Chapter 6

It was almost dark when Cheryl finally emerged from the biology lab in the basement of the Life Sciences building. She had made a special appointment to reserve the lab to herself -to try to catch up on some of the work that she had missed during the last few weeks. Bobby's visit had upset her to the point of being unable to concentrate on anything for a week afterward. Finally she had pulled herself together-or, at any rate, she was trying to.

The men were waiting in the shadows. They weren't students-she knew that at once. She just had time to think that it was a funny place for them to be standing, when they approached her quickly.

"Good, evening, Miss Burke," one of them said, "Yes," she answered, startled. "What do you want?"

"Your brother asked us to pick you up. It's important that you go to see him, and he couldn't come himself."

She stiffened. The man who was talking was a young, slender Black man, dressed in a mode similar to her brother's. The other man was very heavy-set, a white man, who plainly looked like a thug, thickset and with small, brutal eyes. She glanced around quickly, but they were truly alone. She was suddenly frightened.

"No," she said. "If my brother wants to see me, he knows where to find me. He would have at least called me. I don't believe you."

She was looking at the young Black man. His expression showed no surprise at her reaction. He nodded, still smiling politely, almost as if he had expected her to refuse. Then he reached his hand out of his pocket.

Cheryl was watching his hand, expecting there to be a gun in it.

But no, there was no gun. Somehow the thickset man had eased around behind her, while she was watching the other man's hand. Suddenly the hand, the hand which had no gun, raised very quickly toward Cheryl's face. She uttered a little shriek of surprise and jerked back, meeting the resistance of the thug's muscular body. Instantly, beefy hands closed around the supple bend of her waist, and she felt her body crushed into immobility against the man's chest. The Black man, still smiling, pushed his hand against Cheryl's face, covering her mouth and nose with a damp handkerchief. Cheryl went stiff with horror. The smell was ether. She felt herself floating away, going limp and passive in the big man's clutch.

When Cheryl finally opened her eyes she was lying on a bed in a room that was lit by faintly flickering gas-lights that had been built into the walls. She listened. There was no traffic noise. No noise at all. She raised herself on one arm and looked around the room. It was a large bedroom, furnished in a baroque, Victorian style. She stood up and almost fainted. Then she made her way to the door. It was an enormous door of solid oak, and it was securely locked-bolted, she guessed, from the outside. A sick feeling of apprehension swept over her, made her feel weak and dizzy. Where was she? What did they plan to do with her? She closed her eyes and tried to clear her head. She tried to figure how long she had been unconscious. It seemed like days.

Cheryl lay for a long time on the bed, ears straining to pierce the silence. Occasionally she could hear what sounded like the laughter of a group of men somewhere far below-reverberating upward through the ventilator shaft.

She made her way silently to the wall and pressed her ear against the shaft. She could hear the laughter now with more clarity. She still couldn't make out what was being said, but she was almost certain that she could hear Frank's voice in the group. She listened for a while, straining to pick up the words, but the conversation sounded as if it were being held in a foreign language. At last she gave up. There were no windows in the room-no access to the outside. Cheryl realized with a shock that she had no idea what time it was-even what time of day. It had been about seven o'clock when she was taken from in front of the lab. Was it an hour later or two days later? Her sense of helplessness was increased by her complete lack of ability to orient herself. She collapsed weakly on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Suddenly she looked up.

There were footsteps in the hall-sharp purposeful footsteps. The footsteps came to a stop just outside the door. Cheryl got to her feet and walked around the bed quickly, putting it between the door and herself. The bolt slid open, and the door swung open. A man walked in quickly, closed the door behind him, then turned to eye Cheryl. She had never seen him before, but she was frightened of him. He was in his early thirties, with fine brown hair that was combed straight back. He was wearing tight bell-bottomed trousers and a jacket with a flaring, pointed collar. His skin was very smooth and tanned-his eyes were dark and brown and somehow ominous.

"Who are you?" Cheryl asked, her voice quivering. "What do you want?"

He looked at her for a moment with no expression. Then he sighed and turned to lock the door from the inside, using a key, which he then pocketed.

Cheryl raised her hands unconsciously to her throat. The man's coolness chilled her. There was a strength, an awesome reptilian strength in him that frightened her more than the thugs who had kidnapped her.

