yes!"

His mind answered her as his lips and tongue and hands functioned like thinking creatures with lives of their own.

I know we shouldn't! We mustn't! I can't stop! Yes, it's good! Your sweet cant is so juicy I can't stop eating it! Oh, Darla. What will we do? We can't go on like this.

He felt the shuddering release begin. The tremors ran through her fine body until they filled her with tension. Then her hips rose and she pulled tighter with her heels against his neck, as she let herself explode into the clouds.

When her legs released him, he licked her hot flesh completely void of its juices, then his mouth trailed upward through the blonde forest and over the heaving, panting belly. He tongued her navel, then moved up to suck heavily at her nipples.

Tommy! Your wonderfully hard cock is dragging up my legs. It's burning a trail up my thighs! Oh, how I want it! Damn me for a slut, but I want it! I have to have it!

Her hands seized his head and pulled it from her breasts, then brought it up to place his mouth on hers. As his body moved to make their lips meet, she felt the hard undercarriage catch in the hot meat of her crotch.

As their mouths tried to devour each other, she moved her hips until she got the swollen entrance of her passage touching the tip of the equally swollen club that lay in her freshly flowing fountain.

"Darla! I can't help myself! I'm going inside you! Stop me!"

"No! I want you, Tommy. I need you. Fuck me, Tommy. Stuff me with it!" She thrust at him to speed it up, and he became engulfed in her.

He sucked deeply at her mouth, then let his lips slide around to her ear. As he penetrated her, he spoke into her ear.

"Darla, when I get near that sweet pussy of yours, I can't resist it! I love the way it smells, the taste of it, the way it feels on my cock now, as I'm sliding into it. I can't leave you alone, Darla! What'll I do?"

"It's not just you, Tommy. I get hungry for your juicy prick when I see it, even when I think about it! Let's talk about it when we're through. Just forget everything, now, and fuck me!"

He thrust into her with long strokes, probing the soft, slippery folds which closed over him as he plowed through. Then they were hurrying, rushing to completion, and he felt her open up incredibly to him, deep in her hungry cavern, and he pushed hard to bury himself as he gushed out his all.

When they stopped panting, he pulled himself out of her with a slushy, sucking sound and fell over on his side. She looked at the limp remains of his excitement, and the tiny blob of semen at its tip. A short string of the thick fluid trailed halfway along its soft shaft.

She got to her knees and moved down to it. Her tongue licked out and captured the soft flesh, pulling it into her mouth. She sucked at it until he groaned.

"Don't, Darla! You'll give me such a mean hardon I'll never be able to get rid of it. Let's quit while we're ahead – or before we go any further astray."

"I was just kissing it goodbye, Tommy. From now on, we'll just have to be extra careful. We mustn't go in each other's room unless we're positive it's safe. And we'll have to avoid touching each other. But not too conspicuously, or the folks might catch on that something's happened between us."

"After having you, I don't think anyone else will turn me on," he told her.

"That's what you might think, now. But when you get really hard-up like we were tonight, look around, and you'll find someone that will please you. I hate to think of anyone else having you. But we've got to be firm about breaking this off. You know that!"

"Sure. I'll be okay. At least I think I will, if I can convince myself of one thing."

"What's that, honey?" Darla asked, as she started to run her hand through his unruly hair in an old habitual sisterly habit. She jerked her hand away, and they grinned at each other.

"I'm good enough to get by, aren't I? I mean, you didn't want me just because I'm your brother… sort of contagious perversion from what happened before?" He was watching her closely.

"You heard Mother talking to Daddy back in our dear old dungeon. I'm a highly sexed gal who had a pretty strong father fixation. And you're a lot like Daddy Chuck. But you've probably got more endurance now than he has. Maybe it was partly that, and partly that you're just a natural born lover. Too damned good a lover!"

"I think I'll buy that. Your reasons, I mean. Because I think part of what draws me to you is that you're a lot like Mother. I don't think I had a strong mother image bit, but that episode with her did something that stirred me up good. It showed me one thing. Dad sure didn't get cheated on a good match for his sex drives, either."

"If we can all just force ourselves to toe the line until we can get readjusted, maybe well all learn from this. It was a horrible adventure while it lasted. But I'm not so sure the real torture isn't what comes now – until we can lick the tigers that were let loose on that farm." Tommy got up and put on his robe and fastened it. Then he bent over and kissed the still juicy opening of her womanhood. "Goodbye, you sweet, juicy thing. Good night, sis."

