Chapter 1
They had captured him without difficulty. There hadn't been any need for physical force. But once inside the back seat of the Bentley, the two girls had to tie the hands of their captive, Peter Le Grande, grandson of Madison Le Grande, the wealthiest man in America-depending on just whose figures one was to believe.
But at the moment young Peter Le Grande wasn't exactly taking an accounting of exactly whom was the richest man in the country, his grandfather, or wealthy Texas oilman J. C. Petty. Right now he was trying to figure out just what in the fuck was going on. The two strong young women had succeeded in tying his hands behind his back and were shoving him roughly towards the floorboard of the car, which had now started rolling through the streets of Manhattan-destination unknown, at least to Peter.
His mind raced pell-mell as the car jerked and jumped through the nighttime traffic, various flashes of neon breaking through the darkness around him as they moved. But the visual imagery didn't last for long. Hands reached down and fitted a thick black hood over his head, a hood that had obviously been constructed for the purpose of fitting over a person's head. It was made of double layers of black nylon. It suddenly flashed through his mind that these people were quite serious, unless-that was it! Why, he should have gotten it right away. It was all a joke. He had many rich friends that loved to pull pranks of this sort when they weren't jet-setting around Europe. Sure, it was all a bizarre joke, cooked up by some of his friends.
"Okay, okay," he blurted, the hood dampening his voice somewhat. "Who was it that fixed this up... Gordon? Oh, I know... Ellie! I should have known." He received a sharp kick in the ribs for his efforts from the pointed toe of someone'se boot.
"Ouch!" he winced, sucking in a sharp helping of air. "Hey, this is getting out of hand. I mean, a joke's a joke, and I'm onto that. But let's not get carried away."
He received nothing but silence as a reply, and he got more uncomfortable the longer he went without receiving the answer he wanted. His body rolled helplessly against the seat as the car braked suddenly for a traffic light, his fettered arms making it difficult for him to become stabilized for any length of time, his eyes useless to foresee any upcoming need to brace himself for the stops and starts of New York City traffic.
"I mean," he repeated, as the car began rolling again, "it is a joke, isn't it?" There was still no reply, and he felt a surge of uncertainty well up in his stomach. Suppose it wasn't a joke? But he just couldn't believe it, his mind failing to form the word at first. But slowly, the idea began to seem more a possibility, the thought growing until it overwhelmed his senses. But it just couldn't be, it couldn't happen to him. Sure, his grandfather had lots of money, and that was one of the things that happened when you had money. So many rich families had been through it... the Hamms, the Lindberghs, and more recently, the Hearsts. But he had that overwhelming reaction as the shock set in of trying to displace himself from the reality of the possibility-kidnap. Kidnap-now who would want to kidnap him?
Who indeed. Peter was an ideal candidate for that particular fate, he began to concede, as the car continued through the mid-town traffic, piloted by the unspeaking chauffer, the two equally silent amazons in the back seat, nudging him with their booted feet as he rolled about on the floorboard. After all, wasn't his grandfather, the renowned Madison Le Grande, widely-publicised as being one of the wealthiest, if not the wealthiest man in the country? Perhaps the world? And since the primary goal of kidnapping was to extract a ransom from the family of the victim in exchange for said victim, Peter sadly realized that he was, indeed, a likely choice for such a felony.
But even as he let the thoughts form helter- skelter in his mind, he still couldn't really allow himself to fully believe that he was in fact being kidnapped. It was an emotion not dissimilar from a condemned man waiting for a last minute reprieve from death. Several minutes had gone by since he had last tried to find out if this were a hoax or the real thing. Although he was beginning to feel the paranoidal suspicion that it was indeed the real thing, he swallowed hard and cleared his throat, determined to make one last effort to ascertain the true nature of his predicament.
"Come on, now," he whined through his mask with the tone of one who is not used to being on the weak end of a conversation. "Tell me once and for all. The whole thing's gone far enough. You can carry a joke too far."
He felt a momentary surge of power, his accustomary role, but as his demands met with further silence, he was reminded of his helpless position, the car rolling along what seemed to be an expressway now from the steady clip and the sound of the traffic. "This is a joke isn't it?" he practically yelled after a moment of silence. A sharp kick landed on his ribs, sending a stifling pain to his brain. "It's no joke, puke!" came the cold voice from above him at last. "Now just keep your fucking mouth shut, and I won't have to take drastic steps."