"If you don't let me out of this . . . this place right away," she said, trying to control the quaver in her voice, "I'm going to have you arrested for kidnapping."

The man looked at her with the same dead, uncomprehending eyes. Then he fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and produced a strange, fat cigarette, which he stuffed between his thick lips and lit. He pulled a chair away from the ornate, mirrored dressing table and straddled it, bracing his arms on the back, eyeing her and puffing slowly at his cigarette.

Cheryl watched him silently. She didn't try speaking any more. She was convinced that she wasn't going to talk her way out of here. There was a grim resignation about the man that seemed as impenetrable as a brick wall.

"What is your name?" the man asked. His voice was strangely accented. He was obviously a foreigner-French probably. She watched him without speaking.

The man stared at her for a long time, then shrugged. "My name is Claude," he said. "It does not matter . . . I do not really have to know your name."

He took a deep drag on the cigarette and stood up. He found an ashtray on the end-table beside the bed and set the cigarette down carefully, not bothering to crush it out. Then he locked his fingers together and popped his knuckles, sighing and stretching.

"Take off your dress," he said, waving casually at her.

Cheryl's eyes went wide with horror. "What in the world do you mean ? " she hissed.

"I mean," he said, "get your clothes off right now." His voice was hard and flat.

"No," she said contemptuously.

He smiled a little, for the first time. Then he started around the foot of the bed.

Cheryl braced herself and moved the other way, keeping the bed between them. He moved slowly, balanced on the balls of his feet like a hunting cat. She watched him with fearful intent, moving as he moved-always keeping the bed between them.

He moved faster-still without hurry, but almost running now, circling the bed as if it were a miniature track. She scrambled to keep pace with him. He was grinning broadly now, obviously enjoying this. She was breathing hard. She could never keep this up as long as he could.

He broke into a run, making the corners gracefully, using the bedposts for leverage. Cheryl ran, her breath tortured, burning in her chest, half sobbing from fear.

Suddenly he reversed himself. She stopped and tried to do likewise, but her legs buckled under her and he was on her.

She cried out as his body slammed into hers and mashed her face downward on the bed. He was on top of her, pushing her shoulders down hard against the bed-sitting across her hips so that she could scarcely move at all.

"You're hurting me," she squealed. "Damn you, you're hurting me."

He chuckled thickly behind her. Then he felt her shoulder, still covered by the fabric of her dress. He squeezed her shoulders, as if he was evaluating a cut of meat. Then he circled her neck with his hands. She felt the power of his hands. His fingers locked over her throat, and he pressed lightly. She stopped breathing. The strength of his hands was enormous. She knew that he could kill her now with his hands-almost instantly-before she could even scream. She was stiff with horror, not daring to make a sound or move a muscle.

Then, slowly, his hands relaxed their grip and slipped away from her throat. She drew a long, shuddering breath. His fingers went to the zipper at the back of her neck, and he drew it down--all the way down to her waist. She shuddered as he trailed his fingers lightly over the soft, warm flesh of her back, between her fragile shoulder blades. Then he took her dress and jerked it quickly off of her shoulders.

"No," she squealed uselessly, as she felt her dress being pulled down to her waist. Next the man sat up, still keeping Cheryl pinned securely to the bed, and he fumbled in his pocket. There was a click-metallic and frightening-and Cheryl strained her head to one side. She drew in her breath sharply, then let it out in a low, feverish moan at what she saw. He was holding a six-inch pointed switchblade knife delicately between his fingers.

"Oh, please," she sobbed. "Please, don't hurt me."

He chuckled softly, and every bone in her body went rigid as she felt the cold, sharp point of the knife between her shoulder blades, moving up her spine.

The blade was pushed gently under her tight bra. Then she screamed as he brought the knife up quickly, lifting her half off the bed and arching her back painfully. The bra was severed, and he clutched it quickly and snatched it out from under her, making her utter a choked little scream of pain as the material of the bra pulled roughly over the sensitive flesh of her taut brown breasts.

She started to cry-from the pain, from the fear, from the humiliation of being treated this way by this horrible man, this strange, perverted man.

She felt his weight ease off of her, but she refused to move, lying face down, cupping her hands up under her breasts, burying her face in the pillow.