"Good night, Brother Tom." The door closed on him, and she was alone. "Goodbye, lover," she whispered into the night.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When the elder Flemings returned to their suite, they both deeded to shower again. Ever since their visit to the Salon farmhouse, the whole family seemed to be unable to bathe enough. As she watched her husband towel himself Ann wondered if the bathing obsession might not be a subconscious desire each of them had to wash away some other fixation.

She climbed into the shower he had vacated – it had taken her longer to undress – and tried to asks her own feelings. Had she been able to break the morbid train of thoughts the last time they poured into her mind? Yes, but it hadn't been easy.

She'd gone in to wake Tommy this moming, and found that he was in the shower. On the way out, she noticed the dampness on his sheets. As she leaned over and the magnetic semen scent rose to stir her, she bent down and started to lick the meager remnants of the boy's dream.

She'd pulled herself away and walked unsteadily from the room. She'd beaten it. But it took several minutes of deep breathing exercises to get up the ambition to join the others at breakfast.

She climbed out of the shower and toweled herself dry, then put on the robe she'd brought in with her. Chuck had gone without his, but he would sleep naked, anyway, and probably was in bed right now.

But he wasn't there when she went in. She moved around the suite until she found him, standing just inside Darla's door, looking at the sleeping girl. Sleeping in the raw, like her father.

Fleming stood a moment after she spotted him, then he silently closed the door and turned. He was startled to find Ann so close.

"She's a pretty big girl to peep in on at bed check, isn't she?"

"Maybe so," he replied. "But something about her's been worrying me. I just can't put my finger on it."

"The thing about her that worries me you'd better not put your finger on!" Ann answered. "Would you mind explaining that?"

"We were married before I was as old as she is, now. And she has yet to get interested in one boy enough to go steady. After the wild stirring her juices got, she's going to be hot-pantsed as hell until she starts getting laid regularly. I see enough of me in her to know that."

"That's it," Fleming said. "She's been fidgeting around a lot since we got back in the hotel. Can't sit still. And I remember now that I got the impression she was rubbing herself under the table at breakfast. Does it get that bad?"

"Not usually," Ann laughed. "But I know what's causing that particular discomfort. She told him about the bites Darla had gotten from Guiyesse, and explained that they were healing now, and very itchy."

"For crying out loud! You never told me about that when it happened."

"I suppose there are a number of things that happened at that place which we haven't discussed in detail around the dinner table. Some of them might well be left alone. But I'll compare notes with you here in the privacy of our bedroom."

"Okay. For openers, what do you think about Le Boeuf?"

"I think that I hope he doesn't get caught."

"That's not what I mean, Ann. And you know it. Why did Darla stick up for him so strongly – before he saved you from Guiyesse?"

"I think that she has the knack of sensing when people are basically right or wrong – good or bad."

"Too bad her clairvoyance didn't extend to sensing the extra key Le Boeuf had made in Marseilles and kept on him."

"That's your opinion. Darla and I both think that he had good reason to have that extra key made, and we're glad he did!"

"Why did he do it, then?"

"Because, if you believe the initial premise that he told the truth about Gerault's having something on highland Darla and I do – it's a short step to believe that he could expect anything from Gerault, including locking up Le Boeuf in those cuffs. He just prepared himself for the possibility."

"Well, your judgment of him – or Darla's might be proved by his stopping on his way to freedom to save you two. But how about his deserting his comrades in crime? Does that make him look good?"

"It surely does. If he'd been forced to go along with Gerault's operations, then finally decided to get away from Gerault once and for all, he wouldn't turn loose the very man whose sadistic tendencies he hated. And he'd stop on the way out to prevent similar tortured."

"Okay. Really, I'm sort of playing devil's advocate about all that. I'm just as relieved the Moroccan's still free. But I wanted to be sure it wasn't just Darla's overzealous approach to French civil rights, or because she was hypnotized by his enormous cock, or something."

"What is it about you men that makes you uncomfortable when you think a woman likes sexy things? You think a monstrous cock is so sexy?"

