Chapter 1
Diane Wilson was twenty-four, about five feet seven and a half inches in height, with a superb figure whose tempting effect upon the opposite sex she knew very well and gloried in.
She was pampered, had traveled around the world, been given every luxury by her doting parents, who had been famous interior decorators with many branches in New York, London, Paris, Los Angeles, and Chicago. They had died about four years ago, leaving her about a million dollars in stocks and bonds and cash, and her estate was being handled by an administrator named Gregson Torrance.
Diane had been an only child, brought up by a governess until she was nearly fifteen, educated in private schools in Switzerland, France, and Connecticut. Because of her sheltering in life, she was utterly selfish, opinionated to the most possible degree, and serenely confident of her ability to ride roughshod over everyone with whom she came into contact.
Though her parents loved her dearly, they had been well aware of her egotism. They had stipulated in their will that she was to be allowed a certain amount for living expenses, travel, and whatever further education she desired after college (from which she had been graduated in the East at the age of twenty-one), but that the bulk of the trust fund should go to her upon her twenty-fifth birthday, which was six months hence.
Gregson Torrance was a man of fifty-two, and had been a widower for the past fifteen years. He was a vice-president at the Castrom National Commercial Bank of Los Angeles, and Diane's parents had known his wife and become quite friendly with her. This was how, indeed, he had been appointed administrator of the Wilson estate. Their local branch account in Los Angeles had been handled through his bank, and the relationship with his wife-who was to die about two years after that-had cemented the friendship which had resulted in his role as the guardian of Diane's monetary future.
But he had changed a good deal over the past decade, and as his own fortune increased through shrewd manipulation of the stock market and wise investments in mortgages and trusts, Gregson Torrance had become a voluptuary of decided erotic tastes. He had a young mulatress mistress named Myrna Johnson, five feet eight inches tall, wonderfully supple, twenty-six and exceptionally passionate as well as sadistic. She had been his mistress for some three years, as our story opens, and he had first met her in a bar on the Sunset Strip in Hollywood where her rather cowardly though wealthy "angel" at the time had become embroiled in a brawl when two lecherous men about town had noticed Myrna and wanted a crack at her tender pussy "to change their luck" because of her wonderfully satiny chocolate-sheened skin. Her escort had backed down from a fist fight to defend her honor, and Myrna was actually being manhandled by the two young profligates when Gregson Torrance had walked up to them, knocked one of them down with a right cross to the jaw and then, as his partner was trying to draw a knife, knead him in the balls to put him out of commission. Myrna had been so delighted with the banker's action on her behalf that she had then and there told her escort what she thought of him and had walked out on the banker's arm.
And, this early July evening, Gregson Torrance was enjoying several hours of passionate relaxation in the elegant four-room high-rise apartment in Santa Monica in which he had installed Myrna Johnson. However, he intended to use this evening to make plans for the eventual coming of age of his ward Diane Wilson.
He was in his shorts and sandals, sprawled in an armchair in the living room, sighing with content as he thrust his slippered feet into the thick red carpet. He had a cigar in his right hand and a half-finished glass of bourbon and ginger ale in the other, and his eyes were narrowed as they fixed on his sultry mulatress mistress who lay on her belly on the white-leather-padded couch directly opposite him, wearing only a pair of white kid leather boots to mid-thigh, a matching black nylon bra and panty-set, and engrossed in the latest issue of a scandal-mongering movie magazine.
He was only two inches taller than Myrna, had a paunch from excessively good living, and his gray hair was already receding from his forehead. It matted his chest, arms and legs, which were surprisingly scrawny for his bulk. Yet his doctor had assured him that apart from being about eight pounds overweight, he was really in fairly good physical condition. The proof of this, Gregson Torrance whimsically reflected to himself, would be demonstrated very soon, whenever Myrna gave up reading that damn Magazine and began to pay attention to him with her nimble tongue, her long slim sweet thighs, and that hot tight cunt of hers.
He took a puff at his cigar and thought also that it was a shame that a pampered little bitch like Diane Wilson should come into a million dollars in six months when she was totally unprepared in knowledge of how to handle either the money, other people or herself. He had met her several times over the past few years, and his private opinion was that if she had been soundly spanked as a child, she might today be creditable material. Certainly she was attractive enough, with light brown hair styled in a soign‚e bun at the back of her head and drawn away from her high-arching forehead, her insolent gray-green eyes, her uptilted, rather aquiline nose and her small, prim mouth. She had also a pale white skin and a really elegant figure, with high-perched, closely spaced round titties, a very slim waist and a pair of upstandingly rounded, very mobile ass-cheeks; he had seen her in an evening gown walking across a ballroom, and he hadn't been able to take his eyes off that fascinating, undulating ass of hers. Not only did he want to spank it, he wanted to bugger it. But that would hardly be probably in the scheme of things-unless a certain project that had been creeping into the back of his mind lately could be brought to fulfillment. And it was just possible that Myrna, who was part sophisticate, part primitive, might help bring that plan from fantasy to established fact.
