Chapter 14
The lanky towheaded youth looked at his mother and sister and bit his lips, pale with fear. He could see the way the guys were looking at Mom and Dorothy, and it didn't take a house to fall on him to tell him that men who had been in prison for any length of time were horny as hell. He was, just thinking about Dody Brandon and remembering that wonderful Saturday afternoon when he had had his first piece of pussy. Well, if you could be a man at seventeen, it was pretty plain that these old guys who had been in stir a long while were a lot randier. And he didn't know what the hell he could do against four of them if they all got the hots for Mom and Dorothy.
Yet at the same time, and to his own horrified awareness of it, there crept into his mind the lewd suggestion of what it might be like to watch four men forcing his sister and his own mother. Dorothy, who had always treated him as if he were a kid, lording it over him, preening herself like a beauty queen-well, she was a looker, all right, but until he had fucked Dody that Saturday afternoon, he had been made to feel by his sister as if he weren't dry behind the ears yet. But Mom, that was something else again. He respected and admired his beautiful mother, and the thought that strange men would abuse and hurt her made him tremble with the realization of his inability to put up much of a fight. They probably had guns and knives, and he just had his bare fists. What could he do if they took it into their heads to start something? Ben Salters regarded him, a wily smile on his thin lips. He winked at Mack Bolton: "Looks like Little Brother here is getting a little edgy. Maybe he's afraid that Daddy is gonna go call the cops."
"He wouldn't be such a bastard fool," Mack Bolton swore, "he knows what we'd do to his family." As he spoke, he boldly stared at Eleanor Martin, who shrank back at his gaze. The two had been made to sit on the broken-down old couch, while the four convicts stood watching them for the time being. Ben Salters had found a cheap wristwatch in Nelda Ames's house and now glanced at it. "He's only been gone twenty-five minutes, so don't get nervous yet, Mack," he remarked. "I'll give him another twenty minutes at the most, and then I'll start getting worried. And then you, Mrs. Martin, and you, honey," this last aimed at Dorothy, "better start saying your prayers."
"Oh, Kenny," Eleanor Martin gasped, "I'm so scared! We haven't done anything at all, we won't tell the police on these men, please make them try to understand, we just want to go on and see our relatives in California, that's all."
"You don't have to talk to your kid when you want to say something, baby," Mack Bolton moved over towards the couch and seated himself at one end, turning so that he could stare at both Dorothy and Eleanor Martin. "If you wanna say something, talk up nice and easy. We're gonna be good friends, so we might as well get acquainted. Me, I'm Mack Bolton. Your hubby's a lucky man, Eleanor baby."
"Show a little mere respect to my mother, will you," Kenneth Martin spoke out with youthful bravado. Mack Bolton turned, his eyes wide with amused surprise: "Well, now, listen to Sonny Boy, wouldja? Little hero, ain't he?" Then he scowled.
"You keep your flytrap buttoned up, Junior, or I'll separate you from your teeth, permanently. Get me?"
Kenneth Martin gulped and flushed, then lowered his eyes. The fat, nearly bald scar-faced convict chuckled gloatingly: "I thought that'd put a crimp in your plans to beat us all up and turn us in, Junior. Say, Pete, why don't you scout around the rest of this old dump and see what you can find? Like rope and stuff, anything like that. It's a cinch there wouldn't be any food in the kitchen. Damn gas was probably turned off years ago, along with the lights. Hell, you forgot to tell Mr. Martin to buy candles or a flashlight so we could see by."
"Relax, Mack," Ben Salters said. He had seated himself in the old chair, while George and Pete perched on the sides of the old broken-down armchair. "Who wants a light? Everybody for miles around probably knows that this place has been abandoned for years. First thing you know, they see a light, they'll bring the cops."
"Yeah, you're probably right," Mack Bolton grudgingly conceded.
"Hey, I hear a car in the yard out there," George Budrow sprang up, his eyes lighting.
It was Ranee Martin, and Ben Salters swung the door open to receive him. He carried two large shopping bags, and looked tired.
"Nice work, Ranee old boy," Ben Salters chuckled. "Pete, George, make yourselves useful and take these bundles and put them in the kitchen. I hope you didn't buy anything that has to be cooked. We can't even light the goddamn stove."
