Chapter 4
Sally Durmont had decided to put an ad in the San Francisco and Oakland papers in her desperate attempt to find her sister Laura. It was worded as follows: "Laura, I'm here in town looking for you. Please call me at the Gurlaine Hotel. I've left Matthew forever, and I miss you a lot. Sally."
Next, having looked up in the telephone directory the names and addresses of several private detectives, she decided to visit one who had a large display ad in the book, and took a cab down to Sansome Street to his office. In a few minutes, she had revealed her mission, and Henry Wadsworth, a lanky, personable thirty-two-year-old brown-haired man who had been graduated from the University of California at Berkeley and seen service in Viet Nam, was listening to her with a great deal of interest. It wasn't only because it meant a case for him, it was because he thoroughly approved of his beautiful new client. Henry Wadsworth had been born in San Rafael, a lovely little town beyond the Golden Gate Bridge and along the highway that led to the state's capitol of Sacramento. His younger brother had been killed in Viet Nam, and his parents had died two years ago. He had a first cousin living in Los Angeles, who was married and had two kids already.
So far, Henry Wadsworth wasn't attached, though that didn't mean he didn't appreciate girls. Quite the contrary. He had had a torrid romance going with an Eurasian dancehall girl in Saigon, but she had been stabbed by a member of the Viet Cong about a month after they had started shacking up together. Here at home, he had just had a breakup with a very snooty legal secretary named Peggy Follansbee, a twenty-three-year-old auburn-haired young woman who, coming from a wealthy family, had wacky ideas about the fight for Civil Rights and other things he just couldn't stomach. Even though she was one of the hottest pieces of cunt he had ever fucked, practically insatiable, he couldn't see himself marrying a girl like that and being tied down to someone who thought that "niggers ought to be kept in their place" and other equally stupid beliefs.
And so, when lovely Sally Durmont entered his office, he made some notes on a pad, but Sally would have blushed if she could have seen what he was writing. It read something like this: "Just about the sexiest brunette I've ever seen, and yet she doesn't wooze it out. She's just naturally gorgeous and she doesn't have any silly notions about what a looker she is, thank goodness. Hope she never learns. What a figure! Such titties, like big firm pears! Td just love to get my hands on them. And long sexy legs, and a slinky tail I could grab while I'm fucking her sweet hot box! I hope she isn't engaged or married, it would be a bad break. After sampling Peggy's pussy, I've realized that I've got to have regular fucking or I won't be able to concentrate on this private-eye job of mine at all."
"Mr. Wadsworth," Sally said earnestly, "I feel so helpless, I just don't know where to look for her. All I know is that her former boyfriend told me she would probably try to find a job in San Francisco. Now here's a snapshot of her."
Henry Wadsworth picked up the snapshot and stared at it. His prick began to ache. Two such gorgeous sisters in one family was a rarity. Either one of these girls would provide all the pussy any normal red-blooded young man could ever hope to get in a life-time of searching, he told himself. Personally, though, he leaned more towards Sally, if only because she was here and in the delicious flesh sitting right opposite his desk. Anyhow redheads were inclined to be unpredictable, and besides, from what Sally had just told him, Sally was older and really ripe for plucking-which meant fucking in his book.
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "I don't mind telling you, Miss Durmont, it's going to be really tough to find her. I mean, she's beautiful enough to attract a lot of attention, but if she's got a job in some little office and is living in one of those tiny apartments anywhere from here to Cliff House, you're really going to have a problem. Or rather, I am, since I'm taking the case. But I don't want to build up any false hopes, you know. Also, I don't want to run up the tab too high. I generally work for forty dollars a day and expenses."
"Oh dear!" Sally involuntarily exclaimed. "I-I couldn't afford to hire you for too long, Mr. Wadsworth, not at those prices. I know that we have some money in the bank, but half of that is Laura's, and I wouldn't feel right if I used any of it until I can find her and make sure she gets her rightful share."
"You're a very decent person, Miss Durmont, if I may be permitted to say so," the lanky private eye sincerely declared. "You tell me you've put an ad in the papers, here and in Oakland too? That's not a bad idea. What sort of work do you think she would go after?"
"I really don't know, Mr. Wadsworth." Sally shrugged helplessly. "Laura had two years of junior college, and I think she had a little bookkeeping and shorthand and general typing."
