Chapter 13
Henry Wadsworth had decided to talk over his problem with Lieutenant Tom Meaghen, who this year was in charge of the Vice Squad and who last year had been head of the bunko detail. Meaghen was an able cop, cynical and efficient, who had few illusions about the motives of criminals and would-be criminals. He'd had dinner at Original Joe's with Meaghen a couple of times and had understood the lieutenant's philosophy of life. A tough, practical cop who didn't go in for hunches too often, just once in a while in the absence of other, more tangible corroborative evidence, he might just listen.
Listen Meaghen did at lunch on the Wednesday afternoon before the momentous Friday night which was to lure the multimillionaire Jason
Barnes from Houston to Oakland. He made the obvious answers, and Henry Wadsworth had expected them.
"Look Wadsworth, what have you got? A flimsy deck of cards that's going to topple the minute you stand them up on the table in front of the grand jury. Two missing and unaccounted for, both attractive, trying to find work here in San Francisco, and not a trace left today. One of them claiming she's going to help some fellow write his memoirs, the other one says she's going to be a private secretary to a man who knows a lot about human nature. Great! Nothing sinister there. San Francisco has over six hundred thousand citizens, most "of them industriously trying to mind their own business, and trying to make ends meet. You can't start a houe-to-house canvass for a potential murderer or a white-slaver. And then you've got the hearsay testimony of a call girl-and I don't want to know her name because officially I'd have to run her in if I did, and I don't want to violate your confidence. So she heard a couple of guys talking about a kook who runs orgies. Well, that could be just whore-talk, Wadsworth."
"I know all that. Lieutenant," Henry Wadsworth patiently explained. "All I'm asking is that maybe you have one of your plainclothes men snoop around this Dr. Weirath's place. There's a weekend coming up, and don't forget the big order for the standing rib roast for a man coming in from out of town with imagine tastes, nothing but the best."
"I'd like to help you, Wadsworth. You're an honest private eye, and you don't take shakedowns.
Tell you what-you've got me interested now. It wouldn't do any harm to put Joe Blanton on duty tomorrow night, just to case the neighborhood and see what's going on. Maybe Saturday, too. But that's all I'm going to promise you."
"You're an okay guy, Lieutenant Meaghen."
"No bullshit, please. All I'll do is let you pay for the lunch."
"Fair enough," Henry Wadsworth chuckled as he walked toward the cashier, paid the tab for both of them, and bought himself a good cigar, and one for his luncheon companion . . .
It was Friday evening, six-thirty, to be exact. The beautifully furnished and spacious dining room in the home of Dr. Helmuth Weirath was ablaze with lights from the chandelier. The suave retired psychiatrist sat at the head of the table. To his right was Jason Barnes, a gangling, white-haired, sharp-faced man of about medium height, will dull eyes and a bony nose and angular jaws. Ernestine Helms sat across the table from the multimillionaire, and beside her was her uncle, Harold Buttridge. Seated at Barnes' right was buxom, auburn-haired Mrs. Claudia Raymer, a perverse forty-year-old divorcee, wealthy in her own right and the recipient of a huge cash settlement from her polo-playing industrialist husband. In the four years which had succeeded her divorce, she had swung to the dyke side of bed, and she had often "rented" slave girls from Dr. Helmuth Weirath. Tonight she proposed to acquire one permanently, as she maintained a lovely hacienda in the province of Guadalajara.
There were just two other guests, a married couple from Los Angeles, Mr. and Mrs. Perry Evander. Perry Evander was fifty, bald, with enormous bifocals and a little goatee which he kept stroking as he eyes watched Ernestine throughout the dinner. His wife, who sat at his right, was Joanne Evander. Her brown, two-toned hair styled in a formal chignon gleamed in the light, and she wore a silver lame evening gown cut so low that practically half of her cantaloupe-like closely set bubbies were exposed in all their pink-sheened splendor. Perry was the owner of a very profitable heavy-equipment manufacturing plant in West Los Angeles, and a sadistic lecher whose favorite sport was whipping girls, preferably between the ages of thirteen to sixteen. His wife shared his penchant, though occasionally she would enjoy a session with a boy no older whom she would first severely thrash and then seduce while her husband watched, his girl-slave crouching between his thighs and furling her tongue against his almost impotent cock.
