Chapter 1
Twin American flags fluttered from the tail fins of the long black Cadillac as it cruised by the cornfields bordering Hog City. Nebraska was hot this time of year, and the temperature was well past the century mark. In nearby pastures cattle huddled together in hope of making their own shade. Sensible people stayed inside. Only the Mexican migrants kept working-but as everyone knew, "They were used to it."
Protected from the heat and stickiness, Priscilla Mannlicher rode in the air-conditioned comfort of her daddy's limousine. Reclining on the sumptuous broadcloth of the back seat, she studied the passing scenery through the blue tinted lenses of her imported sunglasses, wishing she were somewhere else. No matter how one looked at it, Hog City was not the place to be in mid-August.
Priscilla longed for the day she turned eighteen. Perhaps then her ultra-conservative parents would let her venture past the county line and sample some of the offerings of the outside world. She felt imprisoned in this hick town. What good was all her daddy's money if she couldn't go anywhere? Even Omaha was off-limits, as were all big cities. Her parents considered them hotbeds of sin, certainly not the place for a pubescent girl to visit, let alone play.
While Priscilla was pondering her dilemma, the car rounded a bend and came upon one of the many slaughterhouses her father owned. She looked out on pen after pen of pigs having their last oink before being butchered. A few boars were mounting sows, desperately seeking one final thrill before fate turned them into the fillings for ham sandwiches.
Ordinarily (being a girl of good upbringing), Priscilla would have lowered her modest eyes on seeing such a salacious sight as pigs, rutting. But today she found herself strangely fascinated by the vulgar antics of the doomed pigs. For the first time she was seeing a larger meaning in the lewd goings-on in the pigpens. Are men really much different from pigs? she mused. Don't they both share the same, base motives?
Her mother had told her that men, including her very own father, had some filthy habits-far worse than smoking smelly cigars-that were best not discussed in polite conversation. Although on the surface men might seem genteel, underneath the glitter of their friendly smiles lay a murky abyss of bestial lust, according to her mother.
"Men want women for one reason only," she had said to her sole daughter, "and when they are through with us they would sooner be with their male friends than share our fair company. They are vile, filghty beasts to whom you must submit in order to have children, but whose natures are little better than the beasts' when aroused."
"What do you mean by 'aroused?" Priscilla had asked.
"You'll see, as soon as you're married."
Not knowing the sexual connotation of this word, she'd been more than a little captivated by its mystery. Even though her mother had warned her about men, she found herself fascinated by them. But then, as she had learned from her family's minister, evil was often more fascinating than good. She knew she must learn to check her curiosity before it had awful consequences-she really must!
Even though she knew it was evil to do so, she continue to study the humping hogs. Although she had led a sheltered life as a result of over-protective parents who feared kidnappers and gold diggers, Priscilla had learned from private tutors at least the rudimentary facts of life She knew that animals bred to reproduce, and so did humans. Do men go about it the same way as these pigs. she wondered. Ugly as the speculation was, it produced wanton images in her mind's eye that made her wonder if she didn't know instinctively how to breed.
Although her parents had been careful to keep her ignorant of matters sexual, she had picked up scraps of knowledge from listening to the servants, who were less bashful about speaking of such things. Her mother had banished all mention of sex from dinner-table conversation as a result, her father had very little to talk about, save business and the weather.
He too, Priscilla had noticed, seemed to share an interest in the opposite sex not un-like the boar's interest in the sows. Once she'd found him perusing a calendar, and although he'd tried to hide it from her view, she'd chanced to glimpse a full-length, living-color photo of an unclad female. When she'd asked him about it, he'd blushed deeply and begged her not to tell Mother. An obedient child, she'd done as told. On another occasion, when her mother had been away visiting grandmother in New York, Priscilla had found him with his arms around a chambermaid. Both had big smiles on their faces until they'd seen the child watching. Then her father had rudely pushed the servant away, pretending that nothing had happened. Priscilla had asked him about that, too, and again had been warned not to tell Mother what she had seen.
Someday, she vowed, she would solve the mystery of what went on between her father and the chambermaid, his calendar and her mother. Not very much seemed to happen between him and the latter, though, aside from the fact that they ate a meal together once a day and lived in the same house. They slept in different bedrooms and spoke to one another only when absolutely necessary. Often they conveyed messages through Priscilla, the only product of their marriage. Now that she'd learned a little biology, she realized why.
Although her father was at times boorish and inconsiderate, she still liked him more than she liked her mother. At least he seemed alive.
