Chapter 9

George Hammond's studio was in Sausalito, Beth learned as he tooled his big new Cadillac onto the Golden Gate bridge approach and picked up speed. He explained that he hadn't thought to tell her sooner and added that he hoped she didn't mind the drive. He said he would bring her back and deliver her to her front door as soon as they finished shooting.

Assuring him it was quite all right, but feeling a bit of queasiness in the pit of her stomach nevertheless, Beth fell silent and looked down at Alcatraz Island in the middle of the bay. When they were halfway across the bridge, she asked absently, "Do you suppose the government will let it go?"

"Huh?"

"Alcatraz. Do you think they'll eventually give it to the Indians?"

"I don't see where they've got any choice, the way the law reads. The Indians have a clear legal right to it. The government will have to give it to them."

"I suppose."

"Well, it's the right thing to do. Just a matter of time, I'd say."

They both fell silent again, George watching the road and Beth looking out the window at a ship heading through the bay for the docks of San Francisco. She could see the sailboats over by Sausalito. Then they came to the far end of the bridge and she could see nothing but highway and hills. She turned to George and said, "Walt told me you write poetry and paint."

He smiled. "I'm not very good at either, but I do try."

"I'd like to see some of your work."

"Help yourself. There's a loose-leaf binder of my poems in the glove compartment. Take a look-but not too critically, please."

As she opened the glove compartment and got the binder, he chuckled amusedly. "Don't laugh at me now, Beth."

"Why should I laugh?" she asked, opening the binder to the first poem. It was titled, Cry of the Ghetto.

"A big guy like me painting and writing poems, a lot of people find that funny."

"Well, I don't find it funny, and I think anyone who does is calloused and ignorant. A big man can be just as sensitive as anyone else."

He nodded appreciatively, then concentrated on his driving as Beth began to read. His work was neatly typed and easy to comprehend. Lines rhymed occasionally but not regularly. Cry of the Ghetto was much like Elvis Presley's recent song, only it went much deeper into the soul of the slums in dealing with life in the sordid milieu of poverty and hopelessness, of fatherless families and helpless welfare mothers. When Beth finished it she was near tears, moved more deeply by this unpublished poem than she had ever been by any other attempt to explain the black man's plight in big-city America. For the first time she understood the attraction drugs hold for such people; and, more important, she saw with crystal clarity the inevitability of the vicious circle of which poverty and hopelessness begets more poverty and hopelessness.

She glanced quickly at George, who seemed somewhat embarrassed at her peeking into his very soul. She wanted to tell him how beautiful his poem was and ask him why he hadn't had it published, but she didn't. He wouldn't look at her, so she thought it best to keep her own thoughts to herself for the present. Her eyes moved on to the next poem.

A Black Stud Venting was the curious title. It didn't remain mysterious for long, though. The black stud in the poem was venting his hatred for all whites by heaping degrading sexual abuse on an innocent white girl, who masochistically took it because of her great love for the cruel black man. It was extremely coarse and vulgar, going into great detail about the sexual indignities the stud put his girl friend through and telling of the self-hatred he suffered for it later because, though he couldn't help the things he did to her, he loved her as an individual even more than he hated the rest of her race.

As Beth read this second poem, she felt her cheeks flush at the gutter language and the vile acts forced on the white girl. There was an especially brutal passage involving a gang-bang by the stud and nine of his buddies, after which the poor girl was too weak to get out of bed all the next day. Reading that passage, Beth haled George Hammond as much as she had admired him for the first one, and again she felt a great admiration for George's handling of the deep emotions involved. Both the girl and the stud had been hooked on narcotics, she whoring and he pimping for her to support their drug cravings. In the, end she was beaten to death by a sadistic client, and the stud, finally seeing himself for what he really was, sought out the man and killed him with a butcher knife before plunging it into his own heart.

"I don't know whether to hate you or love you," Beth said softly, looking down at her lap through tear-misted eyes.

"You finished Venting," he said simply.