"I see. That doesn't tell us much. Of course, jobs are easy to get in this town, as you've probably found out for yourself from what you told me. She doesn't know anybody in this city, does she?"
"Oh no-at least I'm sure she doesn't. We don't have any relatives, and there just isn't reason, unless she happens to like San Francisco."
"A lot of people do just for the sourdough French bread," he grinned-likeably. "And you're sure she doesn't have a boyfriend?"
"I can't be sure of that, of course, Mr. Wadsworth," Sally Durmont said truthfully. "I know she broke up with this fellow Brad Tobler, and I don't like him either. He's the one that told me that he thought she was going here to find a job. Of course that's not positive proof."
"No it isn't. She might have gone to San Diego or even Palm Springs, for all we know." Once again he picked up the snapshot and stared at it as if trying to memorize the features of the en-chantingly lovely red-haired Laura Durmont. "Now I've got your address at the Gurlaine Hotel-are you going to stay there for a while?"
"Most-likely. The rates are low for the week, it's nicely located, and what I'm really going to try to do if it seems to take any time to find Laura, is to get me some sort of job."
"Hmm. Well, the thought occurs to me-" a brilliant idea had just leaped into the lanky private detective's head. "Look, I know that this sounds crazy, but would you consider doing some secretarial work for me? I have to go out a lot, and the last girl I had got married and I haven't had a chance to catch up with my paperwork, so I haven't had time to hire anybody from the agency. It wouldn't pay much, but that way I'd sort of be indebted to you and maybe I could handle this case a lot longer without costing you money. Think it over."
"Why, that's wondrously generous of you, Mr. Wadsworth! I can type a little, but I don't take shorthand."
"That won't be necessary. You've had some college, even if it's only Liberal Arts, and you've got a quick mind. Besides," he grinned again, "you'd help bring in clients just by sitting at the reception desk and looking gorgeous the way you do now."
Sally Durmont's face crimsoned at this extravagant compliment. "You-you're very flattering. I-I really would like to work for you. I think it would help keep my mind off worrying about poor Laura."
"Now you leave the worrying to me, Sally. Excuse me-but I guess I've just gotten into the habit of calling people by their first names because I'm the friendly kind."
"That's-that's fine, I don't mind that at all. When would you like me to come to work?"
"What about next Monday? Meanwhile, I'll be working on this and at an absolute minimum of cost to you, I promise." The lanky private eye rose from his desk and extended his hand to Sally with a warm smile. The touch of her hand on his sent new tremors of desire racing up and down his legs and hardening his prick. He hated to see her go, but he consoled himself that she would be back Monday and sitting right in this office taking calls and messages and maybe typing a few letters and sitting around to chew the fat with him when he came in for a hour or two off an assignment.
"Well, I haven't mentioned salary yet, Sally. Tell you what. All I could afford to pay would be about sixty bucks a week."
"Oh, that would be wonderful! I could live very nicely on that, just with my rent and my food. After all, I do have money in the bank, I don't want to mislead you, Mr. Wadsworth."
"Make it Henry, please."
"All-all right, H-Henry. I'll see you Monday about nine o'clock, then. And thank you ever so much, I'm most grateful!"
Again she shook hands with him, and her smile was radiant as she turned and left his office. Henry Wadsworth stood looking after her, then lit a cigarette and drew a long sigh. He was wondering if he had yielded to a foolish impulse. He was just barely making out after a couple of years in this business, and he needed just one good break. Maybe some case that would be sensational, maybe tracking down a missing embezzler or something like that, which would get him rave notices in the papers and draw new clients to his office. He wasn't really rich, and his parents had left him only a few thousand dollars. He'd worked hard most of his life and then there had been the war and he'd almost been killed by a Viet Cong sniper. But he was certainly glad to be alive, especially at the thought of being the boss of a delectable creamy-skinned black-haired dish like Sally Durmont. . . .
Ernestine Helms squatted down by the side of the naked, red-haired captive on the attic floor, the flexible wooden yardstick gripped in her right hand. Her eyes feasted on her victim's many whip marks, and she licked her lips with anticipation. Though only nineteen years old, Ernestine Helms knew practically every deviate way of making love and causing pain, as well as tantalizing both male and female sexual partners. She knew, for instance, that all she had to do was to slip off her playshorts and walk into Uncle Harold's bedroom right now and just stand close to him, and pretty soon he would wake up from his nap and he would want to fuck her. And of course she'd make him pay for it, and she'd tease him until he was half-crazy with wanting her, and then maybe she'd first make him kneel down and suck her cunt to get her in the mood. And then maybe she wouldn't give him pussy after all except what he had just had orally.