His forehead was ruddy from years of working in the fields before he'd grown sick of it and had gone to work for his future wife's father, a man who'd also made the step from farmer to businessman. The two had taken a shine to one another almost immediately, and before long the sturdy farm boy had become the boss's fair-haired lad. Having no sons, the old man had treated young Harry Mannlicher as one of his own and groomed him to take over his meat packing company. To complete the union, he'd arranged things so his only daughter Melissa would marry the man who was so much like himself. But first he'd had to get that good-for-nothing poet she was in love with out of the way, a feat he accomplished easily with a lump sum payment and threat of lethal action should the poem-spouting lad ever return to Hog City.
Melissa had cried her eyes out for a week, but in the end she'd come around to her daddy's way of thinking. She, like Priscilla, had been raised to be an obedient child. Although she hated Harry almost as much as she did her father, she'd married him. As much as she despised them, she realized it was men who ran things, Being of German ancestry, she knew a woman's place.
Unperceptive Harry had actually thought the girl loved him, so he was more than a little disappointed when she proved a washout in bed. Despite a great deal of coaxing, he'd been able to mount her only once in the course of their marriage, and that was on their wedding night. Needless to say, that single coupling had obviously been sufficient to impregnate the new bride, with Priscilla the result.
Priscilla knew all this from what her mother had told her in confidential conversations that were not, she was warned, to be repeated to anyone.
As the pigs passed from sight, Priscilla continued to ponder the question of procreation. How did humans reproduce? Someday she'd find out, and soon!
In the front compartment, separated from his mistress by a plate glass window, Zoltan the chauffeur was also having problems. Shortly before he had discovered that by adjusting his rear view mirror just so, he could look up the skirt of his pretty passenger. The first glimpse of her panties had produced a protuberance that was now poking obscenely against the crotch of his blue livery. Sweat beaded his swarthy forehead as he watched her squirm about on the back seat. She looked so luscious he was about to lose his mind, not to mention his load. Even if she was under age and the boss's daughter, he decided he had to fuck her if it was the last thing he ever got to do. So affected was he by her reflected, nubile image that he was on the verge of stopping by the wayside and raping her on the spot. He wanted her that bad.
He'd made many girls since coming to this country in 1956, but none could compare to the cuddly piece of tail it was his pleasant duty to protect. Harry Mannlicher had hired Zoltan as Priscilla's bodyguard thirteen years ago, after reading in the paper about his exploits as a freedom fighter in Hungary. At that time, the family had received several anonymous notes threatening the kidnapping of the child. The F.B.I, had traced them to a drunken hog butcher who'd worked in one of the Mannlicher's myriad slaughterhouses, charges had been pressed, and the culprit had been incarcerated for a long term in prison. Recently, the butcher had been released, and Harry had given Zoltan orders to be on the look-out for him.
Zoltan chuckled on recalling his rise to fame following the October uprising in Budapest. It was ironic that shortly before the revolt, he had served a prison term for thievery, his gypsy blood and light fingers having gotten him tossed into the pokey. It was his hatred of the police rather than any great difference in political beliefs that had caused him to fight the Communists, although when the fact of his former-prisoner status was later released by the Reds, he and other right-thinking Americans had naturally called it "another Commie smear."
He'd been welcomed to this country by many patriotic groups and had been given the key to any number of Republican stronghold cities. Everywhere he went, he was cheered when he told his audiences how he'd plagued the Commies with Molotov cocktails and poured liquid soap under tank tracks to make them slip. What his admirers had failed to realize was that he was less an anti-Communist than a juvenile delinquent. At nineteen he was not un-like some of the student protesters in the U.S. today who break windows not for some abstract ideal, but rather because they like to hear the sound of smashing glass. He'd had great fun taking on those Russian tanks with his bare hands. In the summer of '68, watching the invasion of Czechoslovakia on TV had brought it all back, making him homesick. But of course, he couldn't go back to Hungary.
If he hadn't been lauded as such an anti-Red here in '56, he might have been able to return for at least a visit. Unfortunately, even if he could get into the country, now, he would find himself facing another prison sentence for subversion. At least in America he was safe from extradition proceedings.
His mind meandered back to the beauty at hand. Ever since Priscilla had reached puberty he'd wanted her with all his horny, Hungarian soul. He longed to lick her fine, slender shape from toe to crown, pausing in between at assorted spots of interest. Closing his eyes, he could almost taste her juicy twat. She was just the way he liked 'em, slim and lithe with something of the greyhound or thoroughbred filly about her. Un-like most cuddly teenagers, she had a figure that had been molded and disciplined by a decade of ballet lessons and horseback riding. Her softly angular frame was sleeker and racier than the chubbier bodies of her corn-fed coevals. Constructed for speed, it also looked like it could go the distance.
