Chapter 19

Well, it was the big day. And for once, Mother Nature had cooperated by giving us a beautiful sunny day but without one of these hundred-degree affairs. There was even a mild southeasterly wind.

I could see that the TV coverage was going to be pretty good, and there were reporters from the Fresno Blade, the only paper in town, as well as from L.A., Frisco, San Diego and other points around the California compass. We had twenty-three casks, big wide barrels whose tops reached about the titties of each girl contestant-that is, if the casks had been empty, that's where they would have come. But since they were all piled high with grapes, the girls began about mid-calf-deep, naturally perching on top of the casks for everybody to see. As they kept treading down the grapes, through a funnel at the bottom of the cask, the wine they trod out would go into vats which would be measured by gauges. The contest would take one hour, and would begin promptly at the stroke of high noon.

Dora Corlani was beside me, steno pad in hand, taking notes as I dictated. I had a couple of promotional ideas for later on--assuming I paid off the mortgage and still own the property. I hadn't noticed Dora too much as a woman, but out here in the sunlight, I happened to glance at her and my eyes almost popped out of their sockets. She had done some slimming down, don't ask me how, shed at least twenty pounds, and now she was exceptionally pretty. She had gorgeous big bombers, but they were firm and solid, she had a magnificently undulating pair of round buttocks with a gradually widening cleft, full rounded thighs and exquisitely curved calves. She didn't have the hint of a double chin anymore, either, and her face was sweet and trusting and defenseless, and the glasses made her even more so. She also had developed out of nowhere -or else I just hadn't been looking-a perfectly ravishing creamy complexion. All things considered, I began to wish I had initiated Dora Corlani into the pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game in my bedroom quite some time ago. A little horizontal exercise might have slimmed her down even more.

Tulio Verduga came out, leaving the lovely contestants behind him. And there was Brenda Corey, but she wasn't wearing skirts. She apparently was the only one who had put on a pair of bikini panties, and a matching skimpy bra, and that was all she had on, and there were loud wolf whistles from all the spectators, and the TV cameras started to grind. Well, there wasn't any law that a girl had to wear skirts and hoist them up while she trampled grapes, at that. And Brenda Corey had really the sort of legs you see on a high-priced Manhattan call girl or else one of those gorgeous chorines at the Copacabana or the Trocadero.

The prettiest girl of my own working crew was probably Amelia Lorando. She was twenty, she wore a peasant blouse that was off the shoulders and showed about half of her jetting, closely spaced round titties, and she had a bottom on her that would have been a flagellant's dream come true if he could ever have locked her up and had her at his mercy. She had long flowing black hair falling to her hips, sultry dark brown eyes and a sensual mouth, but she had a somewhat hooked nose. Her skin was golden tan, and she wore a flowing skirt down to her ankles. But she climbed to the top of the pile of grapes in her cask, she stooped and hoisted up the skirt and there were more cheers because she had absolutely mouthwateringly curved legs, and she was showing them practically up to her tiny pair of yellow cotton panties which fitted her like a second skin and followed faithfully the insinuating groove which led from her cunt to her provocative bottom-hole. Amelia happened to be engaged to a sturdy young bracero named Alfredo Marchiso, and he was a hotheaded youth very quick with a knife and nobody dared to look at his girl, not if they were formally betrothed. He stood there glowering in the front row, looking up at his fiancee, and I bet he was mad because she was going to show off her legs and practically her pussy to all these other men. He would probably give her a beating tonight and then there would be a wonderful reconciliation as only Italians can reconcile. The lucky bastard!

But I quickly forgot my envy when I remembered that the girl in the bikini pants and bra was coming to my bedroom no matter how many quarts of vino her shapely, dainty little feet managed to trample out.

Tulio Verduga stood on the platform with a stopwatch in hand, waited until he had everybody's attention, and made sure that the TV cameras were focusing on him for the moment, and then he delivered a long and flowery oration about the traditional honor of this festival, concluding by hoping that the most able worker would win. Then, glancing at his stopwatch, he cried out, "Let the contest begin!"

