Chapter 10
The four convicts who had escaped from the Kansas State Prison were as deadly a quartet of savages and amoral animals as one could find in a primitive jungle. Two of them were lifers, Ben Salters and Mack Bolton. Bolton was a squat, almost bald, scarfaced man of forty, who had fiendishly murdered his wife and then planted a bomb in her lover's automobile engine to send him to kingdom come. He had found the two of them making love early one afternoon when he had unexpectedly left his job as a printer because of a sudden attack of indigestion. What he saw in his own bed as he had let himself in the door and then gone looking for his wife had given him still more of a bellyache-but his handsome thirty-five-year-old wife, Mae had suffered far more before merciful death claimed her. Mack Bolton had pretended to take what he saw like a good sport; as Mae's lover, a bespectacled white-collar minor advertising executive in his early thirties, scrambled out of bed and grabbed for his pants, Mack had chuckled, "Take it easy, take it easy. This sort of thing happens all the time. I just wish you two had told me about it so I wouldn't have come home and disturbed you."
Mae, her big breasts marked with her lover's kisses and fingerings, her light brown hair disheveled over one cheek, had pulled the sheets up over her loins to hide her nakedness; she stared at him incredulously, not believing that this silent, brooding husband of hers was actually going to let the i two of them get off after what they'd done. She had been married to him five years, and she knew the fiendish temper of which he was capable. Once, because she had overdrawn their bank account, he had tied her wrists together with a strong cord, hoisted them over a hook in the closet, so that she was standing on tiptoe, wearing only her flesh colored nylon hose and a garterbelt, and then he had whipped her on her bottom and thighs and against the sides of her titties with his black leather belt until she had fainted. He had waited until she had come to, and then he had calmly buggered her, prying open the plump tawny-sheened cheeks of her bottom to expose her crinkly anus, and then thrust himself into her without any lubrication whatsoever. And he had warned her that the next time she had spent more than he gave her for household expenses, he would turn her around and whip her over her titties and cunt.
That was why she couldn't believe that after having caught her and Al Murcur in the most compromising of positions, he was going to let the matter pass without any comment or retaliation. And of course she couldn't have been more wrong.
Al Murcur had feverishly dressed and left, babbling his thanks to Mack Bolton for not hurting him and promising never to interfere in their married life again. Well, he hadn't; the bomb in the engine had seen to that well enough.
That night, Mack Bolton took his wife to a movie, and then led her back into the bedroom and, with a cruel grin on his fat lips, stared at her with his merciless dark blue eyes and muttered, "You got me all worked up when I came home this afternoon, baby. Now let's see if you can shag as good with your own husband as you can with that stupid four-eyed jerk. Take off your duds nice and slow, as if you were doing a strip for your boyfriend."
"Mack, believe me, it-it just happened. I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear I didn't. I'll never see him again. I promise you. It's just that-well, my God, Mack, you never talk to a woman, you just push her down on the bed and give it to her when you want her. It's terrible to live with you. If only you could be nice once in a while," she protested.
He grinned, but there was no humor in it. "Can the chatter," he said sibilantly, "and just peel down raw, nice and slow."
"All right, Mack," Mae had quavered as she began to tug off her dress. Her slip followed, and she stood in white nylon bra, panties to match, and garterbelt. His eyes narrowed as they fixed on the heavy yet firm and superbly rounded gourds of her titties, with the wide dark aureola and the full ripe nipple-buds. He stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, in a sport shirt and slacks, and she could see that his cock was beginning to harden as she nervously reached back to unhook her bra and let it fall. He licked his lips as her naked titties burst into view, and Mae Bolton shuddered at the cruel and gloating, possessive look in his dark blue eyes. She told herself desperately that she had to do everything she could to please him, to make him forget the unfortunate episode of the afternoon. Yet her thighs were quivering, and she could hardly stand as she now slipped down her panties, stooping so that her heavy breasts dangled and jiggled in the most lascivious way. He saw the dark thick curls of her brown pussyhair hiding the fleshy mount, and he licked his lips again, his prick thrusting out even more adamantly from the fly of his slacks. She looked up at him with a frightened smile, trying to cajole him into forgiving her infidelity by desiring her. Once she was in bed with him, she swore to herself, she would give him such a fucking that he wouldn't think of her transgression, and everything would be. all right again. Again she had committed the fatal error of underestimating Mack Bolton's inherent brutality and gloating cunning.
"Leave the rest of the stuff on; you look sexy, Mae baby," he hoarsely commented when she straightened after putting her panties on a little table near the bed to join the bra. "You're quite some bitch, you are. You get a guy real randy, don't you? I'll bet that poor jerk wasn't really thinking of poaching on my premises until you led him on."
