Chapter 2
Rosemary - dressed in the oldest and least attractive dress she could find in the house - drove in her Porsche through the hills out of Redwood City. She passed the long wooden fences, the horses, the occasional houses. On a weekday there was no traffic going toward the coast; she drove fast - as fast as the road curving through the coastal hills would allow - because she wanted to get there before the tiniest grain of her determination might disappear.
The bright, close summer sun beat down on the car; Rosemary, in her long dark dress, sweltered and did not realize she might have rolled down some windows and improved the situation. She was the picture, the embodiment, of resolve, and the fuel she ran on was the prospect of Kevin coming home in three months.
How she wanted to be pure again for that time! How she wanted it!
On the coast road now, she could already see the mansion. It swung in and out of her view from a distance of about two miles. The way it perched on the very edge of the coastal shelf, just an arm's length from the sheer rocky drop down to the Pacific, made it look like some medieval castle up on a protective promontory, its site both its protection and its biggest danger. The mansion, as it neared, swinging in and out of view as Rosemary navigated the curves of the coast road, looked threatening and sadistic as the waves crashed and foamed on the rocks below. Yet it also looked impressive, beautiful, romantic.
It sported four towers, each in a slightly different style, like a real castle should. The balconies were wrapped in a lace of wrought iron; windows appeared everywhere, in asymmetry, and some of the smaller, oval-shaped windows tucked in the towers had stained glass like jewels; the stone-work was heavy yet delicate, a mosaic composed of shades of gray the same color as the rocks the mansion perched on - and it was not easy to determine at what point the stone of the mansion stopped and the rocks of the California coast began.
This house, in its uniqueness and romance, was one of the things which had drawn Rosemary to Vance in the first place, with its large glass panes looking directly out on the foggy ocean, its room after room of rich polished old wood, the well-kept, delicate Victorian furniture. This mansion - Vance's castle - was as ambiguous and ambivalent as Vance himself.
Both man and house had their romantic and exceptionally attractive side; and both had their dangerous, threatening side; Rosemary was not, to this day, ever sure which side was the more dominant in Vance. She would never know. What motivated him was anyone's guess. He had fine, understanding characteristics such that Rosemary might have considered him a friend; yet his darker side was so totally dominating, so selfish and unpredictable, that any moment when she lowered her guard with him and considered him a friend might be the very moment Vance chose to trick her into a deeper servitude.
She pulled in the driveway. She did not like to be on this side - the coast side - of the road unless she was actually in the house. She had driven the entire length of California's coast road and knew that there were few houses on it, and virtually none at all on the coastal side of the road. The difficulty of construction - the cost - was one reason; desire was another. Rosemary looked down at the cascade of boulders which dropped down from beside her parked car to the thudding waves. Much as she hated the view, fearing it, and much as she longed to be within the relative protection of the house's walls, she remained in the car in order to strengthen her resolve still more. She knew Vance, or one of Vance's servants, would already have noticed her presence; but it didn't matter - the important thing was that when she did get up the nerve to go into the house Vance would find her a powerhouse of resolve.
She could write a book about it, she thought. Except that she had no talent for writing. But there were few characters in literature who were so multi-faceted as Vance, so enigmatic, so compelling. For some time now - nearly an entire year - Rosemary had lived in fear as well as awe of Vance. She did not like him but she respected him. Gradually, bit-by-bit, he had come to have absolute control over her sex life. Vance now had more to say about her body than she herself. Watching the waves rise toward shore, thud into the rocks, and splinter into thousands of glittering fragments, Rosemary pondered Vance's circle of friends and how she'd gotten into it.
The circle was a group of over a dozen people who conducted, under Vance's seen or unseen guidance, sex parties together. The people were young, all of them, and attractive - incredibly attractive, healthy-looking, friendly. Vance had good taste; and though he was older - pushing forty - he himself was the most attractive, with his superficially charming manner, his easy smile, sturdy build, the power he had of making those around him feel relaxed and reassured. Rosemary had met him through her job as receptionist; Vance, a financial entrepreneur, conducted his own business from his home but had had, for a period of some weeks, dealings with Rosemary's firm, loaning them the capital to expand.
In the course of those few weeks the wealthy middle-aged man had passed many times through her office, at first just glancing at her respectfully, pleasantly; then exchanging a few words of small-talk; and always in the background, influencing the way Rosemary thought of him, were the comments about Vance which she overheard from influential people in her company: "Vance was easy to deal with;" "A humanist among dogs compared to other financiers." "A solid, decent businessman." Rosemary might have been naive, but she was not stupid. Vance's appeal was such that he had tricked many far more worldly and cautious people than Rosemary into his web. When Vance finally, nonchalantly, asked her to dinner, she accepted.
"What's the harm?" she thought. "I need some contact and some friends while Kevin is away. Kevin himself said that, before he left. I don't want to turn into a vegetable before he comes back. Nor, on the other hand, do I want to actually date anybody; but dinner, some parties, what's the harm?"
There was no harm, in the beginning.
Vance called for her in his chauffeur-driven Jaguar, sat a respectable distance from her in the back, and took her hand only in guiding her in and out of the car. The restaurants the chauffeur drove them to were superb and unknown to Rosemary; and Vance himself, though he spoke little of his life or business, was good, understanding, company. Rosemary did, of course, say a few words about Kevin. She even said point-blank she was very lonely without him.