"Myrna, my sweet," he said lightly. She frowned, then slowly turned her face towards him. It was a face of which he never grew tried. She had all the profuse elegance of the high-blooded Negro, with the guile of her white father. Her nose was reasonably dainty, and did not betray the Negroid blood. Her mouth was full and ripe and sensual, her cheekbones slantingly set, and her high forehead denoted more than average intelligence of which he had had already ample proof. Her eyes were black, deep and sultry, with occasional golden flecks when throes of ferocious emotion, such as fucking and nearing climax. But it was her body that enticed him most of all. Two large pear-shaped titties, set widely apart and proudly high on her flawless chest; a sleek waist, spacious bottom ovals with a gradually broadening crease to separate them and let him glimpse pussy when he stared at her from behind. Long, nervously muscles thighs, and high-set calves. Long slim fingers with perfectly shaped forearms and wrists. There was much that was patrician to Myrna Johnson, and there was much that was savage. like the thick black curly fronds of pussy hair which grew so thickly on the lower abdomen and covered the mount, which even he, fastidious as he was about pussy, got a thrill out of letting her keep, so that he could rummage with his prick or finger to bear the twitching pink lips of her twat.
"You getting itchy for a piece, Greg boy?" she huskily murmured, rolling her eyes at him and giving him a taunting little smile. Then she wriggled back and forth very slowly on her belly, letting see the way her ass-cheeks flexed and rippled, the muscles in her chocolate-sheened thighs surging against the satiny warm skin. She lifted her booted feet, brought the heels back against her thighs, arched up her bottom a little, weaved it from side to side in the most tantalizingly provocative manner, then again flattened herself and stretched her long legs out.
"In due time, baby. I've got a little idea I'd like you to think about, Myrna. How'd you like to be rich?"
"Ask me a silly question and you'll get a silly answer, lover man," she drawled in that husky, rich contralto voice which sometimes had the overtones of an organ and which never failed to excite his sensuality. "Who wouldn't want to be that?"
"I know, I know." He walked over, drew up a footstool and sat down beside her, his eyes feasting on the magnificent hillocks of her firm jouncy ass, shaped out so alluringly by the panty-briefs. He felt his prick harden in his shorts, and it was sweet torture to sit there so close to her without touching her, knowing that whenever he wished, she would give him pussy. He wasn't tired of her yet, and so long as she was inventive and reverted to the primitive every now and then, he wouldn't, either. "Look, baby," he went on after a puff at his cigar, "you and I have got along just fine and I've never said a word about what side of the blanket you were born on."
"I know, I know, Greg, you're a pretty good ofay for a whitey," she twitted him, her lips curving in a mocking smile. "What are you getting at, anyway man?"
"Just this. You've heard me talk about Diane Wilson a couple of times, haven't you?"
"Sure. That uppity poor little white gal who's going to come into a million bucks in a couple of months. From what you tell me, she sure sounds like a creep. What has she done with her life, anyhow?"
"Not very much to be honest with you. She's been to the finest schools, she's living in a high-rise apartment in Manhattan right now, and she's dabbling a bit in a snotty socialite fund-raising movement that's trying to get dough for some art museum."
"Like I said, I'll bet she never did a lick of honest work in her life," Myrna Johnson tartly remarked.
"You're probably quite right, baby. But now I happen to be the administrator of her estate, and I've already helped myself to a couple of bucks. I've been able to invest a little of that money, because I had a court order just before her folks died. I haven't cheated her yet, but the money I did make through my investments have been paying for this apartment and some of your nice clothes."
"Well, aren't you the cutie, though, Greg!" she looked at him with real interest this time, and her smile was affectionate rather than taunting now. "Tell little Myrna more, lover man. What's going on in that scheming mind of yours?"
"I have a feeling that Diane Wilson probably thinks herself a million miles away from people like you and even me," he said slowly as he finished his drink and set the glass over on the glass-covered coffee-table alongside the couch. "It would be very amusing if Diane Wilson found that she had to kowtow to a girl like you."