When Beth looked up, she noticed with a start that they had stopped. She had no idea how many minutes they'd been parked, she'd been so engrossed in reading his poem. "Are you capable of such cruelty?" she asked.

"I hope not," he said. "But the human race is. That poem is true. It actually happened. I knew the people involved. The stud was my younger brother."

"Oh, God!" Beth cried, and the tears she'd been holding back gushed from her eyes. "Publish it. Please have it published!"

George took out his handkerchief and gave it to her. As she dabbed at her eyes, he said, "I can't. It's too recent, too personal. Maybe someday I'll submit it." He waited till she quit crying, then grinned sheepishly and said, "Come on. Let's go in and get to work. Those red eyes will give the picture we want to get a touch of realism."

He quickly got out of the car and hurried around to open her door. Beth smiled timidly at him as she swung out of the car, then stood looking down at the bay as he shut the door. His house was high on the side of a hill, and the view was breathtaking. The cry of whooping gulls sounded dimly, soothingly. A sea breeze played gently through her hair, caressing her as it passed. "It's beautiful here, George."

"I just rent it," he said. "I can't really afford it, but I think it's beautiful too."

"Let's go in," Beth said, smiling warmly as she turned and took his hand. As they went up the steps, she squeezed his hand and said softly, "I don't hate you. Not at all."

The house had two levels but no partitions. Beige wall-to-wall carpeting softened the effect of various shades of green in the furnishings against a backdrop of wild tangerine walls. The lower floor had a bar at one end. Living room furniture was tastefully arranged before a picture window through which could be seen the fantastic view of the bay. There was a large open space just in front of the door, which faced a circular wrought iron staircase leading up to a platform bedroom above. Formal dining room furniture occupied the end opposite the bar, with a breakfast bar separating it from the small, offset kitchen behind the dining area. The windows along the back of the house were all at the second level because the back wall of the first floor was set into the hillside. "I just love it!" Beth exclaimed.

"Me too," George said. "And it's mine eleven months of the year. I have to get out every June, so the folks who own it can stay here."

"Is that all the time they spend here? Just one month a year?"

"That's all," George said.

"I'd live here all the time if I owned it," Beth said.

George laughed. "Then I'm glad you don't own it, because I kind of like it here, myself. Want a drink before we start to work?"

"Yes, I'd like one," Beth said, following him to the bar.

She accepted a weak Scotch and soda, then wished she hadn't when he opened a can of vegetable juice for himself. They sat on the couch, talking and looking out through the view window. Beth expected him to make a pass, which she wasn't too sure she would rebuff, but he never did. When they finished their drinks, he showed her some of his paintings, she didn't understand any of them, not a blessed one, but of course she hid that fact from George, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

She didn't fool him, however. When she'd seen the last one he wanted her to see, he said, "You don't understand them, do you?"

"Oh, yes," she protested. "I do."

"Then would you please explain them to me? I've never been able to figure out what any of them mean." "You're joking!"

He laughed. "No, I'm not. I've had other people explain them to me, but everyone has different notions and I still don't know for sure what they really say ... if anything. I just dab paint any damned way I happen to feel like dabbing it, mostly when I'm frustrated. It calms me down. I've made a little money at painting, but that's not the reason I do it."

"Well, I didn't really understand them," she confessed. "But after reading those two poems, I'd have to guess your paintings reflect the same ideas."

He shrugged. "That's probably it. That's the interpretation I've heard most often, and the one that satisfies me best. Well, the hell with it. Let's get to work."

George got a camera and lights from a closet. He handed her the camera, an expensive-looking thing with Japanese writing on it, and she followed him up the stairs to the wall-less bedroom. The bed was made up neatly, covered by a green satin spread. She stood nervously beside it, watching as he set up the lights.