He blinked back the tears caused by the sharp toe of the boot, wincing at the way the women had pronounced drastic. A hot tingle of anticipation spread across his skin as he considered the menacing words.
He felt fear for the first time in his life. He had that peculiar form of bravado that can only come from having been born into wealth. As young Peter had grown up, he had come to realize that there was a difference in those who had recently acquired wealth and those who'd always had it. His own grandfather, the man who'd made it possible for his own blueblooded entry into the 'right' circles, was a case in point, being a self-made billionaire who, despite all his riches, clung tightly to every penny, or at least to every million. This had not prevented Peter's parents from benefitting from a very privileged way of life, but all the same, Peter could tell the difference in his own attitudes towards money and those of his grand- father's.
For the first time in his young life, Peter silently cursed his luck, the pain from the woman's stiff kick throbbing with his every breath. If his family hadn't been so well off, he reasoned, then he wouldn't be in the pickle he was now. Surely, it was money they were after. What else? Unless this was after all a practical joke arranged by one of his jet- setting wealthy friends. But the possibility of that stroke of fortune faded with every mile covered by the thumping steel-belted radials.
To be sure, his life had taken a couple of dramatic twists over the past year and a half or so. It all started when his father had been killed in an airplane crash in South America. His father, a key assistant in the business empire run by Peter's grandfather, had been on a trip, investigating some of the company's mining operations in Latin America when the tragedy occurred.
His father had always favored Peter, the only child of a marriage with Paula Stubbington, the daughter of a prominent New England banker, a marriage seemingly made in Heaven, at least to envious readers of pulp gossip digests who dreamed themselves into the world of the wealthy and social that Peter's parents took for granted. Paula always insisted that her husband was spoiling young Peter, lavishing gifts upon him that only a wealthy man could afford, indulging the boy in his every whim and looking the other way with a wink whenever his childish enthusiasm carried him beyond the bounds of what Paula thought was proper decorum for children.
Of course, Harold, Peter's father, always won out, and the boy grew to adore his father, his mother taking a secondary position in his younger years. She wasn't overly cruel to Peter, but she did have some definite New England ideas about the upbringing of boys, ideas she was only able to experiment with during Harold's rather infrequent trips abroad to check up on one phase or another of the family's burgeoning business empire. Not that Paula herself had to worry about the everyday tasks of ministering to a young child's needs-no, that was for a series of nursemaids the Le Grande's engaged for such purposes. Oh, she was there to kiss a cut finger once it was cleaned and bandaged, but the real drudgery was left to the nanny.
Peter thought about his favorite nanny, jolly old Betty, as the car continued on its mysterious route through the New York night. A nanny was a governess in England... and that was another regretful moment in his life-leaving England. After spending the first few years, a bit over three to be exact, in Rhode Island, Peter had moved with his parents to London. It seems that his grandfather's business ventures in Europe had been blossoming rather prodigiously and the elder Le Grande wanted his son to personally take command of the headquarters of the European operation located in the British capital.
It was there that Peter was put under the care of his beloved nanny, the old woman joining the Le Grande's live-in staff after the first nanny had been discharged by Peter's mother for some long forgotten misdeed having to do with some sort of activity involving the family chauffer, who, like his partner in crime, was summarily dismissed. From the time Peter was three, up past his eighth birthday, Betty was to be his nanny. One of Betty's duties was to take care of the youngster's bath, an activity which the young master grew to look forward to. "Let's see your little piddler," the old lady would tease after the bath, clutching the downy towel in her fat hands and rubbing his penis dry.
This was as close as Peter was ever to come to having a sexual experience, being yet far too young to feel adult arousal. Yet, he was to tuck away these pleasant memories of the time, only to recall them fondly in retrospect once he was able to act out his emotions sexually.
Unfortunately, this kindly nanny, who had seen the boy through the most difficult periods of maturation, had to retire from the service shortly after Peter's eighth birthday to attend to her ailing sister in Kent. His mother engaged a young nanny, but Peter didn't get on with her nearly so well as he had with his former nanny, and after a period of months this woman was let go, there being no further nannies in Peter's life as his mother felt that there would be no more need of them at his present age.
For thirteen years, the Le Grande's were to live in the luxurious estate in Vauxhall, Peter having the run of the three-story house and its hedged-in gardens. Peter was privately tutored for his first few years of schooling, then bundled off to a boarding school as is the wont of wealthy families in England. Here he was to make many associations with other boys his age, getting into no little mischief in the process. He was somewhat the cut- up, seeking to prove himself to be one of the boys in an attempt to live down the particular notoriety that came with his being the wealthiest boy in the school. The school was strict, but Peter was lucky to receive only extra duties and confinement for his punishment as caning had been abolished.