I had a hunch that Tulio had made his own arrangements for pussy when the contest was over, and maybe the girl who accomplished the worst record would be forced to come to his little house late tonight and pay the kind of penalty that a surly sadistic son of a bitch like Tulio Verduga would demand of a helpless young girl who needed her job and so had to put up with his whims. He'd be mighty careful about not letting me see any acts of brutality, and he had even watched his vulgar language in the presence of the girls when I had accompanied him down the rows of vines.

If you've never seen a grape trampling contest, come to Fresno around the middle of September and give your old eyes a treat. Here we had about twenty-three beauties, hoisting their skirts,-with the exception of Brenda, naturally-and turning round and round, flashing coquettish smiles at all the men, their beautiful bare legs moving up and down in a churning rhythm. It was primitive, fecund and it told of the good earth from time immemorial when life was simpler and when there weren't any amateur psychiatrists running around and when a guy didn't have to sublimate when he wanted a piece of cunt.

At the halfway point, Tulio Verduga called a two-minute rest halt, and the girls slumped down, bowing their heads, their tities heaving, sweat running down their flanks and down their cheeks and along the valleys of their swelling titties. It was a magnificent sight, and I don't think there was a man watching it who didn't feel a certain aching between his legs. I know I did.

I lit a cigar and walked over to the vats below, glancing at the gauges. Brenda didn't have a Chinaman's chance. The other girls were workhorses and she was a racing filly, but that kind always tires in the home stretch. Just the same, to watch those beautiful long legs flash up and down, with glimpses of the dark pussymuff through her clinging wispy bikini panties, was enough to renew my faith in womanhood. It looked as if Amelia was going to walk away with the title, because she was fully a gallon ahead of her nearest competitor.

The contest resumed with Tulio calling out the time. I could see the TV cameramen getting good shots, and I could see some of the reporters making notes and whispering to one another and also asking some of the braceros to give them a little data about the history of winemaking and the technique and all that sort of stuff. We were certainly going to get plenty of publicity; but I wasn't so sure about the business we'd do. The public is fickle, and even if this were aired all over the state of California, it still wouldn't bring in the big buyers from the other states, the men I'd seen and tried so earnestly to sell Venturi Vino.

At last the contest was over, and Amelia indeed was declared the winner. She had surpassed her nearest rival by at least two and a half gallons. She clambered out of the cask, her bare legs stained with the purple grapes, and Alfredo eagerly gathered her in his arms, and then carried her away out of sight. He had to be restrained by a couple of laughing braceros to bring her back for the rewarding of the prize. I, as the Signer Padrone, had that honor. I even gave Amelia a kiss, but on the cheek, to Alfredo's great relief. He would have killed me if he had caught me kissing her on the mouth, even if I had been his boss, and I didn't want to chance it. I could be dead another way by October 1st if all this folderol didn't pay off at the box office.

Then of course, there were refreshments, a big barbeque and plenty of free vino, and gradually couples paired off and went back out into the fields and lost themselves from view-ours as well as their own-and nature took its intercourse. The reporters and the cameraman gathered up their tools of trade, thanked me for my hospitality, and went their various ways. Tulio Verduga remained on the platform, grinning, showing all of his decaying teeth. "A great success, Padrone," he called.

I nodded and waved to him, and then I called, "We've got a few buyers who mean business, Tulio. They've gone to my office. Take care of them and give them the best price break you can. Try to get some down payment or a letter of credit. I'm beat."

I was. I'd been standing there in the hot sun, getting hard-on after hard-on, and Brenda Corey had been sending me sultry glances from her lovely eyes. I had watched the muscles of her thighs and bottom undulate and shiver and ripple, until I was almost of a mind to leap into that cast and fuck her then and there.