"Rope. I forgot the rope and gag," he said, starting for the stairs. "You don't need to come. Lie down if you want. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

As he went down the stairs, Beth put the camera on a dresser and sat on the bed. The lights were on, nearly blinding her, they were so bright. Hot, too. Might as well get used to the lights, she decided. Being careful not to let the soles of her boots soil the satin spread, she crawled to the center of the bed and lay down on her back, looking around as she heard George fumbling in the closet below. She decided the bedroom was too avant-garde for her liking. It had rails like a balcony-to keep a sleepy person from walking off the edge of the floor, she supposed-but that didn't seem enough. A bedroom ought to be a private place, she felt, and this one simply had no privacy at all.

She heard George climbing the stairs again and she sat up to watch his bald head pop into view, lie smiled and held out the rope and gag. "Used these same ones the last time I did a bondage layout," he said. "It was for a different mag, though. The gag has been washed and the rope is nylon, so you've nothing to worry about. You won't get any germs or rope burns."

"I'm not worried," she said. "Walt assured me you wouldn't rape me."

He looked hurt, and she quickly added, "And now that I know you, I'm not worried in the least-oh, shit, I made a mess of that, didn't I?"

He smiled then, a sad but warm smile. "It's our culture, baby. Don't let it worry you. I understand how vou might feel."

"But I don't, George. Honest I don't. I trust you implicitly!"

His eyes expressed the thanks he couldn't put in words. Becoming businesslike, he said, "Roll over on your stomach, Beth. I'm going to tie your hands behind your back."

She rolled over and let him take her hands and cross her wrists at the small of her back. Smiling over her shoulder at his serious face, she lay still as he took a piece of rope and tied her wrists. Then he worked her rings off her finger, explaining that the shot was supposed to be of a college girl.

As he went to the dresser and put her rings on it, she tested her bonds. "Damn, you've really got me helpless. The rope feels tight as hell."

"Realism," he answered, just that one word, then he took another piece of rope and tied her ankles together securely. "Okay, Beth. Roll onto your back."

She found it awkward to move with her hands and feet tied. As she flopped over, her miniskirt rode up, high enough that she knew George could see the crotchband of her panties. Suddenly she was uneasy. There was no possible way she could pull her skirt down. With some embarrassment she asked George to do it for her, but he refused, telling her that her panties were to show in order to make the magazine cover more erotic.

Because she had no choice in the matter, she accepted his statement. But the odd sensation in the pit of her stomach grew a bit stronger. She felt a chill sweep over her as he went to adjust the harsh lights. He wasn't talking now, just working, going about his business professionally and using her for what she was-a prop in a photo layout.

"Shouldn't I have some special make-up?" she asked.

"Don't know yet. I'll take a Polaroid color shot and see." He was getting the gag ready to tape over her mouth. He came to the bed and sat down beside her with the gag ready to apply. He grinned. "If you have any last requests, you'd better talk now. You won't be able to say anything once I get the gag in place."

"Any last requests?" she blurted, her eyes searching his face. "That was a poor choice of words."

He chuckled. "Yeah, baby, I guess it was, at that. You ready?"

Beth nodded, then held her lips together as George stuck the gag over her mouth. It spread onto her cheeks and chin, and the top edge of tape was touching the septum of her nose, but it wasn't really uncomfortable. Only a couple of narrow bands of tape actually came in contact with her skin. The gag itself, which the tape merely held in place, felt soft and velvety over her lips. The physical sensation wasn't too bad, but psychologically she was beginning to react with a degree of fear. She was truly bound and helpless, alone with a huge Negro. Some unpleasant things she'd heard and read about passed through her mind.

The phone rang, startling them both. "Now, who the hell could that be?" George mumbled, heading for the stairs. He started down to answer the phone, calling back, "Just lie there and relax. I'll be right back."

The weight of her body was beginning to make her hands hurt. As George moved down the stairs, she rolled to her side. A big mirror, slanted so anyone lying in the bed could look at himself, was attached to a triple dresser. She gasped at the sight of herself, staring at her reflection with frightened eyes. It looked like a scene out of a horror movie. God, George was certainly getting the realism he wanted! she thought. There she lay, bound and squirming, in a satin-covered bed at the top of a steep flight of stairs, completely at the mercy of a relatively strange man!

