Chapter 2
Christine had gone carefully through the rest of the themes all of Saturday morning and the better part of the afternoon, marked tentative grades in erasable pencil. She would finish them on Sunday. It was fairly certain that Henry wouldn't call her for any date, not after his unexpected visit last night, she told herself. And she would settle this dreadful nonsense once and for all this evening. She would take a cab to the address, confront the wretched boy who dared to think of her, his teacher, in such disgustingly obscene terms, threaten him with a full report to Dean Munson if he didn't apologize and promise never to do such an awful thing again. And of course he would have to submit a new composition that would be fit for reading-or he would flunk the course. Yes, that was the only way to deal with such a despicable boy. What was more, she would tell him that if he annoyed her in any way the rest of the term, she would tell his parents. Embarrassment would be a potent weapon against such a thoughtless creature.
So at four o'clock, she showered, then dressed and telephoned for a cab. It was still cloudy outside, so she took along a raincoat. A trim blue rayon dress with modestly cut bodice and skirt down just past her dimpled knees; a white nylon slip, a pink bra and panty set, white satin-elastic garterbelt with broad tight tabs to hook tautly to the welt of her beige nylons, and trim black leather pumps with four-inch heels. She choose her black harelquin glasses so as to appear more severe than usual, put on her light spring coat and a pretty blue felt turban hat. Then, pursing her lips as she stared into her bathroom mirror and satisfied at the decorous vision that was reflected back, she went swiftly downstairs, having just heard the cab honk outside to announce its arrival.
As she was about to open the vestibule door, the first-floor door at her left opened and a tall black-haired man emerged. It was the new tenant, Mr. Hamlin, who had moved in three weeks before. The gossipy old Swedish janitor, Mr. Engstrom, had told her that Mr. Hamlin was a free-lance writer who did work for some of the big advertising agencies in town. She noticed the Saturday he had moved in that the movers were bringing in many boxes of books and three bookcases. But she had always made it a point never to be too social with her neighbors. She had had to move eighteen months ago because the elderly man on the floor below her had started asking her to come down and have a cup of coffee with him, and, whenever he saw her coming into the building, had made it a point to come out of his apartment and try to talk to her. Finally, the silly old fool had actually gone so far as to hint that he was lonely and knew that she was too, because he never saw any boyfriends come to visit her, so maybe they could get together.
"Good afternoon, Miss Bernard," the new neighbor inclined his head and said politely.
"The same to you, Mr. Hamlin," Christine said tersely.
"I'm in a hurry, there's a cab waiting."
"I see. Matter of fact, Mr. Engstrom tells me you teach English. I thought, since I'm a professional writer, we might get together some time and talk about creative writing."
Christine groaned inwardly. Now why did stupid old Mr. Engstrom have to go broadcasting her business all around the neighborhood? She didn't want to move; this apartment on Everest was the nicest she had ever had. Well, she would just have to discourage this Mr. Hamlin in a way that would let him know once and for all that she just didn't mix with the neighbors. She would tell him she was engaged-after all, she was. "We'll see, I have to go now," she threw back at him as she opened the door and went out to her cab.
The tall black-haired man grinned slowly as he watched her get into the cab, revealing a momentary glimpse of delectably rounded nylon-sheathed thigh. Then he went back into his apartment, picked up the phone and dialed a number....
The address she had given the driver was on the far Southwest Side, almost at the city limits. Christine frowned as he turned off the Dan Ryan Expressway at 127th Street. Not one of her students lived out this far, so far as she could recall from the class roster.
The cab turned off onto an almost deserted street, with several vacant lots on both sides, then made a left turn. "This here's South Crosswell, lady. We oughta be there next block. Sure this is the address you want?"
"Yes, it is, driver," Christine leaned anxiously forward. She had written the address down in a memo book in her black alligator-skin purse and verified it before telling the driver where to go.
"Oh, yeah, guess that must be it there near the corner.
Yeah, 1728, that's it. Looks like a printing shop, lady. This is really out to hell and gone in the sticks. You wanna have me wait to take you back, huh?"
"I-I don't know-" Christine hesitated. There was an apartment building on the other side, then a big vacant lot and billboard next to it. Here, a two-story rundown building stood to her right, with a kind of English-basement entrance and a sign, "Thompson Printing-Engraving." Behind her, a small tavern, with a sign "Closed for Remodeling", was the only other edifice on this side of the street. No one was walking and only two cars were parked curbside across the street. It was hardly prepossessing. "Maybe you'd better, driver."
She got out and walked to the door. It looked dark inside, and she could only vaguely make out a desk and counter, and, further back, metal shelves with papers stacked on them. She tried the door, but it was locked. To her right, in the faded paneling, was a bell and she pressed it and rang three long times.