Zoltan had found from experience that slim girls had a greater appetite for lovemaking. It seemed the ones with a hunger edge had a sharper desire to feast on love. He hoped Priscilla would run true to form and prove to be a ravishing skinny who'd enjoy feeling his hot, Hungarian dick in her tight little cunt.
He gazed again into the rear-view mirror and caught sight of her small but shapely breasts thrusting against the top of her custom-tailored mini-dress. They were taut, delicious-looking cupfuls he was aching to kiss. She's narrow where it counts, he mused, but she still has nice boobs. Maybe they aren't as big as the tits of some of the local farm girls I've fucked since coming to Hog City, but they don't sag, either. She was ripe for picking, and he was ready, willing and able to deflower her on the spot.
Noticing that he was watching her in the mirror, Priscilla stared back at his reflected dark eyes and gave him an, "I could love you to pieces" look such as she'd seen on the faces of the girls gracing her father's fleshy calendars.
The effect was instantaneous. Zoltan was so excited he forgot to steer, and the car went sliding off, onto the shoulder. Fearing something had gone wrong, Priscilla grabbed the speaking tube and asked, "What's the matter, Zoltan? Aren't you feeling well? Is something wrong with the car?"
Desperately trying to pull himself together in spite of an immense erection that made driving difficult (it kept getting caught in the steering wheel), he avoided looking into the mirror and tried to appear in control of the situation, which he was not.
Seeing how flustered he was, Priscilla decided to play a long shot.
"Zoltan, don't tell me you're aroused!"
"How did you know? Please don't tell your father! He'd have me horsewhipped!" Now he really began to sweat.
Enthralled by the lure of the forbidden, Priscilla pursed her lips and blew him a kiss like she'd seen the girl do on the Ultra-Brite commercials. "Don't worry, Zoltan baby, I won't tell on you."
"Whew! That's a relief. I thought it was curtains for Zoltan, for sure."
"Your secret is safe with me, I assure you. I do not breach confidences. However, this promise to keep my lips sealed is conditional."
"On what, Miss Priscilla?" He began to fear the worst as he struggled to keep his eyes on the road-they kept straying to the exposed portion of pink panty showing between her creamy thighs.
"On your pulling off the road and showing me just how aroused you are."
Manna from heaven! If what I heard is true, there must be a God!
"Did you hear me, Zoltan-did you?"
Shaken from his erotic reverie by her insistence, he muttered a few incomprehensible phrases in Hungarian and made a right angle turn off the highway, onto a two-track, dirt road. The Caddy slid sideways in a cloud of dust, nearly ending up in a nearby ditch.
Yipes! That was a close one! Better watch it. If I smash up the boss's car while driving Priscilla down this desolate road, I'll never be able to explain it.
Basking in her new sense of power over the frustrated hireling up front, Priscilla lay back against the broadcloth with a smug look on her pretty face.
"Do be careful now, dear Zoltan. We don't want anything to happen to Daddy's car, do we?"
"No, Miss Priscilla, we certainly don't!"
"Zoltan, are you nervous or something?" she asked. "Why, you're shaking all over!"
"It's just the heat, it bothers me that way."
"But the air conditioning is on."
"Oh, so it is. Guess I didn't notice."
Supremely impatient, he drove faster, hoping to find an appropriate spot far from the prying eyes of farmers and company spies. Up ahead he saw a smaller road fork off to the left. Although little more than a trail, he took it, hoping no poachers were about, knowing that getting caught alone in such circumstances with this teen-aged girl would be disastrous. As a foreigner, he would doubtless be doubly punished. Instead of being known as a courageous anti-Communist, he'd be the hairy, Hungarian seducer from whom no decent girl was safe. They might even lynch him on the spot, as he'd heard was done to darkies in the South.
"Do you have to drive so far for such a simple thing, Zoltan? Couldn't we do it right here?"
"I don't want to block traffic, Miss Priscilla."
"I don't think we have to worry about that, now do we, Zoltan? I doubt there's been a car down this trail in months."
"Then it's about due for one, I should think. Hunting season starts any month now. Best I drive a little bit further to be sure." He tromped down on the accelerator, racing down the narrow country lane at breakneck speed. The Caddie bounced over chuckholes and brushed against Sumac bushes. Occasionally its springs bottomed out when a big dip was hit, making Priscilla more than a bit uncomfortable.
"Will you please slow down, Zoltan!" she screamed, an unpleasant edge on her shrill, adolescent voice.
An obedient servant in spite of his moral lapses, he slammed on the brakes, sending the huge, black behemoth into a four-wheel drift that churned up an enormous dust cloud in the sylvan surroundings. So frightening was the effect that wildlife of every kind scurried from the path of the skidding monster, intruding on what had hither to been their private domain.