I went into the shower-room which was reserved for the field hand, stripped naked, got off the sweat of the day, toweled myself and dressed again. I lit a cigarette and went back out to the platform with all those now forsaken casks, and there was nobody around. Even Brenda had disappeared. I suddenly felt a loneliness, and I wondered if Dad were looking down wherever he was and what he was thinking about the whole affair. I said a silent prayer, and then I went into the office to join Tulio and the three men who had come and shown enough interest in Venturi Vino to want to talk business ...

It was nine o'clock at night, I'd made myself a little light supper and had stretched out on the couch in the living room, but of course I couldn't fall asleep. Brenda had promised that she would come to see me tonight, win or lose. My prick was aching, and I wanted to draw it in honor, or any old way at all, so long as it got between her legs. Apparently, she wasn't a natural silver-blonde; the shadow of pussyfur at the peak of her bikini panties had been dark brown. That was one deception. Not that it was important, mind you, but it was a deception, after all. Her hair looked so silken and fine-spun, but her pussyhair looked coarse. I told myself that I was seeing ghosts and that I was just on edge. I was, in more ways than one.

And then the doorbell rang, and when I opened it there was Brenda. She had on a sort of terrycloth robe, loosely belted, and as soon as she stepped inside, she dropped it and there she was clad in only the bra and bikini panties affair and sandals.

"I'm here, Carl darling," she murmured. "I'm sorry I couldn't win, but it was fun anyhow. What was thrilling was thinking what was going to happen now. Make it happen for me, dearest."

I uttered an oath in Italian, and then I stooped and lifted her up and carried her upstairs and into my bedroom. She lay there on the bed with her head pillowing her arms, arching up her titties, smiling at me lazily. "Rip them off and fuck me, dearest, "she whispered. "You don't know how much I've wanted you to do that."

Don't think my fingers weren't itching! And then I swore again an even viler oath in Italian as, just when I was reaching for that bra to rip it from those luscious titties of hers, I heard the phone ring.

"Let it ring, dearest. This night belongs to both of us now," Brenda Corey murmured.

But the phone was clanging insistently, and I felt my prick subside, because I still had to think about October first, and after all I knew that call night have been from one of the big buyers who was making a decision. "I'll be back in a second, Brenda darling. Don't go away now," I told her.

I had to go all the way downstairs to answer the phone in the hall just to one side of the front door, but anybody who called me knew that I had this problem and let the phone ring a long time. And when I got to it, I almost snarled, "Hello!"

It was Dora Corlani. "Mr. Venturi-I-I'm awfully sorry to bother you this late at night, but I'm down here at the office and I just found out something I think you ought to know about," her voice sounded scared.

"What is it, Dora?"

"I-I maybe I'm just upset over nothing, Mr. Venturi, but you know how important it is that we have a good harvest and pay off the mortgage and-"

"Yes, yes, damnit, Dora, get to the point," I said testily.

"All right. Did you know that I just caught Jane Wilson opening the safe and taking out the cuttings, Mr. Venturi?"

"You just did what?"

"I was here late because there were some wires from the buyers you were counting on, Mr. Venturi. They placed some good orders. And they're willing to give letters of credit, too. I wanted to answer them in your name, and I wasn't sure where you were, and I thought of calling various places, and-"

"Dora, I'll come down there and turn you over my lap and pull your panties down and give you the spanking of your life if you don't get right to the point this minute. I've got a guest here." I almost shouted.

"Yes, Mr. Venturi," she sounded very scared and very timid, and I heard her gulp at the thought of a spanking. "There was a phone call for you, and I answered it at the switchboard. And I was looking around for a pad to write something on, and I saw a letter, and it was addressed to Jane Wilson, and I just happened to read it-"

"Dora, I'm warning you," I snarled. "I'm practically on my way there with a hairbrush for your bottom, girl!"

"You-you can spank me any time you want, Mr. Venturi, but I've just got to tell you this! Please won't you listen?" Dora pleaded.

I was so overwrought at being bothered just at the moment I was going to fuck Brenda and also by this news about Jane Wilson that I didn't quite catch the meaning of her quick remark about not minding whenever I spanked her. I just told her to go ahead and make it fast or else.