It had been difficult to procure juveniles to satisfy the debased desires of this enormously wealthy and strangely contrasting couple. So, barring that, Dr. Weirath had sometimes arranged for the "rental" of a girl slave in her early twenties or eighteen or nineteen, who would be dressed in a little-girl costume of rompers, pinafore or tunic, bobby socks, sandals, her hair plaited into a thick braid and decorated with a ribbon bow, no makeup, and in every way the illusion of a child just out of puberty. It was Dr. Weirath's intention tonight to sell the redhead Laura to the Evanders, and he had already discussed with Perry Evander the proposition in his study before dinner was announced. Two more torture sessions with the stubborn and courageous girl had failed to elicit anything from her further than her original avowal that her name was Laura, that she came from Los Angeles, and that she had run away to escape the nastiness of a detested stepfather.
Finally, at the same table, at the other end opposite Dr. Weirath was Jan, magnificently arrayed in a filmy green chiffon dress with form-fitting black slip-bra combination sewn in. The gauzy transparency of the chiffon gown allowed the provocative black lingerie to be seen quite plainly, emphasizing the magnificence of her hips and loins. She wore smoke-colored nylons, the tabs from a narrow black satin-elastic garter belt hooking to the tops, and black high heeled pumps. Dr. Weirath had cajoled her into being the guest of honor, intimating that tonight she would take her rightful place with him. Ecstatic and completely oblivious to the scene she had walked in on the other day with Ernestine Helms, Jan Caldwell firmly believed that her adored employer-lover would announce their engagement and forthcoming marriage-as he had guilefully led her to believe. She could not know that she was on display in that most enticing costume for the eyes alone of Jason Barnes, who hid his feelings and remained expressionless throughout the dinner, though not without several covert glances at this prize whom he was to acquire for the staggering sum of $50,000 (after much haggling with Dr. Weirath).
After the superb beef roast, green beans with almonds in butter, prefaced by a cream of mushroom soup with sherry, a ripe Casaba melon, enhanced with an incomparable salad and ended with a Grand Marnier souffle and expresso coffee, then liqueurs, Dr. Weirath cleared his throat, glanced at the eager faces around him, and then declared, "This is a special meeting of Les Masques. At your leisure, ladies and gentlemen, we shall meet downstairs and begin the festival of servitude and domination."
In about half an hour, everyone, including Jan, was seated in the loge seats, while Dr. Weirath, who had put on a black rubber one-piece body-sheath, sandals, and a black Venetian facemask, took the center of the stage.
"First, I offer you the spectacle of domination by the whip and miscegenation," he announced. He moved to the side of the stage as a massive bald Negro wearing a tiger skin emerged amid applause. He had found this roustabout on the Oakland docks, promised him a fabulous premium for serving as a trainer and stud, and the Negro had eagerly accepted. He picked up a long carriage whip made of silk with a pointed tip to which several strands of wire had been sewn, and he had already practiced for a week on mannequins to develop his dexterity with this insidious instrument. He was able to strip naked a girl from the distance of the lash, which was some fifteen feet. Now a hushed silence of expectation fell over the select group of spectators, and then two matrons, clad exactly as prison matrons might be, fat, dowdy and sadistic women whom Dr. Weirath had recruited from a brothel in Oakland, pushed out onto the stage from the other side a blindfolded, black-haired young woman, her hair tumbling nearly to her waist, clad only in a red cotton dress and slip, bra and panties, her bare feet thrust into sandals. She was nineteen and had been transported from New Orleans to this brothel, guilefully duped by a suave pimp who had proposed marriage, only to reveal to her what his true status was to be. She had revolted and refused to take a customer, so Dr. Weirath had arranged with the owner of the brothel to have her punished and then sold to the spectator with the highest bid, for a weekend . . . just as the redhead Laura had been disposed of to Ernestine Helms and her corrupt, elderly uncle.
Dr. Weirath now addressed the trembling, blindfolded girl: "Nothing will happen to you if you obey, Fern. No, don't try to take off the blindfold, or you'll be severely punished. "Now I'm going to give you your first order-take off your dress."
"I won't-I want to go back home. You haven't got any right to keep me here like this, I'm not a bad girl, I'm not," Fern sobbed in a delicious Southern accent which stamped her origin.
Dr. Weirath made a sign to the Negro who drew back the whip, then cast it out as one casts out a fishing line. The girl let out a shriek and recoiled, for the wire-tipped end of the lash had struck with unerring aim against the modest bodice of her dress and ripped it down to her waist.