Frowning with vexation, she realized that she might have been the victim of a practical joke: a large cab bill and a false address; she ought, she reproved herself angrily, to have been more careful than to take it at face value. If the writer of that theme didn't have the correct address where he lived, knowing how liable he was to be reported to the principal.
And then suddenly the door opened, and a bespectacled brown-haired boy, about sixteen, in dirty gray woolen sweater and corduroy trousers and loafers, appeared. "That you ringing, lady?"
She didn't recognize the boy at all. "This is 1728 South Crosswell, isn't it?"
"Sure is. Who-d-ya want?"
"I-er-one of my students gave me this address-"
"Oh, sure, now I know who you are, lady. C'mon, he's in the back'n downstairs," the sweater-clad boy volunteered.
Christine Bernard turned back to wave at the cab driver to wait for her, then reluctantly followed her teen-aged guide, who turned on a dim light at the back, revealing the rows of metal-shelved cases and, at the far back and right, a door. He opened this, gesturing. "Down there, he's waiting fer ya."
"What's his name?" the petite teacher demanded.
The boy sniggered. "Its a sort of surprise. He told me not to tell. Says if you wanna find out who he is, you gotta come down and say hello. That's what he told me, lady."
"Oh, the impudence!" Christine spluttered. Again pursing her lovely lips in sign of irritation, she walked slowly down the narrow wooden stairs, and then suddenly drew back, her eyes widening behind the harlequin glasses, her mouth opening in a strangled cry of disbelief.
Four youths stood at the landing below, on the stone floor, all wearing stocking masks, jeans or corduroy trousers.
"Hi, Teach!" the tallest of them called mockingly. "Git her and bring her down! You, Four Eyes, tell the cab driver she ain't gonna wait."
"Yeah, sure, right now!" the sweatered boy called, then hurried back up into the shop and out to dismiss the cab driver. Christine turned to flee, but already two of the masked youths were on her, seizing her wrists and dragging her back down the steps.
"Stop it! Do you hear me? Let me go! Oh, you'll be sorry for this-who are you? Take your filthy hands off me-" Christine cried, struggling violently, twisting and kicking. But the other two stooped now to grab her ankles and hoist her into the air, trundling her like a sack of potatoes across a broad room sectioned off by a brick wall, in whose middle a narrower door appeared.
Again the lovely captive writhed and jerked, crying out, "I said, let me go! Who are you? Why are you treating me this way? Stop it, I'm a teacher-you'll get into terrible trouble for doing this-ohhh, you're hurting!"
One of the four captors opened the narrow door, reached inside to flick on the light switch, his other hand still retaining a grip on one of Christine Bernard's slim nylon-sheathed ankles, and then she found herself unceremoniously carried inside. Here was a narrower room, with slightly lower ceiling and no windows. She caught sight of a broken-down box frame with coil springs atop which a dirty mattress had been laid, overlapping at one side; a crude, heavy wooden table resembling those made in high-school workshops, and a low, squat armchair whose upholstery was ripped at the seat and arms. A single bare light bulb dangling from a ceiling fixture cast the only light, and now she could plainly see the faces of her four captors; each wore a stocking mask with a cutout for the mouth, thus making their features grotesque and unrecognizable.
They carried her over to the armchair and roughly plumped her down into it, two of them gripping her shoulders to force her to remain seated.
"Ohhhh!" she gasped, her voice trembling with indignation and fear, "what's the meaning of this-this outrage? And which one of you wrote that disgusting thing you had the shameless impudence to turn in as homework?"
The door opened, and the four masked youths turned towards it as the youth who had admitted Christine Bernard entered. She, too, turned to stare at him, and didn't recognize him as one of her students. One of the boys holding her by the shoulder called out, "Didja send the cab away?"
"Sure did. Gave him a buck," the bespectacled youngster chuckled as he took a pack of Pall Malls out of the back pocket of his cords, lit one and walked slowly over to the armchair to peer gloatingly at the struggling, frantic young woman. "Hiya, Teach. Boy, my brother sure didn't lie when he said you were hot stuff."
"Ohh! H-how dare you-no, will someone tell me what's the meaning of this-this outrageous behavior?"
"That's Teach for you, guys," a stocky youth, one of the two standing in front of her responded. "Shall we tell her now or let her guess?"
"Guess what? I demand to know who you are and what you intend to do-and I'm warning you right now, you'd better let me go or you'll all be in jail!" Christine angrily cried out, again uselessly trying to get out of the chair.
"That's where you're wrong, Teach honey," the stocky masked teen-ager jeered. Then, jerking his thumb towards the corner to her right, he added, "See that movie camera'n Polaroid over there, Teach?"