When the air had cleared and the crews quieted down, Priscilla again grabbed the speaking tube and barked, "Since you're so hot and bothered about this thing, Zoltan, why don't you come back here and get it over with before you kill us both with your wild driving!"
From the firm tone in her voice, it was obvious she could give orders as well as take them. Having been reared in an authoritarian environment, Zoltan quickly started to comply with the order he had been dreaming about ever since he'd seen his pretty mistress enter pubescence.
Being careful not to bang his bulge on the bottom of the steering wheel, he hurriedly extricated himself from the safety belt his employer made him wear to enable him to pay a lower insurance rate, and then yanked down on the door handle and bolted from the front seat into the baking heat outside. So great was the change in temperature-Priscilla always liked to play with the regulator, sometimes turning it down to freezing-that he nearly doubled over from shock.
Hobbling half-bent-over from the effects of heat prostration and hard-on, Zoltan failed to look where he was going and stumbled headlong into a bramble bush.
As he extracted prickers from face, hands, and uniform-luckily none had gone through to his naughtiness-he could hear the faintly subdued sound of Priscilla's giggling inside. Cursing the upper class under his breath, he continued removing the rustic thorns and hoped his uniform wasn't ruined. Explaining its tattered condition to Harry was something he'd rather not have to do.
His erection growing harder by the second, he hurried to free himself from the brambles and get to the job at hand. He could almost taste her nipples in his salivating mouth.
A series of taps against the window showed that Priscilla was equally frustrated by his bumbling. After getting his attention, she lowered the window half an inch and said, "Quit fucking around and get your ass in here this instant!" Since she had never used such strong language in his presence before, doing so now had double the impact. It was, in fact, the very first time Priscilla had ever uttered such coarse expletives aloud. She had heard the words used by field hands working on her father's farms and assumed, correctly, them to be the language of the common folk. They certainly worked wonders on Zoltan!
In a trice he was hobbling out of the bothersome bush and pulling with all his might on the locked door handle.
"Will you PLEASE pull that little lever up so I can get out of this heat!" he said, through clenched teeth that belied his all-consuming frustration.
"Not until you calm down a little! And brush some of those sumac berries off your coat. I don't want a rash."
Again doing as told, he bided his time as Priscilla pushed up her sunglasses to better see if he was following her orders.
"Do I pass inspection?" he asked, showing her the top and bottom of his hands and doing an about face so she could see his behind was also free of Sumac berries.
"Just," she said, condescendingly, popping up the door lock with a certain aristocratic aplomb.
Suppressing a chortle, she strived desperately to maintain her seigniorial demeanor, but found it difficult under the humorous circumstances. Although Zoltan tried to come on as a suave European, he ended up being a bumbling immigrant. His slick facade failing him, he proved far more endearing as a buffoon anyway. Priscilla hated stuffed shirts, so his clumsiness caused him to come across as a flustered friend rather than a know-it-all Don Juan.
No sooner had he grabbed the silver door handle than his nemesis had locked it again.
"Please, Priscilla, unlock the door, it's hot out here!" He got down on his knees.
She stuck out her tongue at him. He began to bounce up and down as his dick swelled to enormous size against the serge confines of his trousers' crotch. What with the heat, worry and exertion, he was sweltering in the heavy blue garment. Why in hell couldn't Harry have issued me a summer uniform, the cheap bastard!
Just as he was on the verge of losing his mind from frustration, Priscilla pulled up the door lock and allowed him ingress to the air-conditioned, rear compartment. Before she knew it, he was covering her well-turned ankles with sloppy kisses of gratitude. He was about to lick between her toes when she stopped him by latching on to his long, greasy hair and pulling him off her great toe. "There's no need to be obsequious, Zoltan, you're not back in Hungary. You're in America now where all men are created equal."
"With each other, perhaps, but compared to you, Priscilla, I am no more than a humble peasant." He bowed his head in abject submission as she affectionately patted his sweaty nape.
"You're a good man, Zoltan, you really are. Always there when I need you."
"That's what your father pays me for, to protect you twenty-four hours a day," he said, through the folds of her mini-dress.
"And you do a darn good job of it too, you hear? Not a soul has harmed me once since Daddy hired you. That's pretty amazing, considering what could have happened. Say, Zoltan, aren't we forgetting something?"
"What, Miss Priscilla, what?" He raised his head and looked at hers as if she were the Virgin Mary.
"What you promised to show me, Zoltan. Don't tell me you've forgotten why I asked you?"