"No. You were the one to suspect Darla of being hooked on the Moroccan's equipment. Remember? I'm trying to find out why such a fascination should bother you, if it were true."

"I'm not sure that it would. Look, why this 'Battle of the sexes' approach? I think I'm pretty liberal single standard and all that."

"I'm going to see if you are. For a long time, you've made it clear that you like to eat my pussy. You've almost made poems about it. You're always telling me how the smell of my cunt excites you, and how you like the taste of it. Now, you didn't expect me to be upset about it, did you? Didn't you think that perhaps I should accept it as a compliment – a token of your overall feelings for me?"

"Naturally! So…"

"So, Mr. Single Standard, for years I've tried to get you to go off in my mouth, and I've succeeded only a few times. So, tell me why the objection. Especially since I happen to be crazy for your cock, and I love the smell of your semen and the taste of it in my mouth. So do you think less of me now that I've admitted that, or will you accept it as a compliment?"

Fleming was nonplused. He looked at his wife with a crooked grin, and scratched his head.

"I know this is silly, but it takes some getting used to. I do see what you're driving at: the old bit about a man wanting a hot pants mistress or party girl, but a wife that's a virgin. Not exactly that, because you know I'm glad you love to screw."

"Maybe it's part of Momism, something that's got us believing, subconsciously, all our lives, that you females the nice ones, the ones we marry, and our daughters, and all – are somehow better than men – belong on pedestals, and all that. And while we can love the cream that flows out of your gorgeous pussies, we are repelled by the semen we ejaculate, and don't want to 'contaminate' you with it."

"But you know, it is silly. If you like what comes out of me when you've excited me and made it come out, it should be exactly the same as the thrill I get from making you cream your panties and then enjoying the smell and taste of your hot little cunt, flowing all over for me. Honey, I'm getting horny! Did you start this conversation, or did I?"

"I don't care who started it. Are you horny enough to let me steal your precious juice from you? I want to eat you, Charlie Fleming!"

"Jeez! What the hell are we waiting for? I've got a hardon that won't quit."

"I know. I've been watching it. I've been sitting here creaming my nightie over it. In another minute I'm liable to suck your balls right out through the end of that gorgeous thing!"

"Ha! I've got a picture of you killing the eggs that lay the golden goose!" He turned pale. "Oh my God! The pictures! We never got those dunned photos they took of us. How in hell could I have forgotten about them?"

"Because you were worried about your family's physical and emotional condition. That's what drove the blackmail bit out of your mind. But us girls took care of it for you. They're all just little bitty pieces floating in the sewage somewhere."

"You're a doll. What would I do without you?"

"Like hell I'm a doll. I'm a real, live female, and the question is what are you going to do with me?"

"Well, what I had planned will be delayed a little. That photo thing scared away my bone."

"I think I can take care of that," said Ann.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ann Fleming made a final dab with the brush in one dark corner of the canvas, then put down both brush and palette and stretched. She walked slowly around the perimeter of the glassed-in cupola that perched atop the huge house. Even the painting had failed to ease her restlessness, as it used to do.

For years, every time the tides of the moon had tugged at her, and the inescapable woman's nuisance rendered her useless for the complete kind of sexual romping her nature demanded, she had come up here and fought the irritability by painting. But when the first warning drops had appeared last night, right after a wildly satisfying sexual bout, she had not wanted to come up here.

For the first time in years, she felt a great reluctance to be isolated from her family, even by the small distance that would allow her to be heard if she yelled at them.

And for the first time since Tommy's birth, she had not douched away the fluid which had been spurted into her, if one were to discount the instances which had occurred in that French farmhouse.

She'd blocked her passage this time, she knew, as much to retain the precious semen inside her as long as possible, as to catch the red stains of her womanly curse.

What was happening to her these days? What was happening to all of the family?

They'd all seemed to be throwing off the effects of their submergence into the depths of incest, even before they left Marseilles. Yet there had been a festering inside each of them, an imitating something which – like the oyster – each had coated to stop the irritation. But it wasn't pearls they had produced. Just a hard, cold core of something foreign and frightening. And at unforeseeable moments, that cold hardness would become warm, then build such inner fires that it couldn't be ignored.

