Chapter 10
"I'll see you later, dear Uncle Harold," Ernestine had cooed as she got behind the wheel.
"You'll be right back, won't you, dear?" he anxiously inquired.
"I've a little shopping to do in San Francisco, lover. I might go to the City of Paris, and then of course there's always that wonderful Cost Plus out on Taylor Street. A girl could wander there for days, it's so fascinating. You really ought to go there some day with me, such bargains and such wonderfully imaginative stuff. Well, I'll be seeing you when I do, won't I, Uncle Harold?"
The elderly man frowned, not exactly-liking the flippant tone of his niece's voice. He was thinking to himself that it was high time he introduced Ernestine to some of the more rigorous pleasures of voluptuous chastisement. It wouldn't do her any harm to be bent over the sofa, blindfolded, gagged and tied, dressed in a one-piece rubber body sheath with a specially contrived zipper at the nip which would allow the portion over the bottom to be opened, like a flap. Then about twenty slowly administered cuts with a whippy Malacca cane would really teach her to be a little more respectful of his years.
The prospect so delighted him that, cackling happily to himself, he went back to the kitchen and fortified himself with a six-egg omelet and half a pound of bacon. After coffee and Benedictine and a choice cigar, he felt like a new man. And in his mind's eye the figure of the silver-blonde beauty perhaps dancing in mid-air while she was hauled up by the thumbs till she was hanging about an inch off the floor, while he lifted the cane and made ready to stroke, made his prick harden, and then a nostalgic sorrow that there wasn't anyone around to satisfy his selfish and immediate urge . . .
Quite unaware of her uncle's change of mood towards her, the provocative young woman drove her car into the driveway beside the iron-grilled estate. The driveway was way at the back, and the garage, of red stone, had an apartment on the second floor, at the moment unoccupied. Dr. Helmuth Weirath had fired his chauffeur, Joseph Bronty, about a month and a half ago, when he had caught the man snooping around the house trying to discover the secret of the basement auditorium and the other singular apparatuses and accoutrements which were part of the ceremonials of "Les Masques."
Moreover, Joseph Bronty had made eyes at Jan Caldwell once too often. The man was thirty-eight, a rugged, black-haired Sicilian, and there was no doubt that he was disgustingly virile. His presence posed a threat to Dr. Weirath, particularly in wanting to enjoy without any rival the favors of his adoring secretary, who had just vouchsafed to him her desire to be not only his mistress and aide, but also his humble slave.
Of course, he'd paid the man off and given him two weeks' severance, and even a letter of recommendation. It wouldn't do to have this man disgruntled and maybe talk too freely to the authorities. Not that the police could readily find anything amiss, even if they made a cursory search. Ih had installed a super-sensitive electronic alarm system throughout the entire house and especially in the basement, and there were certain buttons set into the paneling in the basement the touching of which immediately slid pine-wood panels from one wall to the other and thus sectioned off in turn and hid the auditorium, the stage, and its punishment equipment. Then, again-ingeniously-his own idea-these buttons themselves could be concealed by pressing a certain indented spot in the wall which at once drew in the lower segment and rolled down a cleverly painted plastic substance so that the naked eye would see only blank wall and nothing more.
Joseph Bronty was presently working for a handsome widow of forty-two in Twin Peaks in San Francisco, and for the time being, his suspicions and rancor against his former employer were lulled because the widow had taken him to her bed and proved every bit as passionate as he had suspected she might be when he was interviewed by her. Yet there still lurked in his rather primitive mind a curiosity about why Dr. Weirath had been so upset that afternoon when, waiting to see him while the later was closeted with Jan Caldwell, he had simply walked down the hallway and decided to take a look at this tremendously spacious and lavishly decorated house. He had a vague curiosity to learn how the other half lived.
Where there was smoke, there was bound to be fire, he thought at the time and Josephs suspicions were one day to be matched against other inquires in Dr. Weirath's mysterious direction.. . . .
As soon as Ernestine's Impala began to drive down the long garage way, a signal bell rang in Dr. Weirath's study. He pressed a button that turned on the closed circuit TV set, and recognized at once the car and, what was more interesting to him, its lovely occupant. He had expected that Harold Buttridge would be bringing the redhead back, the girl who had called herself Vilma and who had so stubbornly persisted in the use of that name which he was definitely certain was not lawfully hers.