"I swear to God, Mack," Mae Bolton nervously stammered, her voice breaking under the onus of her torturing suspense, "that neither of us meant to do anything wrong. I've never cheated on you before, honest to God I haven't, Mack darling. Please forgive me. If you'd only show me more attention, I could be a wonderful wife to you. I really could. And-and you know you like it when we go to bed together. I can satisfy you, can't I?"
"Oh sure, you're a good enough lay when you've got your mind on your business, bitch," he had growled with a humorless chuckle. "Just stretch out now on your back-that's a position awful easy for a broad like you to take. I'm gonna have me a smoke and work myself up to poking you. Just lay there and think how you're going to try to please me and make me real happy and maybe overlook what you and that stupid bastard did in my own bed this afternoon, huh?"
He had taken off his shirt and undershirt, revealing his hairy fat chest, the paps of which were like a woman's. He scratched his belly button and ^ed her with a leer, then walked off into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, lighting a cigarette and opening the medicine chest. Mae Bolton tremblingly took her place on the bed, her hands under her neck, her thighs spread docilely, in the classical pose of awaiting her lord and master. But she could not stop the nervous twitchings that ran up and down along her satiny inner thighs, nor control the quickened and erratic breathing which made her magnificent big bubbies rise and fall tu-multuously. And sweat beaded her temples at the thought of what her husband was thinking; she wished she could get inside his mind and read his murkiest thoughts. She would have been appalled if she could have done so!
He was looking at the bottle marked "Poison" on the ledge. Iodine, tincture of mercury. No, nothing really fatal that could be given without trace by a medical examiner. He was already planning Mae's death with as much suffering as he could bring to her for having wounded his male pride, for having destroyed his arrogant enjoyment of her as his chattel, his toy and plaything. That another man had dared to sully his own marital bed had already marked Al Murcur for death, but it was Mae who Mack Bolton most blamed. That four-eyed jerk was scared of his own shadow, and it must have been Mae who had enticed him to be bold enough to fuck her. Well, they'd both pay for it, Mack Bolton swore to himself.
He strolled out of the bathroom and walked into the kitchen. There was more in the pantry to whet his sadistic mind: turpentine, lye, bleach and other caustics. He smiled cruelly as he picked up the can of turpentine. He thought of shaving Mae between the legs, gagging her and spread-eagling her with ropes on the bed, and then rubbing the depilated area of her pubis with cotton soaked in the turpentine. Maybe even lighting a cigarette and then touching the fiery end to that sensitive area. The bitch, the dirty lowdown bitch to cuckold him and in his own bed too!
He had smoked his cigarette now and he went back to her. The thought of what he was going to do to her had made him even more randy than ever, and his prick was sticking out violently against the fly of his slacks as he entered the bedroom and saw her passively awaiting him. "All ready to be fucked, nice and sweet and gentle, aren't you, bitch!" he had growled.
"Y-yes, M-Mack darling," Mae Bolton gasped, raising intriguing eyes to him and arching her pelvis in the most provocative manner, hoping to take his mind off her folly and to lure him between her shapely stockinged thighs. She had good solid rounded thighs, and her buttocks were perhaps overly plump, but she was still a seductive figure of a woman, Junoesque and buxom. And she was also as passionate as any man could have wished for; Al Murcur had whispered that into her ear as he had lain atop her, his elongated stiff prong jabbing ecstatically down her love tract. She had wound her legs and arms around him, grinding her belly to his, devouring him with her mouth as with her voracious cunt, and she had felt transported for that brief moment because Al Murcur had been grateful for the attention she was giving him; he hadn't taken her as if she were a possession or a thing to be used at fancy and at will.
He had made her feel like a woman; her husband made her feel like a slave, like the lowliest animal.
Slowly her husband took off his slacks, and then his shorts, and was naked in socks. He was squat and muscular, even though fat, and he exuded an animal cruelty and bestiality as he stalked over to the bed and knelt down on it, staring greedily at her pussyfur and at the swelling mounds of her titties. "So you're sorry about what you did, huh, bitch?" he growled.
Tears sprang into Mae's hazel eyes. "Oh yes, Mack darling, I didn't mean to. You've got to believe me, Mack honey. I won't ever do it again."
"I know you won't, baby. Well, I suppose these things happen. Anyhow, let's see how good you can fuck right now. Only first, I wanna have you suck me a little and get me nice and hard for that itchy twat of yours," he demanded.
