Chapter 6

Henry Wadsworth, after he had mentioned the name of Dr. Helmuth Weirath to the call girl Rose who had identified it as one of two clients she had overheard talking about orgies and the like, rewarded her memory-and himself as well with a furiously prolonged and gloriously satisfying fuck. Even Rose herself was astonished at his energy and happiness. Most of the times, a man went to a prostitute to cry on her shoulder, to tell her about his troubles, to be babied and pampered, made to feel important and finally to get himself enough of a hard-on to be able to do a man's duty in bed. But Henry had gone at her with all the zest and gusto of a man who had been on a desert island for ten years and was seeing his first piece of pussy.

In fact, so ardent was he that he actually succeeded in making her come twice under him before he finally burst his bubbling essence deep into her quaking cunt.

As they lay side by side, exchanging a cigarette between them, Rose gasped and patted his cheek. "Honey, you're simply wonderful! That's the first time I've come with a John in over two years, did you know that?"

"Maybe we can set a new record tonight, baby, I feel wonderful myself. And thanks to you, I feel like a new man besides," he said gratefully.

"What's it all about? Mind letting me in on the secret?" she smilingly asked.

"No." He took a puff of the cigarette, then handed it back to her. "You see, Rosie, I'm a private eye. Usually it's a lousy job, maybe trying to get evidence on some poor jerk who's playing around a little because his wife won't give him enough, and she, the jealous bitch, wants every cent he's got and so she hires me to get the goods on him. Oh sure, I get money, but sometimes I feel dirty. But this time, I get a chance to help a perfectly gorgeous gal who's looking for a missing sister. And what you told me, sort of gives me a crazy idea. It's worth looking into anyhow."

"What kind, honey?"

"I can't say too much about it yet. Anyhow, you've heard about white slavery, haven't you."

"Sure. Who hasn't?"

"Well, this is a highly specialized kind, Rosie, somewhat out of your class and mine. I mean, I figure it has to be some rich guy who's got wads of dough, maybe a house way out in the sticks. Where nobody bothers him, enough of a reputation so the law wouldn't even think of going out his way to check on a parking ticket he got. Now this guy, I figure, might have a lot of rich friends who want to get kicks not just from screwing the way you and I did-which is damn good, don't misunderstand me. But some customers like to have a girl whipped, don't they?"

Rose shivered, nodded. "You said it," she said hoarsely, "I can remember a guy when I started this thing about six years ago, paid my boss-my pimp then-an extra fifty bucks to tie me up and bend me over a couch and lace into my ass with his belt. He just about killed me, and then the dirty bastard browned me on top of it, and he did it dry. Oh brother!"

"Sure. He was a sadist, he got his fun out of hurting you and making you cry because you didn't want to do anything like that," Henry Wadsworth agreed. "And that's exactly the point here, honey. Now let's suppose this rich guy we don't know about has got his friends and he's got his house and his protection and his money. Let's suppose they have to find girls to get their kicks from. Maybe they kidnap them. Or they advertise in the papers that they want a secretary or something, and first thing you know some poor out-of-town girl takes the bait, then she's hooked. She disappears, and nobody ever finds her. Why hell, they could even sell her all around their club where everybody has her. And people that rich can kill people too without leaving a trace."

"Brrrrr!" Rose shivered. She took a last puff of the cigarette stub, reached over and crushed it out, and then turned to him. "Fuck me again, lover," she whispered. "You've made me all chilly telling me things like that. Give it to me hard, see if you can't make me cream again. It'll be on the house!"

Henry Wadsworth left the call girl's apartment whistling a merry tune and feeling better than he had in months, ever since the naggingly harassing arguments with Peggy Follansbee in trying to coax her into bed without having a longwinded argument about his ethnic beliefs. The theory which he had thought out loud about while making love to Rose Marks sounded like one of those lurid paperback novels flooding the newsstands these days, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it could make. There wasn't any doubt that there were plenty of well-heeled people in this country who figured that money could buy anything, most of all pussy. Men who were powerful enough and with a good enough reputation to ride roughshod over the little people's feelings, and who could arrange for a price to have a girl kidnapped or to drug her and then make her do all sorts of carnal submissions which in her right mind she wouldn't even think of doing. It was possible for a lovely girl-and if Laura was as lovely as that snapshot, it made the idea even more plausible-to come to a big city like San Francisco and simply vanish without a trace.