"It-it's all canned goods, mostly, and I got a canned ham, but it's already cooked."
"That was smart thinking, Ranee. How about some beer, or whiskey?"
"I-I forgot about that."
"Why, you dumb jerk, don't you think we guys want a drink after all the time we did in stir?" Mack Bolton growled, his face clouding with annoyance. "Make him go back and bring us some stuff, then."
"Not now. Why press our luck? Listen, Ranee, anybody talk to you while you were shopping?" Ben Salters demanded.
Ranee Martin warily shook his head. "Not really. The storekeeper just asked me if I was passing through, he didn't recognize me, that was all. I told him I was going to California."
"Very good. Now what about us, did you hear anybody say anything about us?"
"Well, the storekeeper said that there'd been a prison break but they hadn't found the fellows yet. I told them I hadn't seen anybody since I started from Chicago.
"That's using the old brain, Ranee." Ben Salters nodded. "Well, let's divvy up the chow and see what we've got. It's about three o'clock, give or take a few minutes. We can eat in a couple of hours, unless somebody's hungry right now."
"I'm hungry for something else that ain't food," Mack Bolton said softly, staring greedily at Eleanor Martin.
The Chicago jeweler stiffened, stared first at Mack Bolton, then at his beautiful, cringing wife. "Now look," he said in a level voice, forcing a smile to his face, "I've tried to cooperate with you. There were policemen in town, but I didn't say a word to them, and I could have. Why don't you guys give me a break and not get dirty and offensive? After all, I've a right to expect a little respect for the sake of my wife and daughter, wouldn't you say?"
"Respect?" Mack Bolton jeered. "Look, Buddy, don't give me that crap. You know damn well why you didn't go to the cops, because you'd come back and find you were out a family. Now sit down and button your hp before I do it for you."
The jeweler flushed, bit his lips, but controlled his temper, realizing the futility of it. He seated himself between his daughter and his wife, and Mack Bolton rose from the end of the couch and began to stare at Dorothy Martin.
The lovely nineteen-year-old brunette had put on white linen playshorts and a white pullover Tee shirt, under which she had a bra and pantie-briefs. Her legs were bare and a delicious sight indeed from chisled ankle, along sinuously swelling calf to the long elegance of her gradually curving thigh which disappeared under the legs of the playshorts. The warm ivory skin twitched and quivered, as Dorothy became aware of the convict's stare, and she lowered her eyes and twisted her fingers together tightly. She was flustered and a little afraid. Her long dainty bare toes twisted in the open-toed sandals and Mack Bolton stared down at them. He was visualizing Dorothy stark naked, under him on the bed, spreading her legs for a good fucking. He would like to start with the mother and wind up with the daughter if he had his way about it. And he was pretty sure the boys felt the same way. They had really stumbled on something, this time. Two gorgeous dames. What fun they were going to have before they finally pulled out across the State Line!
Pete and George now came back to report that they had found some lengths of rope in a pantry closet, but not much else. There were some rusty kitchen utensils, some cracked plates, a nearly empty sack of stale sugar, and another of flour. There were two bedrooms, but only one cot in one of them and a chair and a broken table in the other room. There was a bathroom with a leaking toilet and a wash basin that wouldn't hardly fill at all. A little water did trickle through, but the pipes and the faucets were rusted. There must have been a leak along the regular main to let any water come in at all, after all these years. For luxury, it was hardly a place to be found in the guidebooks, but it was going to have to do for the time being.
"Tell you what," Ben Salters decided, "I want you to take one of those ropes and tie Eleanor's left wrist to Dorothy's right, and the same with their ankles. And then we'll tie Kenny with his wrists roped behind his back. Same goes for Ranee. Me, I want a little shuteye. One of you guys can stand guard, and the other three of you can sleep. Now let's get going. When we wake up, we'll have some chow and then we'll make plans for pulling tail out of here."
