Chapter 10
It was almost unreal. She saw herself and she knew, then, what had happened to that first night. She saw herself performing a ritual of lust, lips extended, jaws wide, hair falling to hide theingress of that red cock into her mouth, then allowing it to come into view again as she worried it playfully. There was no mistaking her identity. The cameraman, obviously Alan Govern, had seen to it that her face was clear at all times. She could see her closed eyes, her working throat as she swallowed. The close-up made everything more than life size on the screen, made the huge phallus seem grotesque, unreal. And for long minutes it continued as she laved the prick with her eager mouth, her extended tongue running around the distended ridge of it, slicking up and down the length of it until, with an eagerness which made her, as a viewer of her passion, squirm with fixed emotions, she stopped and submitted herself to the male in the picture with her.
The face of the man was not seen, except in profile, but she recognized Carl. She gasped as she, in the movie, ceased the sensual activity, fell back onto the bed, reached for Carl. She could not tear her eyes away from the screen as she allowed him to spread her legs, as she reached for him with hungry arms and clung tightly as the camera moved jerkily from the over-all scene to focus on the base of Carl's huge manhood and the dark flower of her waiting womanhood. She saw the impaling thrust of him as he entered. She saw her own cunt thrust up to take more and then she saw herself raise her rump from the mattress, push up lustily. She saw herself fling her trim legs high, clasp them around Carl's body. The view showed the huge engine of his passion going and coming, swift, sure, hard. Then the camera moved to show her face, a face transported with lust, eyes clenched tightly shut, lips contorted, neck muscles straining as she answered the lunges of the big man who was possessing her totally.
"Goddamn," Stanley said. "Isn't that enough?"
Angel, strangely calm, looked at Stanley, wondering at the strain in the blonde girl's voice.
"Just a little more," Alan said.
In the movie, she went frantic, loins, pumping, her entire body lifting. She saw herself reach an obvious climax and wondered if her open mouth made sounds. Then, as a grand finale, the camera zoomed in on the impaling shaft and showed it plunge deep and throb in obvious release. The room was dark for a moment as the film ran out. Then someone turned on a light.
"Any questions?" Alan asked her, looking at her with a grin.
Angel couldn't bring herself to speak.
"So? No questions? It's clear to you, then, that your father would be highly upset by this film."
"Why?" Angel asked. "Why are you doing this? You can't believe in anything enough to do something like this. What did I ever do to you to make you want to hurt me, humiliate me . . . "
"Baby, it sickens me, really," Alan said. "But you're sort of important. Look, your old man is a kind of important guy. There is still about one story every month or so in some magazine about how one of the commie world's leading scientists defected. That makes him news. Now we need, right now, a boost. We need a big propaganda coup; and the announcement that Igor Tomsk is against the war, with his record of anticommunism and all, will be the biggest news since grandma gave birth to a runt with two heads. You know?"
"He won't.
"He doesn't have to. All he has to do is keep quiet and we think he will. All you have to do is speak for yourself and for your father. His silence after that will be enough for us."
"He won't be silent," Angel said. "He'll . . . "
"He'll keep his mouth shut when we show him this little epic," Carl said, patting the roll of movie film. "When we tell him that one word of denial will put this roll of film into the hand of the nation's top scandal-mongering columnist. He will keep his mouth shut to protect the reputation of his darling Angel baby."
Angel thought about it. Above all, she needed to be away from those awful people. How could she have ever thought they were nice people?
"Now, let's quit around," Carl said, turning on the tape recorder.
She read the statement. She could not do anything else. She read it exactly as they had written it. When the first reading didn't sound convincing enough for Alan, she read it again.
"Cool, baby," Carl said, after the second reading. He played the tape back, nodding with satisfaction.
"May I go now?"
"You're leaving good company," Carl said. "Now that the business is over, we could have a ball. We have the evening ahead of us."
"You stink," Angel said. "You know that? You stink, all of you."
"So goodbye," Stanley said swiftly. "Get the hell out of here."
She picked up her bag. As she started toward the door, the telephone rang. Alan, nearest to it, picked it up. She heard him say hello, then she was closing the door behind her. She had very little money. She would have to do something about that. Call her father? Oh, God! He was going to be hurt so very badly. Her lust, her passion, that which had seemed to her to be such a necessary part of life, a nice part of life, a luxury which she was free to enjoy at her discretion, her body pleasures would hurt him. He was an old fashioned man. It would kill him to see her doing the things she did on that film with Carl.
She could go away. She could go and never return home. She could get money somehow. She could work.
Joe Howard. Maybe he would give her some money. She seized on that hope, quickened her step. She didn't hear the footsteps coming up rapidly behind her until they were almost on her, then she looked over her shoulder. It was Carl Peurter.
"Angel, baby," he cooed, with mock politeness, "We are not, it seems, quite finished with you." He seized her arm and she tried to pull away. His fingers dug into her flesh cruelly. She started to scream and he put his hand over her mouth, dragging her back toward the motel room.