It was there that Peter was to have his first sexual experience. Sex between boys in boarding schools was quite common, and still is in England, and Peter, having developed a rather open and devil-may-care attitude about life, didn't feel in the least odd that he should end up involved learning about homosexual lovemaking from Brent, one of his closest friends. Looking back on these experiences, which took place during his thirteenth year, Peter realized that this form of behavior was common among boys that age and didn't brand himself a homosexual. But even with boarding school behind him and despite the fact he never had any more sexual relationships with boys after his several goes at it with Brent, he considered himself to be 'bi', coming to be a very liberated young man.
For the fact was, the very summer after his sexual tryst with Brent, he got it on with his first girl during a summer vacation with his family in France. Peter had been with his family on visits to his grandfather's summer home above the French Riviera before, a trip that was always appreciated by young Peter. But at the age of fourteen, the first visit in three years to the town of Bandol where his grandfather's estate was located, he was better able to enjoy the sights of the girls who sunbathed in their brief bikinis, many of the sunlovers sans top.
The small town, a resort and fishing center, was a bit too provincial for Peter's tastes this time around, however, and he was able to persuade his father, who had joined his mother at Madison Le Grande's sumptuous retreat for a few days vacationing, into allowing him to venture to Cannes, where the action was reputed to be terrific.
After arriving in Cannes by bus, he checked into a small resort hotel above the beach and went out in search of fun, aboard a motor scooter he had rented. It didn't take him long to find out where the action was, and once upon the beach, he was able to pick up on a French tart named Jeanie, a pretty wench of sixteen with long auburn hair. Peter was quite cool and collected during his come- on, despite the fact of his virginity. Having crossed over from pounding his own drum, he now was anxious to get it on with as many people as possible, and the nymphet named Jeanie looked like a good candidate. He made no pretense about his age, and when she told him that she was a couple of years older, quite a gap in adolescents, he took it all in stride.
They talked, primarily in French, as Peter's grasp of his second language was somewhat better than her attempts at English. She had something he wanted, he conceded, looking at her svelte body which was covered only by a brief yellow bikini, and he figured as long as he was on French turf he might as well allow her the home court advantage. It was the least he could do.
Within the hour, he had talked the girl into a ride on his motor scooter, and they drove off to a more remote beach, Jeanie clinging to him tightly, her hands clinging excitingly to his ribs.
They found a remote area of beach not far out of town, and he guided the scooter down to the sand, bumping along the shoreline avoiding the running tidewaters that crashed in at them. They found a cove formed by rocks, eaten away by years of salt water erosion, hidden from view from anyone who might attempt to explore the now deserted beach. He kicked down the stand and shut the scooter off, checking the high spire of rocks that gave them privacy. "Mmmm, mon cher," Jeannie exhaled in her best English as she climbed off the bike, "le motor scooter, it makes me feel, how you say, all funny inside."
From the way she smiled, Peter realized what she meant. He'd heard about the way girls could get turned on by riding a horse, so he assumed that the vibrations of a bike could send a sexual sensation into a girl's crotch as well.
He was determined to give her a bigger thrill than a mere machine could though, and it wasn't long before they were speaking a new language, a step beyond sign language... more of a feel language.
As they fell to the warm sand, the girl seemed to sense that she was more experienced in such matters, and she began to take the lead. But Peter was no dope, and at the very least he was an attentive pupil.
The girl moved fluidly against the sand, the in- cessant pounding of the waves acting as a metronome for their movements. His hands fumbled at her bikini top, trembling in excitement, but he was finally able to free the ripe melons. A wave of sprouting goose bumps grew over the alabaster orbs as the cool ocean miasma kissed them, causing the deep pink aureolas to stiffen. Peter felt his cock thump out a heartbeat inside his pants when he viewed the titties, the dark umber of her suntan framing the twin orbs excitingly.
Under her tutelage, he bent his head down to sip her left nipple into his mouth, his lips sucking firmly like a nursing infant. His elbows dug into the sand, the sun beat down on his bare back, as his hands rubbed at the rolling mounds of jello. Jeanie twisted her fingers in his fine brown hair, encouraging him to go on with his oral explorations.