"Well, Mr. Venturi, the letter was in a plain envelope, but it was signed Philip Young. The man at the bank, you know.

Now it was my turn to gulp. "Say that slowly, and give me all of it, Dora," I commanded.

She did. Philip Young had instructed Jane Wilson to get the rest of the cuttings which Marcantonio Venturi had brought from the old country. He congratulated her on her cleverness in getting a job right in the plant, and he told her that she would be assured a very good job at a far higher salary once he foreclosed the mortgage. He also asked her to convey his best wishes to Brenda for a very clever little stunt in distracting me so that she could make away with the cuttings. The letter had come special delivery and registered, and Jane had signed for it. And it was just my good luck that the stupid little bitch had left it at the switchboard while she had gone down into the basement to open up the safe and to get the cuttings.

Then Dora had gone downstairs, acting on a hunch, and found Jane in the act of opening the safe. There had been a struggle, and she had bumped Jane's head against the open heavy metal door of the safe, and Jane had been knocked out. And she wanted to know what to do.

I told her to get some rope and tie Jane Wilson up and call the sheriff, and then I went back upstairs to the bedroom where Brenda Corey was impatiently waiting.

"My heavens, you took the longest time, Carl," she said deviously. "It isn't very romantic, you know. I'm not so sure I want to let you make love to me now, if business means so much more than I do."

"I'm sorry, darling. I'm going to make it up to you, though. You'll see." I walked over to the bed, got onto it, and moved towards her on my hands and knees. Her eyes were wide with surprise: "Aren't you going to undress first, Carl lover?"

"I don't think I have to yet, baby," I said, and then I gave her a right hook to the jaw and she slumped unconscious. I tied her up very neatly, and then I got into the Thunderbird and went down to the plant.

Jane Wilson was just coming to, and she was really scared. Dora had slapped her face, pulled her hair and was shaking her, and insisting that she tell the truth or else. The sheriff hid his smile under his hand and rather solemnly told Dora that that was no way to treat a suspect, even if she were guilty. When I arrived on the scene, Jane Wilson was blabbing all.

And what she blabbed was enough to make my blood run cold.

Brenda Corey was a secretary to Philip Young, all right, but she was also my illegitimate sister. Some years ago Dad had screwed the winner of just such a festival contest as I'd held this noon, fallen in love with her as men will sometimes do with a particularly nice piece of pussy, and promised to marry her. The girl had believed him, and had kept harping at him. Finally he'd given her a big cash settlement and told her to beat it, that he wasn't about to marry a tramp like her, anyway.

She'd gone to San Diego, married a guy, brought up her kid and tried to implant the seed of vengeance in Brenda Corey's heart. She was to do everything in her power to ruin me. And when I had come back from Frisco to take over the Venturi Vineyards, Brenda Corey had set her sights on me. She was going to cry rape, and then she was going to make a full statement to the newspapers that I, Carl Venturi, had actually tried to rape his own sister.

Jane Wilson wasn't her cousin, either, Jane was a Lesbian introvert whom Brenda had discovered working in a grocery store in San Diego, and had brought her along for her own perverse enjoyment. Jane was a consummate little actress, and had proved very useful to her.

But the thing that made the cheese binding was that Philip Young was in cahoots with none other than Don Foster. Foster wanted to buy the vineyards, and operate them himself.

He had hated my father's guts because my father had once refused to spend any money with his station, not liking Foster himself-for which I could hardly blame Dad's judgment. And when I had come along and tried, as Don had thought, to take his wife away from him, he had sworn real vengeance, no matter what it cost.

After the sheriff had led Brenda and Jane away, I was left alone with Dora Corlani.

She took off her glasses, cleaned them, and there were tears in her eyes. Then she put her glasses back on again, and looked at me in a scared, little-girl way and quavered, "Do-do you want to spank my bottom now, Mr. Venturi, or would you rather do it tomorrow morning before I start work?"