"Tom is going to rip your clothes off you, Fern, if you don't take them off yourself," Dr. Weirath resumed. "Your last chance now. Obey!"
"I won't!" In desperate rebellion, the Louisiana brunette reached behind her and frantically tore off the black bandanna covering her eyes, and then turned and tried to run. But Tom's whip snaked out again, coiling around her waist, and the shirring tear of fabric told once again his remarkable accuracy with thisingenious whip. With a scream of pain the girl clutched at her belly, and again the whip was drawn back, coiled in the air and swung out towards her. This time it ripped the back of her dress at the neck straight down to the waist, and an angry red line was seen on the creamy pallor of her naked skin. The spectators applauded thunderously.
The two matrons stood there with folded arms, blocking her exit, and she turned back in frantic terror, sobbing, pleading to be spared. But only the whip answered her. Again and again Tom swung out the lash, and now the brassiere was slashed in two and fell away, exposing high set, beautifully rounded firm titties with dark-coral wide aureole and saucy nipple buds. Frantically Fern tried to cover them with her arms. Now the snake-whip coiled out once more, and now it demolished her already tattered dress, and it fell to the floor, festooning her ankles. The slip came under attack next, and a single shoulder-strap was deftly cut away. A tiny tickle of blood was seen on the dimpled white shoulder, and a piercing screech of pain rose in tribute to this expertly wielded whip.
like one driven by a demon around the stage, running to this side and that, screaming and praying for mercy, Fern tried to escape Tom's lash, but she could not. Five minutes later she was reduced to only her panties, and even these had been cut at the back of the waistband, diagonally down her left buttock which bore an angry, darkening welt. Exhausted, agonized, she sank down on one knee and the whip lashed out again to rip the right side of the panties and the hip, and once more blood was drawn. She clutched at the wound and tried to rise, but once more Tom cast out the hellish lash and tore away her panties entirely, amid wild applause. The thick black bush was almost obscene against the white dream of her round, full thighs.
Now, sobbing plaintively, one hand clasped over her pussy, the other hand over her panting titties, Fern crouched there in a pose not un-like that of "September Morn."
"Now then, you bitch," Dr. Weirath snarled, "get down on your knees and crawl over to Tom and let him fuck you. If you don't, he'll flay you alive with the whip, strip off every inch of skin you've got. And you can be sure no decent man will want you. I'm going to count five-one-two-thre-"
The whip rose in the air, and Fern clasped her hands in prayer. "Oh Gawd, don't-okay, I'll do it-I can't stand anymore-oh, have pity!"
"Then do what you were told to do, you bitch," the leader of "Les Masques" demanded.
Whimpering, crawling forward on her knees, her bubbies and bottom-cheeks swaying, the naked young virgin moved toward the Negro. He in turn deftly unfastened the safety-pins which held the tiger skin together and let it drop, revealing his monstrously swollen prick. At the sight of it, Fern recoiled, putting a hand to her mouth, her eyes bulging with terror and loathing. But it was too late. Nor did the Negro wait for her capitulation: Instead, seizing her by the armpits, he dragged her over to a low, flat whipping bench, flung her down upon it, and a despairing shriek rang out as he forced himself between her struggling thighs, and with a massive lunge tore through her cherry and unvirgined her.
There were gasps and sighs and murmurs of erotic arousal from the witnesses as the massive roustabout humped the naked girl.
And when it was over, the two matrons dragged the whimpering, bleeding, violated captive off the stage, while Dr. Weirath auctioned her off to the Evanders, for a weekend to be enjoyed here in his own mansion, in his most luxurious bedroom, for a price of a thousand dollars.
Now it was time for the presentation of Laura, who would be offered for sale to the mature Lesbian as well as to the Evanders. She had been dressed in little-girl costume, her long hair drawn into a pony tail with a ribbon bow, a tiny sleeveless blouse, yellow rompers, yellow bobby socks and open-toed sandals. Her wrists were tied behind her back, and she was blindfolded. The same two matrons who had handled Fern dragged her out and strapped her to a whipping stool with her bottom towards the audience. Perry Evander slyly opened his fly and began to masturbate, while his other hand thrust under his young wife's gown and, finding her furry cunt (for she wore no panties), he began to frig her as part of the realization of his lust-fantasy.
Twenty-five strokes of the paddle were laid on by the Negro who had used the whip on Fern, and Laura shrieked and twisted in her bonds, pleading helplessly for mercy. Perry Evander hoarsely called out, "If I can buy this bitch outright, how much do you want for her?"