The plan met with enthusiastic approval from the other convicts. Pete and George took charge of Ranee and Kenny, while Mack Bolton volunteered for the job of fettering mother and daughter together. He made them stand up side by side, and then squatted down with a cord in his hands, his eyes greedily detailing the visible charms of the two captives. Eleanor Martin was wearing a light blue cotton dress, flesh-colored stockings, and thonged sandals. Her voluptuous figure excited him, and he could feel his prick hardening as he stared up at her. Eleanor Martin was conscious of his scrutiny, and closed her eyes and turned scarlet with embarrassment, for she had seen him try to glance up under her skirt to see what she was wearing. It was a white pantie-girdle whose tabs clung snugly to the tops of her flesh-colored hose.
Dorothy abominated this ugly man, and when she saw him look up at her and smirk, she burst out, "Why don't you just tie us and get it over with? Why do you have to stare at us like that?"
"Well, now," Mack Bolton drawled, "we got a spirited filly here on our hands, boys. Dorothy baby, I like a girl with spunk. Especially when she's got mine inside of her, haw, haw, haw!"
His cronies shared his bawdy laughter, and Ranee Martin uttered an angry cry as he struggled to break loose his wrists: "You've got no right to treat my wife and daughter this way! I've cooperated, and I insist you treat them decently, do you understand? Otherwise, so help me, the next chance I get, I'll get the police on you!"
Mack Bolton walked over to the chair in which Ranee Martin had been forced to sit, and backhanded him savagely across the mouth, drawing blood. Ranee groaned and twisted his face away, licking his lips, then glanced with furious hatred up at the grinning nearly bald convict. "You'll be sorry for that one day," he said softly.
Mack Bolton laughed and jolted him back with another vicious backhanded blow to the jaw. "Let's go whole hog, then," he jeered, "might as well have some fun while I wait for your cops, huh? Now that's about enough out of you, Mr. Martin, or I might just get mad and take it out on your sexy wife and that slinky girl of yours, understand?"
Satisfied at his victim's subdued reaction, Mack Bolton proceeded now to fettering Dorothy and Eleanor Martin together, again making them stand up and then squatting down and tying one cord around their ankles, and then their wrists. "There you are, pretty as a picture, all tied together just like in real life," he quipped. "Ben, who's going to take the first watch?"
"You can, if you want. That way, you can keep an eye on the girls," Ben Salters grinned.
"I gotcha! Thanks, old buddy," Mack Bolton grinned lustfully as his beady little eyes turned back to contemplate the shrinking mother and daughter.
Pete, George and Ben went back into the bedrooms, and Ben appropriated the cot, while Pete and George settled for the other room and, stripping the cot of two torn blankets, each used one as a kind of mattress. In a few minutes, all three men were snoring in dreamless sleep, their bodies at last relaxing after the nervous tension since their escape. In their chairs, Ranee Martin and his son Kenneth sat helplessly, their wrists tied behind their backs, while Mack Bolton seated himself again on the end of the couch, but this time closer to the women. "So you're from Chicago," he began conversationally, with what passed for a friendly grin but made Dorothy and Eleanor Martin both shrink in repugnance. "I been in that town lots of times. Great town for steaks and broads. Too bad I couldn't have got myself a job there, maybe I wouldn't be in this lousy fix way out here in dead Kansas. All it's good for is for burying people. You better be nice, girls, or you might wind up planted with all the others, hear?"
"Stop that kind of talk," Ranee Martin gasped, struggling at his bound wrists. "There's no need to frighten them that way."
"No? Listen, Mr. Martin, another yap out of you and I'll come over and break some teeth so you'll look like Georgie," Mack Bolton threatened. "Besides, I'm not doing anything. I'm just admiring your good taste at picking a broad like Ellie here, and getting a gorgeous looker like little Dorothy."
"Your remarks are offensive to them, don't you understand that?" Ranee Martin said heatedly.
"Keep it up, Mr. Martin, keep it up! You're just burning up for a good crack in the snoot," Mack Bolton angrily replied.
Then, morosely, thinking again of Mae and her lover Al Murcer, and how he had enjoyed avenging himself on them both, he leaned back, folded his arms, and considered Eleanor and Dorothy Martin. The glittering, narrowed eyes, the moist fleshy mouth, were signs of his lustful interest in the two helpless women. And Eleanor Martin sensed this and she averted her face from his gaze, moving closer to her daughter to seek sympathetic companionship.
They would both be forced to a more sympathetic companionship than either of them could have dreamed of!