She felt his hand on her shoulder, urging her to roll over, urging her almost gently. She stiffened and resisted the pressure. Suddenly he jerked her over, as if she was a feather. Then he pulled himself quickly astride her and grabbed her wrists, prying her hands away from her firm breasts, pinning her arms to her sides.

She turned her face away and closed her eyes in shame and humiliation. He was using her, as if she were some kind of toy or object that existed for nothing except his own use and pleasure. He released her wrists, and she instantly covered herself again.

He slapped her hard.

Her face spun sideways on the bed-stinging and smarting from the force of his blow. She opened her eyes and looked up at him through tearful, red-rimmed eyelids. He slapped her again, even harder. She felt as if her brains were being jarred loose. "Please," she moaned weakly, "not again. Don't hit me again."

"Take away your hands," he muttered thickly. "Let me see . . . "

She shook her head. "No," she pleaded. "I can't."

He slapped her again-a vicious chop that split her lip. She tasted the warm salt of her own blood. Sobbing, she let her hands fall to her sides.

She felt a wave of hot shame rise up in her body. He looked at her with mad, starved eyes, and his eyes were like blunt, dirty fingers on the satin slopes of her plump, exquisite breasts.

Then he took her breasts in his palms-touching them ever so lightly, rubbing his hands lightly around and around across the puckered tautness of her hard chocolate nipples.

She squirmed back and forth, trying to somehow twist her body away from the maddening torture of his touch. He grinned-her motion only succeeded in rubbing her naked tits more actively into his open hands.

Then he took her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs and twisted them lightly back and forth. Cheryl whimpered and bit her lip to keep from screaming.

Then he pinched her nipples hard, and she screamed despite herself. She felt as if he was going to tear off the ends of her breasts. The pain was a white-hot agony that brought her to the pitch of hysteria. She looked at his face through fear-glazed eyes. His brown eyes were cold, detached, even a little amused at her agony. He was revolting, some kind of sub-human monster in human form. He could kill her as easily as look at her-she sensed that and it added a profound dimension to her terror.

Then he was standing by the bed, looking down at her while he slowly unfastened his belt. At first she thought he was going to take off his pants, but she began to shake when he simply drew the belt out of the loops, doubled it in his hand and swung it lightly back and forth.

"No," she begged, her voice choked with tears. "No, please don't hit me. I can't stand any more pain. I'll die if you hit me."

He grinned his lizard-like grin at her and gestured for her to turn over onto her belly.

She shook her head and tried to sit up. He pushed her down and made the same gesture of command.

Again she shook her head, raising her hands toward him. He smiled calmly, drew the belt back and slashed it across her upraised arms.

She shrieked with the pain of the blow.

The man smiled and bent over. He took her hip and rolled her over. This time, she didn't resist.

When she was whimpering, limp and frightened, on her belly, he reached over and drew the hem of her short skirt up around her waist. Now her dress was just a tangle around her waist. She was completely naked except for her little yellow panties. He brought out his knife again and slashed Cheryl's panties from her body.

Then he leaned over and placed one hand softly on her ass. She groaned at his touch, feeling goose bumps erupt on her satin skin as he slid his palm slowly around the plump contours of her luscious ass. Then he slipped his fingers between the tightly knotted cheeks of her butt and probed against the resistance of her little puckered asshole with his finger.

She whimpered and clenched her muscled cheeks together, but she only succeeded in locking his hand in place. Then he gouged one finger up into her rectum and she groaned as if she had been speared with a telephone pole. The pain was profound. She felt as if he were damaging her, injuring her sensitive tissues. He stuck his finger all the way up her ass and wiggled it around until she thought she would faint from the pain and the humiliation of it. There was something unspeakably perverted about what he was doing to her. She was nothing to him but a piece of warm flesh to stick the fingers into. She felt sick with guilt about lying still while he did this thing to her, but she was too frightened to move. He would hurt her again-he would use the belt on her unless she did what he wanted her to do.

He began to move his finger slowly in and out of her ass, and she drew in her breath sharply at the weird painful friction of his finger.