She grinned cruelly as she lifted the yardstick and brought it down with a solid Smack across the upper hip of the young woman lying in the crapaudine position. She was going to take the ball gag out pretty soon and listen to what this little bitch had to say. She was really curious as to who the girl was, where she had come from, and she knew that her name wasn't Vilma. She didn't think she was a native San Franciscan, either. She had a different kind of voice and accent, a different kind of style. Maybe she'd come from Los Angeles. Maybe she had a boyfriend around here and had come up to look for him. Whatever the reason was, Ernestine Helms was very glad that she had gone with Uncle Harold to the meeting of "Les Masques" the other night. And that reminded her; one of these days, when Uncle Harold wasn't around, she was going to telephone Dr. Helmuth Weirath and let him know that she would like very much to see him alone and at his convenience.
She put her left forefinger to her pussy and tickled it gently through the tight playshorts. She applied another Smack of the long yardstick over her victim's naked thigh. The girl on the floor stirred and moaned faintly. Ernestine Helms grinned wickedly back at her prey. She hadn't even begun to do all the lovely little things she was planning to do to this red-haired slut. She was going to make her kneel behind her and open up her bottom-cheeks and lick her little brownie and swear that she was going to be a good little slave-girl, or else.
Her left forefinger rubbed firmly now against her cleft, and she felt the lips gape and twitch. Her natural hair was a dark brown, but, knowing how much it excited Uncle Harold, she had shaved herself there so that the lips were pink and naked and tempting. She'd even put lipstick on to make them more alluring. He'd had to put it on one evening, and she'd made him put his hands behind his back and then tied them tightly. He'd had to take the lipstick in his teeth and paint her pussylips. She'd never forget that evening. How ridiculous he'd looked, practically frothing at the mouth in his desire to fuck her, his eyes rolling, sweat rolling down his face, as he'd stared at that soft tantalizing cunt of hers all bare and ready and yet not ready enough to be opened to his prick. And after he'd put on the lipstick, she'd rewarding him by telling him, "Now then, dear Uncle Harold, you can just gam me, and that's your reward tonight. And that's all, you hear?"
She could wind him around her little finger any time she wanted to, and she knew that after all he was almost in his sixties and wouldn't live too much longer. Then she'd inherit all his money and this lovely big house, and then she could really go to Dr. Weirath and maybe buy outright a slavebitch like this naked redhead on the floor.
As she became more and more excited, she began to spank the unfortunate young woman. The yardstick rose and fell with crisp noisy cracks all over the already marked flesh of the woman's thighs and behind. The captive struggled, trying to roll over, to twist herself away, but Ernestine pursued her. Then she stood up suddenly, and shoved the tip of the yardstick into the girl's hipbone and viciously dug with all her might. A pitiful wail faintly came through the ball gag.
"We're just going to have a lot of fun today, honey," she promised. "Now I'm going to take the ball gag out of your mouth, and you're going to tell me what your real name is and where you come from and everything you know about yourself. Because if you don't, I'm going to have Uncle Harold wake up from his nap and come up here and give you a real good hard spanking, and then I'm going to let him fuck you and bugger you all he wants, you understand?"
She knelt down again now, and removed the gag. Panting and groaning, the naked captive gasped out, "I won't tell you anything, I won't! You can kill me but I won't!"
"That's the spirit I love, honey," Ernestine crooned sadistically. "But never is an awfully long time. I'll lay you odds I make you change your mind before dinnertime. And here's something to start with."
She went over to a rickety little table, picked up an ice pick. Squatting down again, she began very lightly to jab at the captive's panting naked titties and belly and the insides of the young woman's thighs. Huddled together as she was in this torturing position, the red-haired beauty could not protect herself in any way. She could only cry out and groan and sob. Though Ernestine did not cut the flesh, for fully twenty minutes she amused herself by prodding the naked captive until the unfortunate victim was moaning, drowned in tears, her body jerking fitfully, and her lovely flesh marked everywhere with the angry little pink splotches of the ice pick.