"Fifteen thousand dollars."
"Done! I'll have a check for you and we'll leave with her Monday. Thanks, Helmuth. You're a prince."
"It's my pleasure to serve the members of Les Masques" Dr. Weirath hypocritically beamed. "And now, I have a special treat for our honored guest, the distinguished industrialist and capitalist, Jason Barnes."
There was polite applause, in which Jan Caldwell joined. Then, at Dr. Weirath's sign, the two matrons descended from the stage, came toward the loge seats where Jan Caldwell was sitting. Without warning, they seized her and dragged her up onto the stage.
"Helmuth-what in God's name are you doing-no, take your hands off me, you filthy bitches-Helmuth-Helmuth-you owe me an explanation-is this your idea of a practical joke?" Jan cried.
"Hardly, my dear. You've become a little too possessive, and also jealous. I don't permit that in any woman. You said before, you remember, that you wanted to be my slave. Well, I have accepted that. And as your master, I have every right to transfer that possession of your servitude over to anyone whom I choose. Mr. Barnes, shall
I proceed?"
"Please do," the white-haired man gasped, licking his lips and lighting a cigar, trembling with anticipation.
Jan Caldwell fought as one possessed as the two matrons calmly stripped her naked, except for her stockings and garter belt. Then she began to curse loudly as they fixed her to the triangle, facing toward the audience.
Now the Negro advanced, grinning from ear to ear, naked as the day he was born, his prick once more massive. In his hand he held a three-thonged leather whip. Slashing her across the titties, he drew a scream of agony from her.
"Don't spoil the bitch too much," Jason Barnes called impatiently.
"I shan't. Don't draw blood or mark her permanently, Tom," Dr. Weirath called. The big Negro grinned and nodded.
A dozen lashes over her bottom made Jan Caldwell lunge and twist in the most salacious way imaginable. Finally she begged for mercy and began to entreat Helmuth Weirath how loyal she had been, how she had given herself to him un-questioningly.
The Negro halted now and seized a pair of tweezers. Crouching, he began to yank out her pussy curls, while she shrieked and lunged about like one demented.. . . .
The disgruntled chauffeur, Joseph Bronty, had just been fired by his wealthy widow-mistress, because she had tried to summon him to her bed and found that he was a rather inept lover after all. Fuming with anger, out of a job and deprived of the money he had intended to make from her-partly by theft of her jewels-Bronty decided to get back at the man who had caused him to be in this awkward situation, Dr. Helmuth Weirath. He had gone to the Hall of Justice Friday morning, and before a stenographer who took shorthand, he rambled on about the mysteries of the cellar, Dr. Weirath's long-distance phone calls, the curious relationship between Jan Caldwell and the psychiatrist. The information was given to Lieutenant Meaghen, and besides the one plainclothes man who was to be on duty tonight in front of the Weirath mansion, a squad was sent . . .
By the time Jan Caldwell's pussy curls had been pulled out, she was almost fainting, and she was mumbling and babbling unintelligible pleas for mercy. Now the Negro approached her, his hands fondling her welted titties, his prick nuzzling her chafed pink cunt. At that moment the electronic alarm rang. Dr. Weirath uttered a cry of consternation: "My God, what's that?"
He turned to the wall and pushed a switch, and a closed circuit TV set immediately showed the group of police officers at the door. There was wild confusion now among the members of "Les Masques." Jan Caldwell managed to get loose in the melee, for the Negro had untied her and was about to carry her off to the same whipping bench he had used for Fern, when this raid occurred. Naked in her hose and garter belt, she scrambled out of the basement and up the stairs, opened the door and admitted the police. Then, overcome by pain, she collapsed unconscious . . .
It was a week later, and Henry Wadsworth was happily fucking Sally Durmont. They were going to be married in two weeks, and they were sampling the joys of married life in advance. Sally and her sister Laura had been ecstatically reunited, and after she had convalesced for a few days, Laura had promised that she would find a good job, with Henry Wadsworth's aid, and forget the nightmare. Dr. Weirath and his accomplices were being indicted and would face long terms in prison. The irony of it was that Jan Caldwell, who had been a victim at the end, would also be indicted for her complicity . . . But as Henry Wadsworth's prick dug back and forth in Sally's sheath, the only torture either of them wanted was the exquisite agony of prolongation until both of them should shudderingly burst into rapturous fulfillment.