Strangely, as he continued to work his finger in and out, she seemed to stretch to accommodate him. The pain lessened, or was somehow transformed into a kind of frantic urgency-like having to go to the bathroom. Cheryl moaned at the new feeling, feeling strangely excited despite her fear and her hatred of the man kneeling on the bed behind her.

He chuckled with that odd, foreign laugh of his and quickened the obscene fucking motion of his finger. She whimpered and bit into the pillow. She tried to squirm away from him, but he reached down with his free hand, and held her firmly in place against the mattress. She simply had to make him stop-she was feeling hot and sick and slightly dizzy. It was torture of a terrible kind-she kept feeling her body growing tight with a new tension-and she had no ability to control it. She felt her naked pussy growing moist as it rubbed back and forth across the cool satin coverlet. He was jabbing his finger in and out of her rectum with quick, insistent thrusts, and she was uttering high-pitched, breathless little squeals of pain and excitement.

Then his finger was gone, and Cheryl shuddered and groaned with relief, but also with a strange hollowness. She half turned to look at him.

He was standing by the bed, fingering open his trousers. He was wearing a thin, tight pair of bikini underpants that looked obscenely feminine against the hard muscled contours of his body. What was inside the underpants didn't look feminine. It was huge, and half-stiff, like a slowly awakening python. He put his hands arrogantly on his hips and stood before her proudly, letting her look with awe at the massive bulge between his meaty legs.

Then he snatched down his undershorts, and Cheryl clutched her throat.

His huge fleshy pipe sprang free and leaped forward as if propelled by a giant spring. It was long, unbelievably long, thin, curved up slightly, like a scimitar. It was obscenely white, like a fat white worm.

He reached down and placed his hands across the firm, sleek back of her thighs, pushing them apart, moving at the same time, into position behind her. Cheryl craned her neck to the side, afraid to take her eyes off him. What was he doing? What terrible, sick thing was he going to force her to submit to?

He parted her plump brown asscheeks and insinuated the blunt, hard nose of his long shaft against her asshole. She groaned and tried to roll away from him, but he clutched her rounded hips with hard, cruel fingers, holding her in place with the incredible strength of his hands.

"Oh, my God," she screamed, "not that. You're not going to do that to me."

He didn't say anything, but pushed his iron cock hard, jabbing the purplish knob of his distended cockhead into the tightly clinging sphincter of her asshole. She wailed at the brazen intrusion. It was terrible, much worse than his finger had been. She didn't think she could stand the humiliation of being treated this way. She cried and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, trying to deny the reality of the terrible thing he was doing to her.

He chuckled strangely in his throat and pushed his hard tube all the way up her ass.

She groaned, feeling the sound rise up of its own accord from deep in her guts, at the feeling of his fleshy spike being buried to the hilt in her hot, clinging rectum.

It was like having to go to the bathroom, an awful feeling of being stuffed full of the alien, throbbing pike of hard white flesh. It was hot, and it seemed to probe so deeply into her body that she almost felt she could taste it in her throat. He withdrew a little and slapped his crotch up against the plump, upturned slopes of her satin buttocks. She felt the lean power of his hips, pinning her to the bed. She opened her eyes wide. A little spit ran out of the corner of her mouth and she cried softly.

He began to fuck his shaft in and out of her tortured asshole with quick, measured strokes Each time he drove home, his body slapped against her fleshy ass with an obscene, smacking noise. Cheryl expelled her breath in quick little gusts, whimpering high in her throat. It was worse than anything she had ever imagined a man could do to her. It was incomprehensibly degrading to be used this way. She was so ashamed, but also afraid that he would hurt her. Her tears were hot on the pillow as she lay still under the hammering of his hunching body.

She heard him grunting, strange tortured animal sounds as he drove his dick up into her guts with brutal force. She was making funny sounds, sounds that didn't even sound like her own voice. She felt the heat of the friction from the hard thickness of his fat white prick. She felt a horrible excitement, a frantic urgency flare like a torch in her body. She closed her eyes. No, she couldn't stop him, but she wasn't going to let him excite her-that would be the final sign of his dominance.

But the pain was almost gone now, or rather it was changed to something else-to a wild new heat that made her mew like a kitten and wiggle her firm ass back against him.