For a moment her mind went wild with gory imaginings. Her nostrils flared and her eyes opened wider. She tried to call out to George, but she could only whimper softly, not making enough noise for him to hear her way down there. Stop it! Stop it, Beth! She admonished silently, forcing herself to relax. After all, Walt knew George pretty well, and now that she knew him a little she was sure her fears were totally unfounded. Still ... she was helpless and he was a man. You're being silly, she told herself reproachfully.

Beth forced herself to lie quiet, looking at her reflection in the mirror as she listened to George talking on the phone. His voice sounded strained, and from his end of the dialogue she surmised a woman was on the other end of the line. As the conversation went on, Beth became more certain he was talking to a woman, evidently a former girl friend. George's voice rose with anger and frustration. Obviously he wanted nothing more to do with the woman and she wasn't willing to accept that. The conversation rapidly turned into a heated argument, with George yelling into the phone and calling her a "honky slut."

Beth heard him screaming denial of any responsibility for her pregnancy, shouting that he was sterile as a eunuch, that he'd had a vasectomy because he wouldn't dream of bringing another child into such a rotten world. Then he calmed down some, and Beth heard him admit that he hadn't had a sperm count since the operation but he would damned sure have it done. Then he became angry again and slammed the receiver down. She heard him pacing around and cursing under his breath. The phone rang again but George wouldn't answer it; he just went on swearing, getting louder and louder with each ring. When the phone finally stopped ringing, he fell silent, but Beth could still hear him breathing ... snorting, actually.

Her new awareness of this other side of George's nature brought back the fear she'd managed to allay before he started yelling and cursing. She couldn't shake it this time. Her body trembled with fright and she moaned softly at her frantic face in the mirror. He was down there now, stomping around, swearing and opening drawers in the kitchen. A butcher knife--that was the first thing that came to her mind. He was hunting for a butcher knife!

Terrified, she sat up in bed and peered over at the kitchen entrance, hoping for a glimpse of him, one that would prove her insane fears false. When he came walking into the dining area carrying the very object she'd intuitively known he'd been searching for--a long, wicked-looking butcher knife--she wailed mournfully under the gag and fell hopelessly back to the bed.

He was out of his head with rage. She knew he was going to stomp up the stairs and hack her to pieces. He was capable of it; the poem about his brother flashed through her mind, sending cold chills rushing up and down her spine. She recalled his face as he'd come out of the kitchen-an ugly thing, full of rage and hatred.

His foot sounded heavily on the first step. He was coming upstairs. Oh, God! He's coming! Beth cried silently. She lay deathly still, her body breaking out in a cold, clammy sweat, the ropes cutting into her bound wrists, and her lips trembling under her gag. There was nothing she could do-nothing except pray. 0 Lord! Please don't let him kill me! I'm so young. There's so much to live for!

The sensation in her stomach flowed into her loins. It was a terrible tenseness, an overpowering thing. She felt so alive, more alive than at any other moment in her whole life. She could feel the juices begin to flow down her vaginal canal. She moaned and writhed, horrified at her sexual reaction.

With each ringing footstep on the metal staircase, her heart raced faster. Her cunt was sopping wet and still secreting copiously, pouring forth her life's juices to soak her crotchband and turn it soggy and dark.

The top of George's shaven head came into view. Beth held her breath.

His face, ugly and strained, popped above the stairs. She didn't want to look at him but was unable to tear her eyes away. Knowing full well he was going to butcher her, she stared in fascinated horror as his massive body appeared-his bull-like neck, then his barrel chest, followed by his thick waist and finally his hands, one made into a ham-like fist and one clutching the awful butcher knife. The light glinting evilly from the long blade snapped something deep inside her. She screamed a muffled scream and bucked wildly on the bed, her cunt spasming and her hips jerking harshly.

It was absolutely the wildest orgasm she'd ever experienced! The convulsions inside her threatened to tear her guts out. Her body thrashed as if on a torture rack while pitiful-sounding sobs rushed from her flared nostrils. Her eyes were wide open but she couldn't see a thing; the intensity of her climax had momentarily blinded her and she was staring at a black sky full of bursting stars and shooting comets.