She'd watched all of them closely. They'd all watched each other. Not that any of them be grudged any other the smallest pleasure. But each seemed to have, at those moments when the coldness of that knot within turned to heat, a possessive hunger which made them reveal the naked desires they tried to suppress. It couldn't go on indefinitely like this. Either the evil forces within them could be exorcised, or something disastrous should happen.

All of them had come into this life with a healthy body and with a strongly sexual nature, which also should be healthy. Could those brief episodes of forced incest be the total cause of their breakdown? Would these incestuous hungers never have come to the surface but for the despicable Gerault?

Gerault! I hope he's miserable there on Devil's Island, or where ever it is that they've sent him! If he hadn't done those things to us, we might be a happy family yet, today.

Shakespeare didn't cover it all when he said that the evil men do lives after them. The evil that's done unto you lives on, too. It has a horrible life of its own!

She felt the stir of longing increase in her, and she tightened her vaginal muscles on the steadily swelling tampon within her.

I wish it were a cock – a big, pulsing, spurting cock, filling me up till I splashed over, till it flowed all over me! Oh-h-h! Will this obsession never let up?

Is it a weakness that we can never hope to overcome? And was it the same weakness that made us cooperate with Gerault? Would other people have endured the physical tortures – even death – rather than perform the first incestuous act?

But it wasn't the threat of personal pain that swayed us – it was the threat to another. I couldn't let Tommy be tortured to death – so I gave in. I'm sure it was the same way with him. And with Chuck end Darla. It acts our love for each other that made us do it.

But was it the purity of parental love and the love of children for their parents? Or the forbidden love of the damned – working inside us even then, trying to break out into the open?

Could both Chuck and I have the madness of diseased ancestors in our genes, and passed them on, multiplied in strength, to those poor lost children?

A scream seemed to be building up inside her, trying to burst out. But she felt that if she loosed it, she would let her sanity – what little remained – escape with it.

She bottled it up, and walked once more completely around the cupola, until she again faced the ocean. She watched the waves as they assaulted the beach and the rocks nearby.

Then she cleaned her brushes, covered her palette, and turned out the light which she hadn't needed for at least an hour, since the bright dawn began to illuminate the glass cupola.

She went down below, and moved through the halls, restlessly, wanting to go into every room, to shake the occupant from sleep and ask the questions she'd been asking herself.

She opened a door and slipped quietly into the room, then moved to stand beside Chuck Fleming as he lay there, sleeping. His robust body was limned in the morning sunlight which came in through the open drapes at the French windows. His regular morning erection extended to his naked body, and she bent down to it, then placed a kiss on its purpling tip.

Just as quietly as she'd entered, she slipped out closing the door softly behind her.

Down the hallway she moved, halting beside another door. She hesitated, fighting with herself, then gave in and turned the knob. She opened it on its silent hinges, and closed it behind her.

Tommy, unlike his father, wore a pajama top to bed. But it did nothing to hide the virility of his maleness. His morning erection was almost the exact image of his father's, and she bent down and kissed it in the same tender but irresistible compulsion.

He stirred in his sleep, and she backed away a step, waiting until he quieted again before leaving.

Tommy, my son, my lover. Your fluid is still inside me, in the depths of my hungry cunt. But it will soon be gone. The part of you that's in my greedy, evil blood, though, will still be there. When will I find peace? When will we all be free of this thing?

She left the room, and moved down the hallway again. Maybe a shower would help her. A cool shower.

As she started to pass Darla's room, she saw that the door was slightly ajar, and looked inside.

A glass of water on the nightstand was half-consumed, and the tiny envelope beside it showed that a sleeping pill had been taken. A scent filled her nostrils, and Ann moved to the bedside.

Darla's nude form was spread eagled in sleep, and the opened thighs disclosed the wetness of her pinkly swollen slit. A string of the white, sticky semen that had been spurted into her was trailed over one of the blonde curls at the edge of her canyon.

Ann leaned over and inhaled the heady odor. Her tongue lashed out at the solitary telltale string, and gathered it up. Then she turned and went out of the room.

In the doorway, she paused before closing the door, and looked at the girl's sleeping form.

I can't tell whose it is. Either of them could have been in there with her. Either of my lovers. That's the horrible part. Or is it? No. The real horror of it is that I'd feel the same way in either case.

She closed the door, and went slowly down the hall to the bathroom. A really cold shower might be best, after all.

Content

Jonathan Everest
The tortured tourists

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN