Chapter 2
Judge Austin W. Black left his luxuriously furnished dining room and went slowly down the hall to a guest room. The two-story house was on the western edge of the town of Catayunga, and till about five years ago it had belonged to a handsome brunette widow of thirty-six, Mrs. Lucille Delmar. Eugene Delmar had been an assistant in the state's attorney's office and an associate of Austin W. Black. He had received an inheritance from an aunt and with this windfall had built the house as a present for his attractive wife on their tenth anniversary. Austin had long coveted Lucille Delmar, but she had been unutterably chaste and there had been no way for him to achieve his purpose with her until the sudden death of her husband from an attack of pneumonia.
Already strong in his contacts with the underworld, and on the verge of becoming elected to the Municipal Court where he would have still greater power, the corrupt roue had invested several thousand dollars in bribes, notably with meek little Theodore Paxton, who held the office of recorder of deeds. First Austin W. Black invited Paxton to his elegant apartment and saw to it that the timid little man had all the liquor he wished and then a very lovely and eager young girl to share his bed. But the next morning Theodore Paxton discovered that the girl was under age and that there were a number of incriminating photographs showing him performing rather deviate acts which if published in the News-Gazette could hardly aid his reputation. He had been hysterical with terror until Austin W. Black had wheedlingly informed him that there was no need for worry so long as he did his duty by investigating the title of some property in question about which there was likely to be litigation.
Theodore Paxton saw the light, the negatives were destroyed, and an envelope containing twenty-five hundred dollars was put into his pocket as he left Austin W. Black's office that next afternoon. On the following evening, the paunchy and already white-haired state's attorney paid a visit to Lucille Delmar to console her at her widow's weeds. He showed her a document which indicated that her husband had never had complete title to the house, but he himself had paid the delinquent taxes and obtained a clear title and that the property was now his. To be sure, he had no desire to evict so lovely and devoted a woman, and he intimated that if Lucille Delmar would accept the sincere homage and admiration he had always retained for her, there would be no need for her to leave her house.
When she persisted in not knowing precisely what he meant, Austin W. Black had chuckled, taken her in his arms and kissed her on the neck, while his hands had gloatingly cupped her firm widely spaced high-set round breasts through the very becoming black garb of her mourning. Then she understood. She had told him, trembling with fury and revulsion, that she loathed him, and that her husband had personally detested him, and that she would rather beg her daily bread than accept a single favor from him on his infamous terms.
She packed two suitcases, called a taxi and went to the railroad station. A few months later, the News-Gazette printed a small paragraph on the fifth page to the effect that Mrs. Eugene Delmar, still grief-stricken over her husband's untimely death, had decided to take a trip abroad to alleviate her sorrows. At this very moment, however, Lucille Delmar was in an elegant bordello de luxe in Buenos Aires, where she had been taken by members of the syndicate in return for a handsome fee paid by the owner of the brothel, a portion of which fee found its way into the coffers of Austin W. Black.
Since he had taken over the ownership of the Delmar mansion, he had done some remodeling, notably in the basement where he had constructed several singularly equipped soundproofed rooms where he could indulge his sadistic and erotic passions. One of these rooms this very night was reserved for Edith Garvin by way of celebrating the return of this pulchritudinous prodigal after five eventful years... eventful, so far as Judge Austin W. Black was concerned, needless to say.
He opened the guestroom and smiled greedily. There on a low couch, waiting for him, sat a lovely fifteen-year-old girl of medium height, whose shimmering golden hair fell almost to her waist, and whose exquisite, poignant, round face might well have been a model for Botticelli. Her name was Martha Cronkite, she was an orphan and a runaway from a juvenile home in Missouri who had been apprehended by one of Judge Black's henchmen and personally delivered to him as a kind of present from the district head of the syndicate in that state for whom Black himself had done a number of favors.
Martha Cronkite had been in this house three months, and at first she had been furiously rebellious. Virginal, chaste to the core, she had run away from the juvenile home because a sadistic Lesbian matron had attempted to subjugate her. On the very first night, the Judge had attempted to conquer his delectable young "present" and Martha Cronkite had struggled with him, struck at him and denounced him as a filthy old beast.
He had touched a buzzer in the wall and a few moments later his Japanese valet had appeared. Martha had been stripped naked, tied up by the heels by means of ropes set in a ceiling pulley, and then Yoshio had tied her forefingers to metal floor rings so that her arms were widely spread apart and her body tightly extended.
Judge Austin W. Black had leisurely stripped naked, and Yoshio had brought him a long velvet case in which reposed an egret's plume and a thin, flexible cypress-tree switch.
Armed with these two implements, Judge Black had proceeded to alternately switch and tickle her thighs and her plump, light-downed virgin pussy until the unfortunate young girl found herself almost on the brink of orgasm. He had then resorted to the switch alone, flicking in continuously against her anus and her pussy, as well as the tender in-sides of her thighs and then her ample, round titties until at last poor Martha Cronkite weepingly implored mercy and promised to do anything that he would ask of her. He had had her released, and then commanded her to kneel and prove her good intentions. In this genuflecting and servile pose, naked as the day the lovely young girl was born, she had been forced to perform fellatio upon him and swallow every drop of his copious spermatic ejaculation.' And from that day forth, Martha Cronkite had been the most docile and obedient of lust-slaves.
She wore only a black nylon tunic with very narrow straps, which took her from the middle of her magnificently opulent bosom down to the tops of her thighs, and open-toe sandals. At dinner time, he had instructed Yoshio to go to her room and order her to don that costume and then hold herself in readiness in this room until it would be his good pleasure to appear before her. During the lengthy time of that elegant repast which he had not in the least hurried, the lovely young golden-haired adolescent had been in a very agony of anxiety and suspense, pitiably asking herself in what why she might have offended him, for she naturally believed that his summons was for the purpose of chastisement.
As soon as he entered, she sprang up and then hastened to him, sank down on her knees and clasped her hands as in prayer. It was a ritualistic acknowledgement of his sovereignty over her which he had taught her at the cost of a good flogging about a week after she had first entered his household. Her beautiful large blue eyes were brimming with tears as she stared anxiously at his face, seeking to guess his mood and therefore gauge her own destiny. He smiled and patted her head: "I'm pleased with you today, Martha."
"Oh thank you, Master!" she gasped, her lips trembling pitifully. She had a sweet clear voice and its overtones of anguish and fear titillated his sadistic ego. "I have need of your services this evening, my dear. You're going to help me welcome back a dear friend, one who had been absent for about five years and who may take a little persuading until we can restore the happy degree of comradeship we once enjoyed." Judge Austin Black was excessively fond of pompous rhetoric, if only because it continued his victim's suspense in not pronouncing the exact details of what he intended.
"Yes, Master," Martha Cronkite faltered.
"You may undress me, child. Let's see now. Bring me my black silk bathrobe and my sandals. Oh yes, and that spray bottle of cologne which I use when I feel in a romantic mood, you know the one."
Martha Cronkite could hardly forget that rather cloying scent; it had been the very one with which he had sprayed himself before undertaking her torture and violation that first night of her incarceration in this mansion. She bit her lips, nodded, "Yes, Master, at once. Shall I undress at once, or get the spray?"
"Undress me first, you stupid little bitch! Another question like that, Martha, and you may find yourself sharing my guest's entertainment. Now be quick about it!"
He smiled genially at her, but his cold gray-blue eyes fixed greedily on the swelling globes of her full young breasts, then lowered to admire the pale white satin of her delightfully rounded thighs, her plump, exquisitely muscled calves. He sighed. One of these days he would have to bestow a gift on Tony Rocco, the syndicate runner from New Orleans who had bought quite a few of the girls he himself had sentenced to Welfare Island. Tony expected a favor every now and then. Well, he would hate to part with this dear child, but the influence which Tony had in bringing him the finest prices and the best customers for the merchandise at Welfare Island was after all much more important than a single girl. There would always be others.
Martha Cronkite efficiently and swiftly undressed him. She did so with downcast eyes, her long thick lashes fluttering as she tried to avert his gaze from his mocking stare. Her slim little fingers, so soft and gentle, removed his frock coat, his shirt and the bowtie, undid the braces, lowered his trousers and helped him step out of them. Then came the undershirt, and then she knelt down and removed his shoes and socks. He smiled again, observing the order in which she was undressing him. The little bitch still had a touch of prudishness to her, and she kept his cock hidden until the very last possible moment. It amused him to see this, when he knew to what depths of degradation he had compelled her.
"Before you take off my shorts, Martha, suppose you unbutton them and take my cock out and kiss it fifty times. Just a little reminder of your position in this house, my girl. Of course, of course, you'd like to go back to that juvenile home. I believe Mrs. Porter would give a great deal to have you back. I had a letter from her just last week, you know." This was a lie, but the unfortunate golden haired adolescent could not know that; and it made her shudder and utter a groan of terror. Almost feverishly she unbuttoned his shorts, reached in her soft trembling fingers and took out his stiffening prick. Then he looked down with almost a paternal and benign smile, as, her gold head bowed over his adequately virile organ-he was inordinately proud of his manhood at his age and always seized the opportunity to prove that virility-she began to kiss his cockhead while he counted aloud: "Ten... eleven... not so quickly, my dear, one would think you were hurrying to get it over with. I'm sure you don't feel that way, do you? Twelve... that's a little better... loudly, so I can hear your sweet kisses... thirteen... that's much better, Martha. You see what you can do when you really try?"
He felt himself throbbing with dynamic vitality tonight. He stared beyond the kneeling young girl to the door, and there was a look of impatience on his face as he thought of Edith Garvin whom Yoshio must have already led downstairs to the special room which would be furnished particularly in her honor. Or rather, he thought lewdly to himself, in her dishonor.