He sucked at one nipple, then the other, his mouth drooling as he ministered to her. His cock was throbbing against the confining prison of his shorts and trousers as he lapped at the breastflesh.
He knew he couldn't wait much longer, so he slipped one hand down and unzipped his trousers, pushing them down, along with his shorts as he dry humped the warm body beneath him. It was a little soon for the girl, but she realized how close he was to making it. She could get him to do her Oedipal crack with his tongue later. Now he could try to put out the fires within her with his pecker.
She spread her legs out after ripping off her slick bikini bottoms, her heels digging into the sand. Still nipping at her breasts with his mouth, Peter ran a hand down to the moist furrow of her pussy and began to rub at it, thrilling at the way it sopped up against his fingers.
"Mmmm-oui," she encouraged him.
But he didn't need much in the way of verbal incitement as he gripped his thick, corded shaft in his right hand and adjusted his hips to the right angle. He looked down and felt a ripple of lascivious desire sweep through him as he viewed the tanned body beneath him, the fine stubs of mowed pubes on her thighs leading to a thick tangle of her bush, the whiteness of her pelvic region contrasting the dark skin of her belly and legs, thin streaks of pale blue blood vessels streaking below the taut skin.
He moved his prickhead towards her cunt, a thin trickle of white fluid dripping out of the eye-shaped slit at the tip of the swollen red head. With a tentative thrust, he slipped the missile into her silo, the thrill of contact causing his back muscles to spasm. With a heavier thrust, he pushed his weight into her hot cavern, a gushing cuntfart escaping as he sank his spear home.
He moved his head up against hers as he pressed his smooth chest down to her spongy breasts, causing the sacs to spread out under the pressure, the stiffened points puncturing his skin.
The girl moaned as he began rocking his hips up and down, propelling his rock-hard cock in and out of her juicy snatch. He could feel his nuts tighten up in anticipation as Jeanie wrapped her slender pins around the back of his thighs, her plump hips, scratching a tunnel in the sand as they pumped to meet his efforts, tiny particles of sand clinging to her dampened skin.
"Oui, moi cher, oui!" she panted, her own rising passion being sated.
He gripped her ribcage as he plowed her furrow, the musculature and cartilage popping as she moved. His swollen urge plunged in and out of her snapping orifice as he crushed his lips against her, bruising in their fury. Her mouth opened wide as her tongue lashed against his in the best manner of her countrymen, as his meat smacked wetly in and out of her twitching hole.
Peter felt himself stiffen as a hot charge began to race through his belly, telling him that it was getting to be about that time. His balls thudded heavily against her sandy buttcheeks as he drove it home. Pounding his pud was never this good, nor making it with a boy for that matter. He built up the tempo of his fuck as he felt his randy load of goo about to explode. He pulled his head back from Jeanie's, a thin string of spittle stretching out and then popping, only to splash wetly on her chin. She smiled insanely, her claws raking at his tender back, her heels thumping at his lower legs. Her nostrils flared widely, her eyes gazed crazily as she felt him about to dump his load.
And then he let go, great curds of goo splashing out in hot torrents against her cavern walls of pink and brown, as he threw himself into her with steady thrusts of finality. She felt herself going over at this time, tripped off by the hot wads that splattered her pussy, moaning out her pleasure as she made it.
After they had rested for a little while, she went on to show him how to eat pussy, and he was amazed at how good the acrid taste of her love hole was. And then she blew him, showing him just why the art was known as the French art. He lay back in the warm sand as she bent over him, gripping the base of his cock with one hand and tossing him off into the receptacle of her warm mouth that puckered around the top half of his thick shaft, her head moving up and down in a facial fuck.
"Oh, Baby," he breathed as he neared completion, "do it! Suck my cock!"
After his introduction to sex on the French seaside, Peter just couldn't get enough sex. In fact, his behavior over the next couple of years hadn't exactly pleased his mother, nor his grandfather, who wasn't approving of the reputation his namesake began to gather on the continent. His father dismissed the worries of his wife, passing it off as being adolescent enthusiasm, inwardly feeling the pride of a father who feels his offspring is a chip off the old block, just a bit jealous of the youthful paramours. But what worried his wife and Madison Le Grande as well was the fact that Peter was acquiring a reputation as being a young rake. To be truthful, Peter found himself gravitating towards a crowd of young jet-setters and pot smokers, people who, like himself, were fed up and bored with their lives and found pleasure only in sexual liberties and in flaunting the authority of the older generation.