Ernestine Helms, well, well! He smiled and swiftly made preparations to receive her. There was a narrow passageway connecting the garage to the back of the house, and since he had recognized the car, he had only to press the button which would raise the garage door and permit her to enter. Watching through the TV to determine when she got out of the car, and this would slide up the narrow door which would permit her to go through the passageway and into his house.
Meanwhile, he was undressing with record speed and putting on an expensive and luxurious black silk dressing-gown and sandals. He was naked under the robe, because he had a feeling that this little nymphet had brought back the slave for a very particular reason all her own, for a motive which he had already anticipated. Her uncle was an extremely rich and dissipated man, in his private opinion as a psychiatrist, and also on the basis of general medical knowledge which as a practitioner he had had to acquire at the outset of his career. He would give Harold Buttridge another six months of life at the most. The man ate like a glutton, although he looked like a skeleton at times, drank like a fish and tried to keep up the fucking schedule of a twenty-year-old, in addition to which his perversities and his incestuous lust for Ernestine were sufficient in themselves to debauch and weaken him beyond the norm.
And so when Ernestine Helms made her way from the back of the house and rapped on his door, he was cordially ready to receive her.
"Why, what a pleasant surprise, Ernestine dear," he beamed benevolently, holding out both his hands. She took them, then giggled.
"I thought I'd surprise you dear Dr. Weirath."
"And you did, my dear one. I imagine you've brought back the merchandise?"
"Uh huh. In the trunk, darling-whoops! That just slipped out. Can you forgive a very naughty girl?"
"No," he said as he shook his head.
Her eyes widened with curiosity. "Oh my, have I been a bad girl?"
"Very much so. But what I mean is, Ernestine, I wouldn't have you any other way. And I'd like to have you, if you understand my meaning."
Her face burst into a happy smile and her eyes danced, as she pressed herself against him, her arms winding around his neck.
"You know, darling, you and I must have ESP," she purred, her lips a fascinating inch away from his. "I've been trying to get up enough courage to tell you that I'm just crazy about you, Helmuth-there, I've gone ahead and said it, and it sounds just wonderful!"
"I've never heard my name pronounced so beautifully, my dear," he told her huskily. His hands reached out to squeeze her jouncy bottom and his mouth sought hers. Ernestine Helm closed her eyes, parted her lips so his tongue could find the way, then waited in exquisite anticipation for his lovemaking.
But at that moment, Jan Caldwell, who occupied a luxurious bedroom on the second floor of this house and who had been told by her employer that he wouldn't need her until about two that afternoon, decided to come downstairs and ask him a question. She believed that having given him proof of her unswerving dedication and loyalty by letting him take her as a slave, she had established such an intimate relationship that there was no more need to stand on ceremony. As a consequence, she didn't knock on the study door, so when she entered it was to stop abruptly and gasp because she was watching her employer hoist up Ernestine Helms skirt and slip and thrust his artistically long, strong fingers under the gossamer sheer waistband of her white nylon panties to squeeze her voluptuous ass while the two of them stood there locked in a French-kissing embrace that would, a generation ago, have brought down the concerted ire of Will Hays and every other censor in the country.
"Well-I'm-I'm dreadfully sorry, Helmuth-I didn't know-" she blurted.
Dr. Weirath, his face flushed, shot her a ferocious glance. "Goddamn you, Jan Caldwell!" he growled. "Weren't you brought up to knock at the door. Now you get out of here and I don't want to see you until two o'clock. Do you understand me?"
"Yes-yes, D-Doctor, I-I'm terribly sorry-how do you do, Miss Helms." Bursting into tears, Jan Caldwell turned and dashed back to her room.
She didn't know it, but at that moment she had just been sold for fifty thousand dollars to Jason Barnes.
"Excuse me a moment while I close and lock the door, darling," he murmured to the silver-blonde nymph.
"That was bitchy of her, wasn't it?" Ernestine giggled.
"She'll pay for it, don't you worry, lover," the gray-haired psychiatrist, having bolted the door, now unbelted his robe and let Ernestine feast her glittering eyes on the virility of his prick.
Ernestine Helms lost no time. Tugging up slip and dress, she lowered her panties and stood there in garter belt, hose and pumps, and she pressed against him. His hands again found their way to her saucy buttocks, which he kneaded vigorously. Their tongues entwined, and his prick sank to the depths of her torrid cunt. With a little moan of happiness, Ernestine snuggled her chin on his shoulder and enjoyed her long-awaited fucking from the founder of "Les Masques."