Mae Bolton could not help grimacing, and unfortunate reaction which her husband at once noticed. He had only on occasion during their marriage required this act of obscene intimacy from her, and each time it had nauseated her. Mack Bolton was not the most fastidious man in the world, and although he bathed with fair frequency, he had strong need of a deodorant. Besides, she just didn't like to French a man, although she loved being fucked. Something else he hadn't done to her regularly and which she hoped he would never do again was brown her. He had occasionally threatened to do it-in happier days when there was more or less of a relationship going-, but somehow he had taken the virginity of her bottomhole only once, as a punishment.
At any rate, she tried to make up for the grimace by stammering, "All right, d-darling, I'll do whatever you want."
"You just bet your sweet life you will, baby," he chuckled lewdly as he crawled up over her face and thrust his stiff organ against her trembling lips. "Lemme see how good you can French, baby. You seem to like cock so much, I'm gonna let you have your fill of it right now."
Closing her eyes, Mae Bolton had passively obeyed. Opening her mouth, she had taken the meatus of his thick, turgid prick and nuzzled at it, while he tauntingly admonished her to "suck it good and loud so's I can hear whatcha doing, bitch!"
Mae Bolton obeyed. She forced herself to overcome the nausea which seized her from the strong smell of sweat and indolic compound and male flesh, pursing her full red lips over the meatus of his organ, drawing upon it, feeling it harden and grow even more turgid within the soft nectared haven of her lips. Then he had ordered her to lick the tip of her tongue over the head of his cock, and he had gloatingly savored her helpless and feverish haste to obey his every injunction, knowing exactly what she was thinking, and knowing-what she did not-that all her attempts to coddle and cozen him would be ultimately in vain.
"Okay, that's not a bad job," he at last grudgingly remarked. "Now I wanna have you lick my dong from the tip right down to the balls, all over, without missing an inch. Get acquainted with my cock, baby, after all, it belongs to your hubby, you know. Say tell me, did you French that jerk I caught you with this afternoon?"
"Oh n-no, Mack, I swear I didn't!" Mae Bolton gasped, her eyes wide with terror as he crouched over her, his throbbing prick dangling just in front of her trembling lips, his merciless blue eyes fixing her with a greedy stare. "I'd only do it to you, because you're my husband, you know that, Mack. Please say you'll forget all about it. I'll make it up to you, I swear I will."
"Then start licking my cock, bitch, and we'll see how good you are," was his next command.
Mae Bolton proved as industrious at this odious task as if she had been a call girl. His hoarse panting, his gasps and groans of pleasure, attested to the fervor, if not perhaps to the artistic expertness of her technique, and at last he stopped her again, for he was near to bursting. "Now roll over onto your belly, bitch," was his next command.
Wonderingly, Mae Bolton obeyed. He had buggered her just that one time, when he had punished her after the whipping in the closet; however, during their normal relationship during their married life, he had never once attempted that perverse practice. But if she had the slightest wonder as to what he now proposed to do, she was at once edified to her consternation when she felt his pudgy fingers pinch the quaking cheeks of her bare bottom and yawn them widely apart to expose the shrinking fissure of her asshole. "Oh please, not that, please, Mack! It hurts too much, I can't stand it, please, darling!" she groaned, looking back at him with humid, dilated eyes. "Please, I want you to have me, I'll give you a wonderful fucking, I promise I will, but don't do that to me, don't, Mack!"
"You just shut your goddam mouth and take it, bitch, and don't lemme hear no more yipes about it," he had brutally retorted. "After what you've done, any court in the country would justify me if I took a stick to your ass and beat you black and blue. Now relax those muscles, I'm gonna brown you good!"
And he did as much, without lubrication again, and Mae had to stuff her fists against her mouth to keep from shrieking, and to muffle her cries of pain as he ruthlessly and slowly dug into the tender and narrow cleft between her quaking bottomglobes.
When he had pulled out, he commanded her to roll over onto her back again, and then once more crawled over her face and forced her to cleanse his cock and draw it to a new erection, for he had shot his load deep inside her rectum. Cringing and gagging, Mae Bolton had a difficult time obeying, but obey she did. And then he had fucked her, viciously and brutally, making her groan with pain as he rammed himself with savage digs back and forth inside her tender chasm.
Finally he had got off the bed and told her, "You did pretty good. Now go to sleep, and me I'm gonna sit up and read a good book or something and think about this afternoon."
"Oh please, oh dear God, Mack, forgive me! Didn't I do everything you wanted to? Wasn't I good for you in bed?"
"You did all right," he said grudgingly. "But you know damn well you hadda be forced to take it in your mouth and in your bumhole. Now, a really loving wife would have suggested it herself and go all out to make me happy. You just did it because you had to, see? Now shut your trap and go to sleep."