To be sure, this was the twentieth century, and you didn't have to worry about the yellow fiends of Chinatown abducting girls once they got into a Chinese restaurant and smuggling them down into the cellar, drugging them and blindfolding and gagging them and shipping them off to some whore house for the pleasure of the wealthy mandarins. That was back in the days of Sax Rohmer. But all you had to do was to read some of the kooky magazines about leather clubs and spanking swapping clubs, and you had a pretty good idea of what could really happen if some innocent broad went for a modeling job or maybe worked as a servant for some rich bitch who was actually a secret member of a cult. Such a girl could easily disappear and nobody would think twice. And since Laura had quarreled with her stepfather and left Los Angeles without telling anybody where she was going except maybe that boyfriend Brad Tobler, the chances were very good that she had got herself involved with something offbeat.

He had copied down the phone and address of Dr. Helmuth Weirath from the book in Rose's apartment, and he now looked at it to refresh his memory. It might not do any harm to go pay this doctor a visit and get the lay of the land . . .

Dr. Helmuth Weirath chuckled softly as he opened the mail which his pert, saucy-featured coppery-red-haired secretary Jan Caldwell had just handed him. At fifty-six, he enjoyed remarkably good health and vitality-as all too many of the young women who had been brought to his luxurious house could testify, if they ever had the opportunity of so doing. He was about five feet eleven inches in height, with sparse gray hair, and his face was that of a sensualist. It was a broad nose with fleshy wings, an even fleshier mouth, and a short Van Dyke beard which he kept meticulously groomed. He wore a gray tweed suit and his spectacles, which he used only for reading, for his vision was remarkably clear, especially when he was on the stage at a performance of "Les Masques" examining the naked flesh of a trembling captive who was about to be punished or tortured for the pleasure of the esoteric cult audience.

Despite her fresh and almost ingenuous beauty, Jan Caldwell was in her way depraved as he. She had become his secretary about three years ago, fresh out of a women's college at Berkeley. Now twenty-four, she was virtually his right-hand aide. Through her efforts, indeed, had come several of the choicest girls who were compelled to agonize upon that stage in front of the masked cult members.

Jan Caldwell had been an only child, and her parents had separated, leaving her with her father in San Francisco. He had died when she was eighteen, but left sufficient money for her schooling and a considerable amount to tide her over in the days when she should be looking for a job. Consequently, she had decided not to take any kind of job with a boring nine-to-five routine, but rather something that would be a mental challenge and be interesting and stimulating. So when Dr. Weirath had advertised in the Oakland and San Francisco newspapers for a private secretary who was familiar with French and who enjoyed initiative and responsibility, she had written a letter in such an impertinent vein that he had at once called her for an interview. He had hired her over ten other quite as attractive and capable applicants so because he recognized a kind of hidden sensual quality which he felt certain that he personally could exploit for his own lascivious pleasures.

He was unerringly right, and after all, having been a practicing psychiatrist for a good number of years before his retirement which was at that time impending, he understood that Jan Caldwell was basically amoral and as lustful in her way as he himself.

At the time he had hired Jan Caldwell, Dr. Weirath had been contemplating the founding of his secret society for sybarites, as he was pleased to call it in an alliterative fashion. "Sybarites" meant those who devoted their lives to pleasure to the exclusion of all else, and that was precisely what he meant. As a psychiatrist first in Vienna and then in San Francisco, he had established an imposing practice, and many of his patients were neurotic women and even adolescent girls who really needed sexual adjustment more than mental analysis. Carefully and discreetly, he had been able to have a few burningly exciting affairs with some of these passionate but thwarted women. And then the thought had occurred to him of going back to the Middle Ages or maybe to the Roman era, or to have something like the famous "Hell-fire Club" in which the females would serve as slaves and be compelled under bondage and a whip and all kinds of humiliations to be the most abject sexual slaves it was possible to turn them into. It would take money, and he had enough, and there were other men, he was certain, and women too, Lesbians who would not go out cruising into the night to find a temporary bed partner

SI but who would on the other hand pay a great deal to purchase a sensitive and cultured young female whom they could train to their vicious desires.

Thus "Les Masques" had begun, in a very small way, with only two or three of his closest friends whom he had carefully sounded out in advance to guarantee their trustworthiness and also their financial backing. And now after two short years, there were some seventy-five paying members, each of whom paid a minimum of five thousand dollars a year. This fee gave them the privilege of attending all sessions of "Les Masques" and of enjoying with active participation the lustful pleasures provided. It gave them also a voice in determining what events should be scheduled for future meetings, and then there were other tariffs imposed for the acquisition of new slaves. This was dangerous and it was also expensive.