Christine's dilated eyes shifted to the direction in which he was pointing, and then she caught her breath as the frightening implications began vaguely to assert themselves. "W-what of it? Are you going to let me go or not?" she forced herself to seem indifferent.
"Oh, sure, Teach, you'll get back in plenty'a time to go teach Monday afternoon. Fact is, we wouldn't wanna miss being in class and watchin' how you act after you've got to know us better."
"Not better, real good," the brown-haired boy who had admitted her chimed in, and taunting laughter followed. Christine's lovely face reddened as again she tried desperately to rise from the chair, only to be held fast and to accomplish, in the flailing of her legs, only the uprucking of her blue rayon skirt about three inches above her dimpled knees.
"That's right," her stocky interlocutor resumed. "What we mean is, Teach, you're gonna put out. 'N jist to make sure you don't wanna talk to the cops or ol' Dean Munson, we're gonna take all sorts'a sexy movies of you doing it, see? That way, if you wanna blab, you're sure gonna make yourself out to be a real hot cunt who can't get enough from her own class, see?"
"OHHHH!" Words couldn't describe the shocked disbelief of Christine Bernard's tone as the masked boy's meaning dawned in her distraught mind. Her face turned crimson almost to her throat, and she stared at him as if he were a loathsome monster appearing without warning in one of her dreams.
"Cat gotcher tongue, huh, Teach?" the unmasked brown-haired bespectacled boy who had led her into this carefully prepared trap sniggered. "Lemme put it this way-we're gonna fuck you, Teach. Now you kin have it any way you wanna-I mean either you put out real nice, sweet and friendly, or we'll do it to you anyhow. Any which way you do it, though, we're gonna take lots of movies showing how good you can cooperate in bed, see? Now jist think'a what ol' Dean Munson would say if he could see you spreadin' your cute legs to take a young guy's dick in that hot little cunt'a yers, Christine baby!"
"OHHH, My G-G-God! You-you must be insane, all of you!" She could hardly speak and her voice shook with the monumental horror and realization of what her captors intended. Once again, wild with terror and loathing, she tried to rise from the chair. But the two masked boys who were facing her came forward to crouch down and grab her ankles, staring greedily at her through the stocking masks, and immobilizing her.
"Boy, I can hardly wait to get Teach peeled down and on that mattress," one of the youths thickly muttered. His left hand slyly stroked the stockinged calf of the exquisitely sculptured leg his right hand imprisoned by the ankle, and Christine Bernard uttered a frantic scream, "OH, NOO! DON'T DO THAT! OH, YOU HORRIBLE, FILTHY BEASTS, DON'T TOUCH ME!"
"Get that, you guys-she don't wanna be touched!" the boy who was feeling her calf jeeringly announced. "But Teach baby, watcha gonna do when you're bare-ass naked and hafta take a guy's dick up that tight little hole'a yers, huh? He can't do it very well without touching ya, now, kin he?"
Once again raucous laughter filled the room, drowning out Christine's by now hysterical cries and almost incoherent threats. When it ended, the boy feeling her legs resumed, "Now look, Teach, and listen good. Make up your mind you're gonna git fucked. We're gonna cut for turns, see? Then you're gonna peel down raw and take us on. If you put up a fuss, we'll hafta make you come across and you might git messed up some, see?"
"My G-God-oh, my G-God-but-but that's r-rape-you-you-can go to the p-penitentiary for a thing lik that-I-I'll identify you, I'll tell the police-"
"Naw you won't, Teach!' the masked youth crouching before her, his left hand still slyly stroking her sinuous, resilient nylon-sheathed calf, retorted. "Like Joey says-that's right, you guys, Teach hasn't been introduced proper yet-well, Teach, the guy who opened the door and took care'a yer cab, he's Joey. You owe him a buck he shelled out to send the cab away, but that kin wait till we git done, can't it, you guys?"
"OH, NOOO! LET ME GOOO! YOU MUST BE ALL INSANE, YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME! PLEASE, LET ME GO!" Christine, terrorized now, tried with all her strength to rise, but again was forced back, sobbing and writhing, tears running down her crimsoned cheeks.