She tried to call for help. There were people in the swimming pool. Surely they'd see and come to her aid. Surely she was not going to be kidnapped in broad daylight from the inner court of a motel full of people. She tried to call out and his hand closed off her mouth, her breath. Two young men in bathing trunks came toward them and she struggled, her heart leaping up in hope.
"This kid had one too many," she heard Carl saying, as the two men looked at them. "She wants to hitchhike home and if I let her, her old man would skin me alive. He told me to look after her."
They snickered at her and went on. She was dragged forcibly back into the room, Carl's hand still over her mouth. When they were inside he said, "If you scream, I'll pop you one, baby."
She gasped for air when he released her. Alan and Stanley were looking at her.
"Sorry, baby," Alan said. "The tape won't cut it, it seems."
"What do you mean?" she asked, on the edge of panic.
"The big boys say they want more than just a taped statement from you," Alan said. "They want you to make the little speech at a rally."
Angel let her shoulders sag. She felt as if she would faint.
"It's tomorrow. It's timed to make the last day of the big gig here a swinging one, baby. You're the star. You should be flattered."
What could she do? She dropped her bag to the floor and felt tears of anger and frustration creep down her face.
"Look," Stanley said, "If you think I'm going to sit here for twenty-four hours being a nurse maid . . . "
"Who asked you?" Carl said. "Angel doesn't need a nurse maid, do you Angel."
"No," she said.
"Angel won't run away," Carl said. "She doesn't want us to show the film to papa."
"But you're going to show it to him anyhow," Angel said, with sudden shock. There was something wrong with her mind. Why hadn't she thought of that before? They were going to show the film to her father to force his silence after her forced statement was made public, so she had nothing further to lose. The drug they'd been giving her must have slowed down her thinking processes or she would have realized that before. Then she would never have read their propaganda statement for them.
"You will show it to him no matter what I do," she said. She turned toward the door. "I won't make your speech. I will not help you any further and I'D swear that the statement you have on tape was forced out of me."
"The slit is getting wise," Alan said. "Grab her, Carl."
She was wrapped in Carl's arms. She tried to kick his shins and he pinched her painfully. "Knock it off," he told her forcefully, "or you'll be minus a couple of teeth."
"Angel," Alan said. "Listen to me. Look, this has been, like, a game so far. You haven't been hurt, now have you? You got laid, that's all. You had the hots for ole Carl anyhow. But things have changed. That thundering telephone call did that. It isn't a game any more, baby. It's for real. Now them tomorrow at that rally. They want you to talk so badly that they told me to tell you that if you refused, Igor Tomsk wouldn't have to worry about seeing his little Angle perform in a pornographic film. They told me to tell you he wouldn't ever worry about anything, again."
She felt a cold chill of dread. The seriousness with which Alan spoke frightened her more than anything she'd ever experienced.
"Who are you?" she asked. "You're not just a college student."
"Sure," Alan said. "That's what I am."
"Listen," Stanley said. "I don't like this bit. I don't like that kind of talk about killing . . . "
"Now who said anything about killing?" Alan asked. "And, darling, ice maiden, baby-child, it doesn't matter what you like, now does it? You're in this thing. Or are you losing your belief that things are screwed up pretty severely in this world."
"I just don't like . . . "
"Well, there are a lot of things I don't like. But if we are to change those things, the methods we use will have to be left up to those in charge of changing them. Now we all got on this bandwagon. We're all going to have to stay. You dig?"
"I . . . . "
"No one will get hurt if little Angle makes her speech. And she's going to do that, isn't she?" He chucked an extended finger under Angel's chin.
"Yes," she said, in a whisper, but her mind was saying no. Her mind told he to play along with them, to wait her chance and then run like hell to warn her father.
"Now we have a long time to wait," Alan said. "I suggest we make it as pleasant as possible. Stan, how about you making us a drink and then give room service a call for some chow?"
Angel sat in one of the straight chairs. She watched Stanley mix drinks. She watched with a great deal of interest, for Stanley was mixing four drinks. When they were ready, the blonde delivered them to the men first, then extended a glass to Angel.
"No," Angel said.
"Suit yourself," Stanley shrugged, putting the glass back on the dresser.
"Here's to our lively little party," Carl Peurter said, lifting his glass.
She sat there, her mind working furiously. She would wait until they were all asleep, or until the room service man came, or until she had a good chance to escape. She would not risk all by making a premature move. Time passed. The food was delivered by a girl, a dark skinned girl who obviously would have been of no great help in overpowering two strong men like Carl and Alan. Carl was drinking steadily. He was beginning to show the effects. Stanley was aloof, nursing a couple of drinks. Alan calm and sure of himself.
"Some party," Carl said, after darkness had fallen and the lights had been turned on in the room. "I liked the one we had the first night better, huh, Angel?" He looked at her, lust hot in his eyes. Angel felt herself cringe.