Since his practice gave him access to all kinds of drugs on prescription without question, and since he had experimented with hypnotic and drug techniques for several years in Vienna and in San Francisco as well, Dr. Weirath was thus able to take a perfectly innocent and trusting young girl and so affect her mind and body that she would be a submissive slave without any danger of reporting to the authorities what had been done to her. A number of wealthy young girls had fallen into the hands of the members of "Les Masques," and all of them had been hypnotized into writing deeds of trust which gave their estates to Dr. Weirath or which separated themselves permanently from their families. He was always careful in dealing with such prizes to choose those who had no living parents but perhaps only relatives who were disinterested or themselves financially independent and cared nothing for their nieces or cousins, as the case might be.

His liaison with Jan Caldwell had begun about four months after her employment. That was at the stage when he was considering turning his house into the magnificently furnished retreat for domination and bondage and lustful coercion which it had now become. He knew, for one thing, that Jan was not a virgin, for she had blithely told him after about the first month of her association with him that she had had an experimental affair with a young college senior from the University of California, simply because she wanted to rid herself of the old fashioned symbol of "virginity that's outmoded," as she put it. Since she was on her own and had her own apartment, seduction was easy. Besides, he was magnetic, with a soft voice, persuasive manner, and an exceptional lovemaking technique which had won many a far more mature and emotionally stable person than Jan Caldwell.

So, one rainy March evening, when he had kept her working overtime preparing some carefully worded letters to these first trustworthy associates of his whom he thought would make excellent material for membership in his proposed erotic society, he had offered to take Jan to dinner at Ernie's, that swanky restaurant of great cuisine in San Francisco. They had dined sumptuously on a rack of lamb and a superlative salad, and then crepes suzette, abetted by a bottle of vintage

Clos de Vougeot. After dinner, Jan had turned to him and asked him, "Wouldn't you like to come up to my place for a nightcap, Doctor?"

"I should indeed, very much, Jan," he had chuckled.

Her apartment was near the downtown park area of Oakland, a pleasant little one-and-a-half efficiency which she kept immaculate. She had a cherry wood secretary left her by her mother in which she kept most of her books. He observed several that were rather racy, which confirmed his private opinion that Jan Caldwell was really top-rate bed material. And so, after an excellent brandy which she gave him, he walked over to the secretary, opened the glass doors, and took out the spiciest of these books, which happened to be "The Story of O." Walking back to the couch, he smiled at her and showed her the book and said, "This is even better than the original French, my dear."

"I know, I've read it. I got it at college, but I lost my copy so this has to do."

"What do you think of the heroine, Jan?"

"I can understand her," she had said, looking up at him through serenely limpid dark-blue eyes. He sat down beside her, and then he said, "What would you say, Jan, if I were to tell you that I have been dreaming about a kind of secret club in which cultured and quite wealthy men and women would mingle, served by girls such as this masochistic O?"

"It sounds fascinating!" she had replied. "I don't think I'd want to be one of those girls, though. I mean, I don't think I'd like to be a slave to all the men. Maybe just one.'

"Just one," he echoed. "Someone who understands you and can cater to your needs, I have no doubt."

He was very close to her now, and their eyes met and held a long, significant gaze. "Yes," she breathed.

"Such as myself, perhaps?" he had ventured.

Her lips had formed the word "Yes" without uttering it. And then there was no need to utter any more words, because his fleshy lips had come gently on hers, his hands had pressed against her shoulders, drawing her gently to him, and he gave her a kiss of lingering and high-charged sensuality.

Before it was over, she was quivering violently, and her arms had clutched him tightly and then her pert pink tongue had suddenly thrust between his lips.

He knew that she was consenting. His left hand moved to her pear-shaped tittie, fondling it through her dress and bra. Jan moaned, "Oh yes, oh yes, my darling!" and he knew that he was dealing with as passionate a female as he had ever fucked.

But being the master of psychiatry that he was, Dr. Helmuth Weirath was in no hurry to savor all Jan's exquisite charms. His hand gently rubbed over her nipples till he could feel them harden through her clothes, and his other hand caressed her knees and thighs over her dress until he could feel her molten with desire, quivering uncontrollably and wanting to be possessed.