"I'd sure put her through the mill, Greg, you can bet on that," Myrna Johnson fiercely declared with a grimace of distaste.
"You mean you'd like to have her to be your slave?"
"You could say that, sure. My great-grandmother was a slave, come to think of it. I remember my mammy telling me how her Granny Althea used to get sent to the whipping shed because she didn't want to let the big white boss screw her. They'd stretch her out on a bench and strap her wrists and ankles down, pull up her linsey-woolsey and give her the paddle on the bare ass. It took a couple of sessions before she finally broke down and spread her legs for that miserable bastard. Oh sure, Greg, there's been slavery back in my family and I'm not forgetting it, not even if I had me a white daddy who gave my mother a pretty good deal for a whitey."
"I see. It would be interesting to find out just how you would treat Diane Wilson if the tables were ever turned and you could boss her around," he mused aloud.
"I'd sure like to try my hand at it. But how can you get away with a stunt like that, Greg?"
"She hasn't any living relatives and I'm the only guy handling her money. Since she's legally of age except for the terms of her parents will when it comes to getting all that dough, all I'd have to do would be to get her to sign a waiver. For example, she could make you or me a gift of everything in that trust fund, and with a valid signature, I could go in to that bank and clean out the account of every red cent."
"Hey now, man, you're talking mighty interesting talk." Myrna Johnson swung her long booted legs down to the floor, sat up, leaned forward and reached out and started to caress his bare hairy thigh. Her gleaming eyes fixed on the bulge in his shorts and she smiled knowingly: "If you're thinking that I'm thinking you're thinking, lover man, you just earned yourself a good hot piece of little old Myrna's poontang right now. Or would you rather have me blow you and save fucking for later on?"
"That latter sounds extremely attractive. I always did go in for double features," he chuckled thickly as he reached out and cupped both her titties with his hands, his cigar thrust at an angle in his mouth, his eyes glitteringly studying her evocative face.
"You're just greedy, that's all the trouble with you," she laughed softly. "But tell me just one thing, Greg honey. How're you going to get Miss Rich Bitch in your power?"
"I'll just tell her to come out and look at some of the property she's going to inherit. Seems to me there's a little house up in the hills in North Hollywood, pretty secluded from any neighbors, and that's part of the property her parents bought a good many years ago. I've had plenty of offers for it over the past few years, but of course I couldn't do anything until the terms of the will are ready to be executed and that's six months off, as you know. But I might just have her come out from New York and look over that house."
"I get it. You could sort of keep her there like a prisoner and make her sigh that waiver, isn't that what you're thinking?"
"Go to the head of the class, Myrna baby." His hands had reached behind her now, unhooked the skimpy bra, let it fall and then returned to cupping her naked, slowly swelling titties. She stared at him teasingly, spreading her legs and letting him see the thick dark patch of cunt-hair which prodded against the snug tight nylon crotch of this final veil.
"Yes," he went on with a hoarse chuckle, "I might put you in that house to run it, and so Diane Wilson would become your servant instead of you hers. That might be very interesting to watch. I've had some letters from her and maybe I'll let you read them. She just oozes selfishness and snobbery in every line. And as for dating, I've read in some of the New York newspaper columns that she's seen here and there with some very eligible and wealthy young men. I can just guess how she keeps them dangling. She sounds like a perfect prickteaser."
"Sounds like a girl like that ought to get a couple of lessons, wouldn't you say, Greg honey? But right for now, want little Myrna to start blowing you?"
"You can go to the head of the class again, baby. Do it nice and slow."
"Don't I always?" she giggled. Then, sinuously sinking down to her knees, she reached for his shorts, unbuttoned them and drew out his swollen prick. Cupping it in both warm palms, she playfully blew against the tip till the lips began to pucker and twitch with sensitized awareness. He groaned aloud in feverish anticipation.
Then she looked up and mockingly whispered, "But doesn't it really give you a charge, Greg, to be my white massa? Don't you feel just great when you see little Myrna down on her knees like a little slave-girl you know you can cowhide if she doesn't do everything you want, like blowing you right now?"
"Of course it does, you sweet bitch!" he panted, reaching out to cup her naked titties and to rub his thumb pads against the flinting nipples. "But I haven't made you a slave exactly, have I?"
"Truthfully, no. That's why I go along with you, Greg boy. Little old Myrna is looking out for Number One. I owed you for saving me from those creeps out on the Strip, you know."