"Seems like the least we can do is pay the buck back to Joey ourselves, seein' as how Teach is gonna be real nice to all us guys," the boy holding her left ankle mocked. He was tall and wiry, his mouth thin and his teeth nicotine-stained. "Now I'll say it over again, Teach, and this is the last time, so you better get it straight. We're gonna keep you here till Monday. You don't have a class till two, so that gives us from now till then to have fun, see? We'll feed you good, even let you sleep-after you've put out nice and sweet the way we want, a'course-but you're sure as hell gonna put out. And like Joey jist toldja, we're all gonna keep souvenirs of this fun time withcha, Teach. See, I gotta darkroom where I live and I can turn out prints real good'n fast. You jist think'a squealing to the fuzz, Dean Munson's gonna get a stag movie'n some snapshots he won't ever fergit, 'n when he sees 'em, he won't wanna keep a hot-pussied teacher like you on the faculty. Why, you might corrupt the other kids-"
Once more jeering laughter drowned out Christine's agonized protests and cries, as she again fought her four captors, once again being forcibly reseated. And this time the stocky youth holding her right ankle slid his other hand under her skirt, tautingly squeezing the springy young flesh of her lower thigh through the sheer nylon.
"B-but I-I'll tell him you k-kidnapped me and-and f-forced me-and that horrible theme one of you turned in-you can't get away with this!" she managed to gasp as she squirmed and twisted feverishly in an effort to disengage the masked youths.
"Jeez, fer a teacher you're awful dumb!" the stocky boy shook his head. "It wasn't even signed, first place, so you can't prove any of us guys turned it in. And when we tell our folks you made a date with us all here, they'll sure as hell want to have your cute ass fired out of school."
"Oh, hell, Hank, can the chatter, and let's get with it," the tall wiry youth chouching beside him interposed.
"Yeah, you're right. Joey, get that deck'a card, put it on the table. Then get some'a that rope'n tie Teach's wrists and ankles so she can't get loose while we cut to see who gets into Teach's panties first."
It was a nightmare; it couldn't be happening, Christine told herself, her tear-blurred eyes shifting this way and that as she saw the unmasked brown-haired boy pull a tattered deck of playing cards out of the back pockets of his cords, place it on the table, and then walk over to a small door at the far end of this sectioned-off room and open it. Twisting her scarlet face to watch, she saw an old washbasin and toilet; Joey now stooped down and picked up several lengths of rope and walked back towards her, grinning with anticipation. He tossed one of them to one of the boys behind the chair, who swiftly dragged her wrists behind her back and tied them tightly. Joey himself, squatting down, tied the other length twice around her slim ankles as she screamed and twisted, trying vainly to escape. "There now," he panted as he rose, "guess that'll holdja. You kin watch the card game, Teach honey. I sure hope I make it first witcha, Teach, 'n that's a fact!"
Trembling fitfully, Christine Bernard, after testing the ropes that fixed her wrists and ankles and discovering that they would not give, sank back and begun to sob as the four masked youths and Joey walked over to the table. Joey shuffled the cards several times, then put the deck back down in the middle of the table. "Okay, who cuts first?" he wanted to know.
"Oh, my G-God, stop this horrible game-please-you've no right-I-I've never given any of you-if you're in my class-any reason to think-I-I'm that sort of a person-oh, doesn't any of you have some decency? You-you're committing a dreadful crime-oh, please!" Christine cried out hysterically as the quintet, whispering among themselves, began to cut the cards.
The stocky boy who had palpated her leg turned triumphantly, holding up an ace of spades. "I'm first for sure, no matter what these other jerk-offs get, Christine girl!" he triumphantly announced. Then, moving towards her, he tugged off the stocking mask.
"Oh, my G-God-H-Henry F-Ferguson!" she recognized the shy, almost inarticulate seventeen-year-old student who sat in the last row of her English class.
"Right the first time, Teach. Yeah, I was the guy who turned in that theme. You gonna give me an E for it, Christine honey?" he snickered as he squatted down in front of the chair, his eyes devouring her heaving breasts, the coniuurs of her shapely rounded thighs lined by the rumpled, slightly uprucked blue rayon skirt. The binding of her slim wrists behind her back accentuated the bold thrust of her superb round bosom, and she turned a furious scarlet as she saw his glinting blue eyes fix on those virginal turrets.
"Oh-H-Henry-my G-God-I-I can't believe you were the one-why you-you've always been so nice in class-your work is always good and I-I never thought you had your mind on-on-"
"On pussy, huh, Teach? G'wan, don't be afraid to say it!" he jeered. "How can a guy help wanting some, Teach, when you wiggle that cute sexy ass'a yers in class, and make those baby-faced googoo eyes behind those specs'a yers every time you're telling us about those books we're supposed to read? Like last Monday when you assigned us this daydream crap, remember? You made a joke about not being afraid to reveal your innermost thoughts, and you sort of giggled and switched your cute ass. Well, Teach, now you're gonna find out what our innermost thoughts are really like." Turning back to his cronies, he called out, "You guys finished figurin' out the turns yet?"
"Yeah!" the tall wiry youth called. "I'm next, then Mack'n Bruce, and Joey comes last. I had a king'a hearts. Now for cryeye, don't take all night ballin' her, Hank!"