She was dimly aware of fingers fumbling at her mouth. Then the gag was ripped off and she felt a tearing sensation as the tape parted from her skin. She sucked in a big breath of air, then screamed shrilly, her body twitching violently as her orgasm went hurtling on. She could feel the knife hacking brutally at her torso, ripping her belly open and spilling her guts obscenely on the bed-yet, strangely, there was no pain. George was talking to her softly, his big hands holding her shoulders and shaking her gently. Very slowly she returned to normal, her orgasm slipping away little by little and relinquishing its hold on her mental faculties.

The stars and comets vanished first, then the blackness faded and she was conscious of the harsh photographic lights beating hotly on her body. Raising her head, she looked down, expecting to see a gory mess of innards spilling out of her belly. But there were no disgorged intestines; she wasn't even bleeding. Her belly was still very much intact, covered by her tight sweater and rumpled miniskirt.

"George? Geroge?"

"Relax, Beth. Just relax, honey. You're all right."

"But ... the butcher knife!" she wailed. "I saw it!"

"Jesus H. Christ! I'm sorry as hell, Beth. The knife is supposed to be lying on the bed beside you, in the picture. I should have told you. You didn't think I was going to use it on you? Oh, God, you couldn't have thought that!"

"I don't know what I thought! You were down there yelling on the phone, then stomping around and cursing ... then I saw you come out of the kitchen carrying that thing and--" "Oh, Beth," he soothed, "no, no, no! It's just a prop. That's all, honey."

"What's the matter with me, George? I thought you were going to kill me and ... and I ... oh, shit... do you know what I did?" Beth looked up at him, a troubled, puzzled expression on her face. She saw him nod.

"I know, Beth."

"I creamed all over you bed!"

"It's happened before, with models who've been bound and left alone. It isn't as rare as you think, Beth. It's my fault for leaving you alone."

"What's the matter with me, George? When I saw that butcher knife in your hand and knew I couldn't do a thing to protect myself, I literally blew up inside. I'd been lying here thinking all kinds of things, and then-WOW! God, it was wild! Touch mc, George. Touch my pussy. Is it all wet or was I just imagining the whole fantastic bit?"

He put his hand on her cunt and wiped it upward, then held it so she could see. His palm was covered with her juice. "I've soiled your lovely green bedspread, haven't I?"

"It's all right."

"What's the matter with me, George? Am I crazy?"

"Stop it, Beth. Quit beating yourself over the head about coming. I told you, it's not as rare as you might expect. Some women find being bound and gagged erotic. A few men do too. And it appeals in a lesser degree to millions of people. Why the hell do you think we're taking this kind of picture? Because it appeals strongly enough to sell magazines, that's why. You're not crazy, honey, you're just a kinky little broad who digs bondage. It's as simple as that."

"George?"

"What?"

"Fuck me. Leave me tied up. Put the gag back on me and rip my panties off. Do it, George. I won't tell anyone."

He looked at his watch. "Let's get the pictures first."

"All right," she breathed, closing her eyes, "but hurry!"

George put the gag back over her mouth. She kept her eyes closed as he got up. She heard him moving about. He told her to open her eyes, and when she did he blinded her with the flash from his Polaroid. A minute and a half later he was putting make-up on her face. Again she opened her eyes at his command, then shut them after he snapped another Polaroid shot.

"Okay," he said, after a pause of about three minutes this time. "We're ready to shoot the ones for the magazine now. Open your eyes and leave them open while I work. Look as frightened as you possibly can."

It wasn't necessary for Beth to feign fright when she opened her eyes and saw George; renewed fear rushed through her quite naturally. He'd taken off every stitch of his clothes while her eyes were closed, even his shoes and socks. His cock was a monster and he had a hard-on that would have choked a killer whale! It stood out proudly from his massive body, throbbing and dripping clear fluid from its pouting eye.