"But you paid that debt many times over, baby."
"Sure. But you treated me right, and I don't think I could find a job that would pay more than the arrangement I've got right now, so why fight prosperity?" she giggled.
"Sometimes," he said hoarsely, his face darkening as he stared at her luscious bare titties, his hands moving to cup her face and to caress it," I ' wish I were racist enough to string you up and take a real leather paddle that wriggly ass of yours, Myrna!"
"Maybe I'll let you. Maybe I'd like that. But I think what you're really thinking is that you'd love to see me give it to Diane Wilson, humble her and make her crawl on her knees to t a girl that's got black blood in her veins, isn't that about right? Or am I reading you out of character, Greg Lover?"
He shook his head. "I've been dreaming about this, but I haven't really done any constructive planning. But hearing you talk like that right now and seeing you like this and imagining you lording it over Miss Diane Wilson, makes me feel that you and I are going to bring this thing off."
"But just let's suppose for the sake of argument, lover," she pursued, "that you do fleece her out of all that whopping big bankroll she's got coming? Let's suppose you make her my little slavegirl so I can paddle her white ass while you get your kicks. What are you going to do to her afterwards? I don't go in for too much rough stuff. You know, like elimination."
"Myrna, I'm surprised at your abysmal lack of imagination tonight," he chuckled. "I wouldn't even entertain the foggiest notion of doing away with her. Besides, it would be much nicer to keep on having her as a slave. I might even want a piece of her myself."
"Ah ha! I thought we were going to get around to that pretty soon. And I'd just love to work her over and get her ready for you, Greg lover. I'd like to train her, domination-style."
"Now you're really showing some imagination, Myrna lover! But right now my hard-on needs taking care of. See what you can do about it."
"Surest thing you know. You just sit back and take it nice and easy and let little old Myrna do all the work, you hear?" she crooned.
Then, once again cupping his rigid prickshaft between her soft moist palms, she bent her head and he felt her mouth lightly brush the tip of his turgid organ. His fingers twisted in her hair, and he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the licentious luxury of being Frenched by his beautiful mulatress mistress. But even as he closed his eyes, he could see haughty Diane Wilson, naked except perhaps for high-heeled pumps, her wrists bound behind her back, tears streaking her arrogant face, kneeling before him while the haughty and beautiful Myrna stood behind her in shoulder-length gloves and thigh-length boots and a glistening white leather bodysheath, gripping a leather paddle in her right hand and patting Diane's shrinking, already vividly marked bare ass to encourage the latter to comply with his most depraved desires. He could feel his spunk bubbling up to the lips of his prick as Myrna now began to suck with a delicacy and cunning born of long practice.
Her fingertips began to trickle his scrotum and then his balls, as she tilted her head to one side, by releasing his prick from the sweet warm-nectared confines of her mouth, and began to rasp her pert tongue against the circumcisional grove and then along the dark-veined throbbing shaft of his agonized manhood.
He shuddered as more images leaped into his mind. He could see Diane Wilson crying out of shame and rage and helplessness, naked except for her pumps and with her wrists still bound behind her, being forced to gamahuch Myrna's thickly-haired cunthole, while he himself stood behind her with a dogwhip, flicking her back and shoulders and the sides of her titties to enforce compliance. It would be exciting turnabout for sure. And once he had neatly relieved the haughty young heiress of everything in that trust fund, he and Myrna could very well take her off to South America, perhaps live in a villa on the edge of Rio or Buenos Aires and keep her there as a slave-or even sell her to some wealthy voluptuary.
But for now, he was conscious only of the savage aching of his beleaguered prick. Squirming closer to him on her knees, his almost naked mulatress mistress was now running her tongue down to his balls, her soft fingers gripping the tip of his prick and giving it tiny, loving squeezes which made him grind his teeth to hold back the savage burst of lust-lava he had saved up for her for tonight.
"Oh, you sweet bitch, that's what we're going to do then," he panted. "Now, get every drop, swallow it down, because one day you'll help me make that snotty, spoiled brat do exactly the same thing and you'll punish her if she doesn't show as much talent as you're doing now, Myrna baby-now, yes, take it all-ohhh Christ, I'm coming-aahhh!"
With a bellow of ecstasy, Gregson Torrance felt himself stiffen and then explode as Myrna's lips quickly folded themselves round the tip of his prick and began to suck noisily. He could hear her gurgling down his bubbling spunk, and he felt an ineffable rapture not only for what was happening to him now but what he was going to try to make happen in the future.