The next summer in Bandol, Madison spoke to Peter about his behavior, but the young man was able to put the elder off for the time being, going off to spend most of his time cavorting with his newfound friends. He had a few violent arguments with his mother, who was concerned about the fact that the press had begun to label him as a 'rich hippy playboy', but, secure in the knowledge that his father didn't really feel any deep concern over his son's deportment, he was able to go his own way pretty much as he pleased. At sixteen, he sat for his upper forms and passed, and could have had his pick of colleges, but he declined to attend college, preferring to spend a season on the continent, an idea his mother much opposed. Being bright, Peter had little trouble with schoolwork, even though he spent little time applying himself. But he felt that he'd rather put off college for the time being, or for good if possible, sharing the idea with his youthful compatriots that colleges were a part of the threat to the third world, being just another part of the established order they detested.
But he was still a minor, and had the added burden of living up to a well-established name, and here his mother drew a firm line, battling him incessantly about his proposal to become a rich nomad in Europe. His case wasn't advanced in the least when he was arrested with several of his friends at a party in London that summer, charged with possession of marijuana. His name and family wealth was able to squash the charges, Peter getting off with a stiff fine and warning from the judge, but the press, already covering his every step, had a heyday with the matter. To make things worse, his father, who up to this point had tried to remain neutral in the dispute between mother and son, finally chimed in with his mother, shocked that Peter's behavior had gone much further than even he could ever have imagined.
After a pitched battle in the Vauxhall homestead, which sent the servants from room to room in an attempt to press up to a door for some tidy tidbits, the matter was left up in the air, Peter's father having to go off to South America on the trip that was to result in his death.
After the funeral, Peter found his best defender gone from his corner. Trying to get the situation in hand, Paula decided to pick up stakes and remove to the United States, back to the New York art circle she had reluctantly left to follow her husband's business interests in Europe. She would have a more than substantial inheritance to see her through, in addition to a monthly allotment from the estate. Most of the fortune, however, would be handed down to the male heir, that being Peter, but that wouldn't take effect until he reached his majority at twenty-one.
Shocked by the tragedy of his father's death, Peter returned with his mother to New York, where they moved into the penthouse suite of a very fashionable apartment building on Park Avenue. He enrolled at Harvard, the proper strings having been pulled, and spent the next year living in a dorm at the prestigious institute of higher learning. He didn't much like the situation, but after the shocks of being busted and going through his father's untimely death, he really didn't have much choice. He was able to content himself by throwing in with a rich set of kids and balled and smoked his blues away. That summer, he had been able to spend a couple of weeks in Europe, headquartering in Bandol, but his grandfather's growing concern over his wild lifestyle finally made him return to New York with his mother, who had accompanied him on the trip. He had been hoping to coax her into letting him remain in Europe for the duration of the summer, but she had turned down his request for money. He reluctantly returned to the Big Apple, silently cursing both his mother and grandfather, both cold fishes in his way of viewing things, resolving that he'd get back at them as soon as he received the trust fund. But, shit, he kicked himself, that was over three years away.
While his mother could control his activities as far as fiscal limitations went, she wasn't able to keep him a prisoner in the large apartment the way she would have liked. He had rich friends in the city, friends he'd met through another boy at college whose father was a political bigwig. So, over her objections, he'd go off whenever he liked to be with his friends, especially with Ellie, a free spirit a couple of years his senior who had talked her wealthy parents into financing her somewhat Bohemian existence, which included her own apartment in Greenwich Village.
In fact, that's exactly where Peter had intended to end up this night that he'd been so swiftly abducted. He'd decided to take a few turns around the Times Square area while waiting for the time he would be sure that Ellie would be home, enjoying people watching, one of his favorite pastimes. The characters in this area were really strange to him, especially in his loaded condition. He viewed them with the detached air of the rich who are slumming, getting a laugh at the prostitutes who tried to entice him into an evening of bought lovemaking.
In fact, when he spotted the two tall women in the high-heeled boots, he had taken them for high- price hookers, and was a little amazed that two such striking amazons would be working the streets. And when the blonde smiled at him and spoke his name. Confused as to her identity, wondering just how she'd known him, he offered little resistance as the pair led him to a silver Bentley sedan and opened the door. It was only when she told him to get in that he realized that this wasn't an ordinary situation, but before he could take action, the pair grabbed him forcefully by the arms and pushed him into the car. And now he was riding with them to a destiny not of his own making.