Then delicately his own tongue joined hers, and she moaned feverishly in her ecstasy. He could feel her fingernails dig into the back of his neck, and her eyes were starry and hugely widened, the delicate wings of her nostrils flaring and shrinking.

Delicately again, he lifted her skirt and the lace-trimmed petticoat beneath it, furling them up to her waist, exposing long, beautifully sculptured thighs and high-set, sensuously chiseled calves sheathed in smoke-colored nylon hose of the very finest gauge and denier. Keeping his left hand on her panting tittie, he put his right hand now on her stockinged legs and began to stroke them very slowly and very evanescently. Jan was now in a frenzy of desire, and her muscles flexed furiously under his caress. He observed that she was wearing panties and a garter belt, and so he gently put both hands to her panties and she at once arched up with a moan of "Oh Doctor darling, yes, oh yes!"

Her panties were snugged down to her lower thighs, and he could see the thick dark-red curls of her bush. But although she believed he was about to fuck her, Dr. Helmuth Weirath intended to bring her to the absolute crux of lust and uninhibited passion by showing his understanding of her female yearnings.

Swiftly he knelt down, his hands on her stockinged knees, pressing them widely apart. Then, as she leaned back against the couch, her eyes closed, her fingernails dug into the upholstery of the couch, he plunged his face between her straddled legs, and his tongue thrust between the soft lips of her cunt to find the nodule of her clitoris.

"Ahhhhh, oh God, oh Helmuth, oh that's so

ST good-oh my darling-oh I knew you were going to be the one for me-oh Helmuth, yes, I want to be your slave-oh don't stop-you're driving me wild-oh I love it, darling, oh darling, yes, yes, more, more!" she panted.

Her bottom squirmed frantically, and now his hands moved under the naked cheeks to grip them and to hold her tightly as he kept frigging her with his tongue. Sometimes his tongue moved away from the stiffened button of her clit to rim the palpitating pink lips of her avid cunthole. She was whimpering and sobbing now, almost hysterical with yearning, her titties rising and falling violently against the bodice of her dress.

But when he sensed that she was at the moment of climax, he rose, and stood smiling down at her.

"Oh don't-don't leave me like this-oh have me, Helmuth, fuck, oh my God, I want you to fuck me!" he heard her groan.

He had waited for that. It was her acquiescence to his lust, and it had to come of her own free will before he could be sure that Jan Caldwell could be his puppet and his aide.

He stooped, lifted her up, snugged her panties off and let them drop upon the floor, as he carried her over to a long lounge chair. Jan, shuddering with desire, felt mildly surprised that he had not concluded their lovemaking there on the couch which she used as her bed, But instead, he stretched her out on the lounge chair and then began to undress. His body was hairy, but also wiry and superbly vigorous for his age. He was like a satyr, and his prick was enormously turgid, long, almost bony-looking, with an elongated head that thrust out from the wide, shallow circumcisional groove.

Now swiftly he undressed her, pulling off her outer garments, leaving her only in her bra and garter belt and hose, removing even her pumps. Then, kneeling down on the couch, he lifted her stockinged legs and draped them over his shoulders, his hands squeezing her lithe, resilient hips and began to gamahuch her again, tantalizing her by withdrawing his tongue and rubbing against the insides of her thighs down to her knees and back even over the stockings. Jan Caldwell threshed about in a perfect frenzy of lust, her eyes glazed and exorbitant, sobbing groans exuding from her panting mouth.

In his right hand he had clutched a French-tickler condom, and he now adjusted it, without her seeing. Then, moving forward, perching her knees back up against her titties, he thrust himself with a single dig to the very balls inside her cunt.

Jan Caldwell nearly went wild in her frantic ecstasy. Her rising scream denoted the most avid rapture. She drummed her stockinged heels against his back and shoulders, her head turning this way and that, and raked at him with her fingernails. His mouth crushed hers, and then he began to fuck her with long and slow and artful digs until she had at least three orgasms before he finally liberated her with a torrential gush of his own gism.

Now she had become his creature, his confidante, and it was she indeed who had coaxed a girl with equally lovely coppery-red hair to come to work for Dr. Helmuth Weirath and from there to go out upon the stage before the members of "Les Masques." A girl who had run away from her home and, too had rebelled against her stepfather. A girl who, unaccountably, had refused to give her right name-which was all the more advantageous for Dr. Helmuth Weirath and his depraved associates.