Her hot pussy was pressed hard against the cool satin coverlet, and somehow she couldn't control the building of her excitement. She tried to think of something else, she tried to hold back so he wouldn't know what was happening to her, but her body kept giving her away.

He grunted and chuckled as her lower body came to life, a life of its own. He was steady and relentless, churning his iron cock up into her ass with the precision of a well-oiled machine.

"Oooooh, oooh," she whimpered. She was so hot-her asshole was on fire. She was burning up-she couldn't stop moving. Her eyes were glazed. Something inside her felt as if it were being drawn as tight as a bowstring. She was hot and tight, and her ass was rolling against his thrusting body with a rubbery, sensual undulation. The bedsprings were creaking wildly. Cheryl's breathy little whimpers became higher and higher pitched as she felt the scalding tension build within her.

Then she felt his hot meaty length explode inside her, swelling and throbbing as it spurted bolt after bolt of his sticky hot cream up into her tortured guts. His climax seemed to snap the tension that was possessing her. She screamed and threw her face into the bed, trying to choke off her gasps of ecstasy, but the impact of her climax was too strong to resist, and she quaked and shuddered beneath the Frenchman's spasming body as if she were possessed by a demon.

Afterwards he lay on top of her, breathing with relaxed indolence, making no move to remove his hated weight from on top of her body.

Cheryl lay still, sobbing quietly, feeling his penis slowly wilt inside her tortured rear entrance. Finally he dislodged himself and began to dress. She lay still. She couldn't bear the thought of looking at him, so she pretended to be unconscious, praying that he was through with her.

Finally she heard him leave. She sat up and listened to his footsteps receding down the hallway. He had locked the door behind him.

Then there were new steps.

Another man came in, also locking the door behind him. He was older than the first man. He had a distinguished look about him-but something about him was distinctly foreign, too.

"Hello, Cheryl," he said. "My name is Alphonse." He had a slight, but noticeable accent, but he seemed to have a perfect command of English. She looked at him, surprised that he had called her by name. He sat beside her. She searched his face. Somehow he seemed warmer, kinder than the other man. She tried to speak, but it was a few seconds before she could make the words come out audibly.

"Please," she said. "I don't know who you are, but please let me go. I won't do anything . . .

I won't try to cause any trouble for you. I'll forget it. I won't go to the police or anything, but please let me out of here."

He listened to her intently. Then he smiled and shrugged as if someone had asked him the time and he had suddenly remembered that he left his pocket watch home.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I don't control these things."

She tensed and pulled away from him, suddenly aware of her nudity.

"Please," she persisted, sensing that he was somehow powerful enough to help. "Help me."

He nodded, but he seemed to be considering it.

"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps I might do something."

She listened carefully, holding her hands over her small, hard breasts. He turned and smiled at her-an almost fatherly smile. Then his eyes moved down to her ill-concealed nudity.

"Perhaps," he said, "if you help me, then I will be able to help you."

She arched her eyebrows quizzically. "What. . . what do you mean?" she asked tenuously.

He smiled and shrugged again, that laconic French gesture. He didn't say anything, but his eyes roamed over her body with brazen frankness.

"Oh, no," she whimpered. "God, no . . . please . . . not that."

He smiled. "As you wish," he said, and suddenly his eyes grew hard, his mouth set cruelly.

"There are others," he said. "Some of them are more . . . , " he waved his hand, "more sadistic than Claude." He paused and studied her. "It will be a long night." He waited another moment, then stood and began to unfasten his belt.

Cheryl fell back on the bed whimpering. "No," she moaned. "Don't hurt me."

"If you are nice to me," he said. "I might be able to arrange for you to leave . . . at least to be spared the others . . . I don't really enjoy beating up girls. Oh, I do it, but I don't enjoy it like the others."

He paused, and their eyes met.

"What . . . what do you want me to do?" she asked tremulously.

He sighed and reached down to stroke her neck gently. She flinched at his touch, but forced herself to hold still. She would have to make herself please him-it was her only hope at this point. He could help her-she had to do what he wanted -whatever it was.

He pulled her to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, holding her by the shoulders.

"Unzip me, Cheryl," he whispered. "Unzip me with your teeth."

She looked up at him, not understanding.

"Go ahead," he said. "I want you to unzip me with your teeth."