Seeing the puzzled look on his face, she refreshed his addled memory. "You admitted earlier you were aroused, and promised to show me how much."
Hoping they meant the same thing-once when his English wasn't so good, he had lost a job when a prospective employer had asked to see his testimonials and he'd thought she'd meant something else-he hurriedly unbuttoned the fly of his uniform. Within seconds he had his huge, pink member freed and was flaunting its smelly stiffness in her startled face.
"It sure stinks!" she exclaimed, this being her first whiff of aroused prick. But after the initial reaction wore off, she found herself strangely attracted by the manly aroma of Zoltan V bobbing appendage.
Apprehensively, like a cat toying with a captive mouse, she reached out and touched his foreskin.
"Don't be afraid, Priscilla, it won't bite."
"But I don't like the way its one big eye stares at me, I really don't." She let go of the swollen gland and covered her eyes from its throbbing firmness. Somehow, in some indescribable way, she sensed that it represented evil. She was sure her mother wouldn't have approved of what she had just done.
"Please touch me again, Priscilla, you don't know how good it makes me feel."
If such a thing brings pleasure to another human being, she rationalized, surely it cannot be bad; or can it?
Before she had a chance to make up her mind, Zoltan made it up for her. Seizing her by the wrist, he reapplied her soft, white hand to his throbbing, pink shaft and guided it up and down the hot length of dick. She tried to resist, but found it impossible. His grasp was too strong.
"Zoltan, you're hurting me! Please let go of my hand this instant! Do you hear?"
"Listen, bitch, from now on I'M giving the orders, understand? You do as I say or get a slap across the face!"
"How dare you speak to me with that tone, you servant!"
Before she could say another word, he gave her the back of his hand across the face. Within moments, blood began trickling from the corners of her mouth, but she shut up.
Realizing he had her in his power, he decided to make use of it. Why settle for a simple jerk-off when a blow-job is possible? He rammed his rampant cocktip against her bee-stunt; lips.
"Kiss it, cunt!" he bellowed, his accent growing more pronounced as he got excited.
Despite having qualms about pressing her lips to such a smelly part of the human body, she did as told, although only after he had seized her by the back of her neck and pushed her blonde head down upon his prick.
She made gasping noises as the thick shaft filled her throat with its firmness.
"Please don't make me do that, Zoltan," she said, struggling to back off from his out-sized foreskin. "It makes it hard for me to breathe."
"Use your nose, not your mouth, you dumb cunt!" Again he shoved her head down on his dick, but to no avail. Although he kept his cock lodged in her throat until she turned blue, there seemed no way for her to give him a satisfactory hlowjob.
"You're a frigging failure, that's what you are!" he screamed in her ear as he held her up by the hair. "Until you learn how to breathe through your nose, you'll never be any good at sucking me off!"
He let her go and she fell in a heap onto the mohair-carpeted floor of the rear compartment.
"And to think I was going to have some fun back here!" he muttered, leaning back in the seat with his big hard-on in full view of the rejected female on the floor.
Looking up at the lewd projectile protruding from his pants, she said, "What docs it feel like to be aroused, Zoltan?"
"It feels great, unless you're in the fix I presently am in.
"Does it make you feel kinda tingly all over."
"Yes, you might say that. Why do you ask."
"Because that's how I feel right now. Do you think I'm aroused?"
"It's not an unnatural thing in these situations. You know-" He made a preliminary move toward her virgin pussy with his hand. "If you want me to, I can make you feel even more tingly."
Unfortunately for Zoltan, who was beginning to dream of deflowering her toute de suite, she stayed his horny hand and transferred it back to his still-stiff cock.
"When I want you to take indecent liberties with my person, I'll tell you," she said, regaining the upper hand.
"But I want to make you feel good too," he countered, sliding his other hand between her spread thighs. Again she stopped him.
Realizing he was getting nowhere with this "nice guy" approach, he resorted to proven methods. Grabbing hold of her girlish hand, he clamped it on his cock and demanded satisfaction.
Not wanting another slap across the face, she complied with his masturbatory request, though with a sullen expression.
"Suffer, little one," he said, holding her chin between his thumb and forefinger, an evil smile on his swarthy face.
Unable to retaliate in any ordinary way, she took out her frustrations on his rod, squeezing it with all her might in hopes this might hurt him. He loved it.
"For a first-timer, you're terrific!" he exclaimed as he fully enjoyed her hand job. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"
"Absolutely not! What kind of girl do you think I am?" She squeezed his cock harder to show her chagrin, causing it to explode in a series of hot spurts that showered her pretty face with stickiness and sullied her hitherto unblemished reputation.