Sobbing softly, Mae Bolton had obeyed. Meanwhile, her brutal husband had watched television, still naked in his socks, smoking a cigar. Two hours later, tiptoeing back to the bedroom and discovering her sound asleep, he had proceeded to tie her up by wrists and ankles, spreadeagling her. Then he had gagged her. Then, taking a pair of manicure tweezers, he had yanked out her abundant pussy-curls, making her arch and twist and jerk, while sweat and tears ran down her cheeks, beaded her armpits, glistened along her naked sides. When he had taken away all of the pubic hair, he took a pad of cotton and brought in the can of kerosene from the pantry and showed it to her, and laughed uproariously as she threshed about on the bed, begging him with incoherent, muffled, sobbing pleas and with the agony of her tear-filled, exorbitantly dilated eyes. He enjoyed it to the finite moment, until at last he began to rub the cotton onto her hairless quim and the entire pelvic basin. If it had not been for the gag, her deafening shrieks would have brought the neighbors in full force, but all the same she yanked and lunged and twisted and arched and squirmed so frenziedly that the ropes binding her ankles and wrists dug into the tender flesh.
Then he had fucked her again, and after that, he had taken a long bone knitting needle and thrust it deeply into her vagina, and then another into her asshole, and he had left her there to bleed to death. And a few days later, when Al Murcur was blown to pieces by the bomb, the police arrested him after a violent struggle during which he sustained a gunshot wound in the upper left arm and another in the right calf. His trial was speedy and he was sent to the Kansas State Prison for life without the possibility of parole.
Such was the background of the leader of the gang of four escapees who were destined to alter the lives of Ranee and Eleanor Martin and of their son and daughter Kenneth and Dorothy.
The second lifer was Ben Salters, thirty-two, with sandy hair, freckled face, thin lips, shrewd narrowly spaced gray-blue eyes, and a rangy figure. He was also guilty of murder, having killed his father over a quarrel about a woman they both wanted. He had become engaged to a young nineteen-year-old black-haired waitress, brought her home for approval, only to find that his father, a man of fifty-six, had fallen in lust with her and had managed to seduce her. He had shot his father to death and tried to kill his fiancee, but the gun had been emptied with the final shot that had pierced her abdomen. She recovered in a few weeks later in a hospital, and did not bid him farewell when he was sent off to prison for the rest of his natural life, also without possibility of a parole.
The third escapee was George Budrow. George was twenty-nine, bullheaded, lanky, with several upper teeth missing as the result of a tavern brawl. He had been serving a sentence of twenty years for assault and criminal rape. The crime had been against a fifteen-year-old high-school sophomore, a pretty girl with glasses, gentle and reserved, whom George had talked into getting into his car under pretext of helping him find a hospital for his dying wife-a lie, since Budrow had never married and was much too sadistic for any woman to tolerate him for long. He had had intermittent affairs, lasting no more than a week, mostly with cheap women on the order of prostitutes; invariably, each of his pro tern mistresses had abandoned him because of his brooding and cruel nature and his utter contempt for a woman as a person. To him a woman was a sexual vehicle, a receptacle, nothing more, and he did not bother to concern himself with her feelings when he was enjoying his pleasures.
The only thing that had saved him from a life sentence had been that it was his first offense-so far as open charges on the book was concerned. He had beaten numerous women, but none of them had ever testified against him. The fifteen-year-old girl had had her eyes blackened, been whipped with his belt until she had herself begged him to fuck her, and then he had made her suck him off and finally take up the maidenhead of her bumhole. Only the fact that the lovely victim was nearly hysterical over what had happened to her, had prevented her from testifying to every one of the salacious details of her terrible four-hour ordeal in a deserted house off the highway. That was also why George Budrow had only twenty years to serve instead of life.
The fourth convict, Pete Pullman, gray-haired, fifty, had a ten-year sentence for criminal assault with intent to rape. Here again, justice had been lenient with Pete as it had with George Budrow. He had accosted a married woman in a saloon, and she had been waiting for her husband with whom she had had a recent spat. To avenge herself on him, she had accepted a date with Pete Pullman, who had promptly driven her to his apartment and there ripped off her clothes and fucked her. Character witnesses had proved that Pete Pullman had never before been guilty of such anti-social conduct, and also that the woman was known as something of a promiscuous tramp. Again these circumstances had mitigated his sentence.
But together, these four men were dangerous and ruthless, and when the Martins fell into their hands, there would be a dreadful reckoning for the unsuspecting family who were on their way to California.