His hands urged her forward.

Her face was pressed against the front of his trousers. She could feel the hardness of his swelling organ against her cheek. She started to cry.

He was just like the other one. He had just pretended to be friendly. He just wanted to use her, to degrade her, to make her do perverted things to him. But his hands were still in place on her neck. She had to do as he asked, or he might hurt her. She couldn't stand the thought of being hit, or being hurt anymore. She had to do it. There were those others.

She caught the tab of his zipper between her teeth and worked it down. It was awkward, and she couldn't stop crying. It was so filthy. He was making her act like a whore. Finally his fly was open. She could see his meaty cock straining the fabric of his undershorts.

"Now get it out with your tongue," he said softly. "Go ahead."

She shuddered from revulsion, but she bent forward. She stuck her tongue through the opening of his shorts, almost gagging when the tip of it brushed against the thick shank of his shaft. She fought to unsnap the shorts, but it was almost impossible without using her hands. She fought against the snaps, crying from shame and frustrations. Finally one snap popped open, and she stuck her tongue inside his underpants, tasting his hot, hard meat. The other snap came open and his hard prick jumped out at her, striking against her mouth like a boxing glove. She pulled her head away, but his hands were firm, pushing her face back up against his crotch.

"Now," he murmured. "I think you know what I want you to do now."

She knew, but she couldn't make herself do it. She looked at the thick white shaft poised ominously in front of her lips, and she tightened her lips together. She felt sick to her stomach at the very thought of the disgusting thing that he wanted her to do.

He pushed his hips forward so that the knob of his swollen prick pushed insistently against the softness of her mouth. It was very warm against her lips-very warm and very smooth. She could see a little vein throbbing right under the baseshe could see the little hole at the end of it.

"If you're not good to me," he said. "I'm going to have to spank you."

She couldn't stand the thought of more pain. She opened her mouth, closed her eyes, and let him guide her face forward. The thing slipped into her mouth, and her mouth was full of his hot meat. She didn't move.

"Lick it," he said, his breath coming thickly. "Lick it and suck it . . . move your head. You know how. You must have had a cock in your mouth before."

She remembered the couple in the park-the couple she had seen when she had been thirteen. It was as if the dream was coming true, after so many years. Now it was she who was doing that perverted thing. She remembered how the girl had moved her head up and down. She tightened her lips around the circumference of his granite erection, groaning as he shoved it all the way into her mouth. It was like a big hard banana stretching her lips. She let her tongue move around and around. It was so smooth and funny tasting. She felt him quiver at the touch of her tongue, and she felt a strange sense of her own power. She clamped her teeth around the hard bone, but his fingers tightened around her neck.

"Don't bite," he warned, "or I'll kill you."

His fatherly manner, his pretense of being her friend were gone. He was excited now-his voice sounded funny. She sucked on his hard dick, laving the fleshy helmet at the end of it with her saliva. It fit into her mouth so snugly. She experimented with the rhythm of her stroke. She closed her eyes and pretended that it was something else-a banana, or a salami in her mouth. She moved her head quickly up and down. If she could just make him cum, maybe he would leave her alone. She sucked harder and bobbed her head faster. His breath was coming very quickly now. His fingers were guiding her face, setting the pace of her sucking.

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding oddly far away. "Yes, suck it . . . suck it, child . . . suck it hard."

She sucked him until her mouth was sore. Her lips felt raw and bruised. Her mouth was like an open wound, and he kept jabbing his massive erection in and out of it. He was fucking her in the mouth. The room was full of the sound of her sucking-wet, smacking, nasty sounds. He was making funny little gasps of excitement. His breath was quickening.

Then his fingers tightened on her neck cruelly, and he slapped his hips hard against her face. His desire-distended cock swelled and his-hot, salty cum boiled out of the end of it and down the arched tunnel of her throat like a scalding river, while he wheezed and gasped and held her firmly in place.

He held her face against him until his penis wilted. She sat still, frozen with horror at what she had done, at what she had been forced to do.

Gently he pushed her back on the bed. She tensed, expecting that there was more, but he stroked her forehead tenderly. "Sleep," he said softly. "I'll see what I can do for you."

She lay awake a long time. Then, somehow, she did fall asleep.