Beth knew she'd never be able to take it inside her. She gawked at it disbelievingly, comparing it with the few other penises she'd ever seen. There was no comparison. George's giant tool made all the rest seem like they belonged to little boys. His cock was as long as her forearm and as big around as her wrist, as black as midnight and twice as threatening! She had to beg off, had to think of some tactful way to retract her lustful request.

But she couldn't speak; the tape over her mouth would keep her silent till he chose to take it off. And she'd asked him not to remove it till after he'd ripped off her panties and screwed her! Staring in horror at his fantastic pole, Beth shuddered and let out a defeated little moan. She saw George smiling at her and realized he was mistaking her tiny whimpers and mumblings for lustful outcries.

Oh, Jesus, how will I ever get out of this? she wondered frantically.

Then he was positioning her, snapping picture after picture, moving her this way and that, shooting her from all possible angles, talking to her, complimenting her for looking so convincingly frightened, telling her she was going to make a wonderful model. Beth moaned through it all; finally she started crying. George was delighted by her tears and took even more pictures of her, running eye make-up and all, thinking she was on fire with lust instead of being scared shitless at the thought of receiving his gigantic rod.

The photographic lights went off. Beth looked up wildly as George leaped onto the bed. Her eyes begged him not to do it. She moaned incessantly, shaking her head violently and pleading uselessly through her gag. She felt his fingers hook under the crotchband of her panties and effortlessly rip it apart. She knew it was hopeless; he didn't understand; he took her trembling and her muffled pleas for lustful cravings.

She fell limp as he loomed over her, letting every muscle in her body relax. The result shocked her. Fear wasn't the only thing she felt. George was justified in thinking she was cock-hungry. No sooner had she given up the struggle, accepting the fact that she was going to have to take his enormous organ into her cunt, than she realized she did want it. She was still afraid of it -- very much so, in fact -- but now that she'd quit fighting her fear and resigned herself to the inevitable, the fever in her loins burst into red-hot desire.

His heavy body descended on her, his arms encircling her as the head of his rock-hard organ probed between her slippery cunt lips. Beth felt it push inward, sending searing pain throughout her body. She wailed through the gag, shutting her eyes and quaking all over as George rammed into her with a brutal lunge. The head of his cock banged into her cervix, pushing her uterus farther up into her belly and mercilessly stretching her aching cunt to fit the enormous girth and length of his black stanchion.

When his hot nuts were snuggled in the crack of her ass and his pubic mound was pressed tightly to hers, George paused and asked, "Is that the way you wanted it, baby?"

Of course, Beth couldn't answer. She wouldn't have been able to speak even if the gag hadn't been over her mouth. She breathed rapidly and harshly through widely dilated nostrils, her chest heaving as she struggled to open her legs more. She finally got the soles of her boots on the bed spread, with her knees as far apart as the rope around her ankles would permit. By that time the initial pain was ebbing away, leaving in its place the feeling of total penetration that is every woman's dream.

"Is that what you wanted, baby?" George asked again, concern evident in his voice now. "You're all right, aren't you?"

Letting her eyes open slowly, Beth gazed up at his dark face in absolute rapture. She tried to tell him it was wonderful, but of course he only heard a blissful stream of muffled words. She hunched her pelvis at him, urging him to get with it.

A smile spread over his face. He got the idea at once and drew his thick rod out till only the bulbous head was buried inside her. Then, with Beth whimpering as air rushed from her lungs, he slammed down and sent his cock reaming deep into her quivering belly. After that, he didn't speak again. Like the marvelous stud he was, he fucked her till she was nearly out of her mind, giving her one orgasm after another in such rapid succession that she seemed to be coming ceaselessly. Her eyes rolled in their sockets and sweat covered her body. Moaning and sobbing incessantly, she tossed her head and humped with him. When he finally gave up his sperm, it shot into her like hot water from a sun-warmed garden hose, bringing her to another climax, this one too intense to bear. She passed out and collapsed under him, having experienced the most thorough fucking of her life.