Once on a Sunday Vance drove her to his house. She fell instantly in love with it and, as Vance guided her from paneled room to paneled room, and up the twisting staircases of the towers, the Pacific always just on the other side of the glass beside them, her impression of Vance improved still more. He was shy even in taking her hand or touching her on the back to show her which way to go. He never really tried to touch her, he never kissed her; he seemed to live in a realm apart and their relation was, she thought, touchingly platonic. Kevin would approve! As they stood gazing out at the ocean Vance mentioned casually that he was giving a party here in a few days and he would be delighted if she would come. It took Rosemary only a moment to reflect: she loved the house, would love to be in it again; and she wanted to meet the people who would be Vance's friends, at least once out of curiosity, for she'd had nothing whatever to do with the really moneyed class - the class to which she would, together with Kevin, belong someday.
The party was, of course, a sex party.
It took Rosemary a long time to realize that's what it was, for it began quite innocuously with cocktails and standing conversations as the sun set through the huge glass panes beside them. Vance's house was enormous, each room having the air and spaciousness of a gallery or museum, and the guests moved about freely throughout it. A few seemed to get lost up in the towers, but that sort of thing happened at most parties, and Rosemary was not shocked. She had no desire to dictate others' morals - just her own. When several people drifted down to the basement, she followed: from her own free will, no one forced her. The conversations continued in a sort of parlor down in the basement, and the trays of drinks continued circulating throughout the crowd, borne by servants dressed in white dinner-jackets. When Vance announced that the film room was now ready if anyone cared to come in, the people flowed through the door into the room.
At this point - seeing the peculiar room - innocent Rosemary should have suspected something. The room was odd - the vibrations rang wrong. But the whole house was so strange and new to Rosemary that this room did not, at first, seem stranger than the rest. And the people themselves - so confidently wealthy, so exuberant and young and healthy - she trusted. Buoyed up by the charm of the guests and of Vance himself, by the beauty of the house and by the quantity of liquor she had already consumed, she went all the way into the film room and sat down without suspecting a thing.
The film room amounted to about twenty booths, separated by shoulder-height, upholstered partitions, each booth facing the front of the room on which was a screen as big as those in theaters. Rosemary settled into a booth along with a shy, handsome man named Hank Masters. The booth was large and they sat a respectable distance apart; at each end was a small shelf for drinks, and Rosemary put her purse on hers and got comfortable, for it was clear by now they were going to watch a film. The seat portion of the booth was a little strange: a single-bed-sized mattress, with a mattress cover Rosemary assumed was to catch any stains from the drinks. The mattress itself gave her pause. She glanced repeatedly down at it, verifying that it was a mattress and not just some sort of cushion especially appropriate to film-viewing.
A waiter came by, asked with what should he fill their glasses, and then filled them. Rosemary drank and studied the odd room - she wanted to ask her companion about it, but yet was afraid to for fear she would be committing some social blunder. The room had a large bar running the entire length of one side wall. There was food here, too - refrigerators, a freezer, a stove. The place was stocked well enough to endure an atomic siege; perhaps that's really what it was, Rosemary thought, a fallout shelter! There were no windows whatever. One corner contained a stack of blankets and pillows and next to it was a long row of clothes-closets, a woman's toilet, a man's toilet, and a door marked "Showers" which did not seem to make a distinction between women and men. Rosemary now began to get worried, but the lights had already dimmed, conversations hushed, and she stayed sitting frozen where she was for fear of calling attention to herself or making some unknown social blunder. In the rear of the room, from a slightly elevated, glass-walled projection booth, some rays of color began to shoot out and over the heads of the audience.
"One for the road - and four for the bed," announced a voice - Vance's - from large loudspeakers located on either side of the movie screen. Preliminary, scratchy frames began to flicker across the screen, without credits and without title - Vance had supplied that.
In a few moments there were actors in living color wildly fucking before Rosemary's astonished eyes!
She had never seen anyone else making love; she had never even considered how it might look, for sexual intercourse was something private between her and Kevin and not to be shared. Soon she noticed heavy aroused breathing in the nearby booths and white patches of naked quivering flesh began to appear suddenly all over the room. Some people went to the showers and came back into the room totally naked. From where she sat she could see clearly three couples actually fucking, their lewdly pumping bodies flailing about as loud groans of passion sliced into the room's silence. Horrified as she was, the naive young wife was afraid to move! And she became, despite herself, involuntarily stimulated by watching the impassioned screwing on the screen and the even more impassioned fucking in reality nearby - which she could hear ever more distinctly. By the time Hank Masters made gentle advances toward her she was so desperately altered by the liquor and her hungering need which the long, long absence of Kevin had left unsatisfied - turning the love-starved wife into a powder-keg of frustrations - that Hank found a fairly easy conquest.
Hank Masters fucked the shamelessly aroused girl, from several different exotic positions - most new to her - and at the end Rosemary had such an overpowering orgasm that she screamed uncontrollably and almost passed out as her naked young body convulsed beneath this stranger.
It was only after she had groaned and fitfully twitched out the last receding tremors of her adulterous passion that she saw Vance - fully clothed - standing several feet away operating a movie camera. The movie camera which sealed her doom.
He had made a film of it!
Even now, sitting in her parked car watching the waves pound and shatter below, the thought of that film gave Rosemary chills. That was how she got into the orgiastic circle, all right: by one large but forgivable slip in her will power, which Vance had filmed and kept as an unspoken but crystal-clear threat of blackmail. That prospect of blackmail, hanging above Rosemary's head like the sword of Damascus, had served - served very well - to keep her in the group, to pull the friendless and trapped young woman ever deeper into the circle. By now, almost a year after that first fatal party, Vance owned many films of Rosemary engaged in various acts of sexual degradation. Which - she shuddered - she had licentiously enjoyed! What a whore she must be! Vance had never spoken a word of using the revealing films for blackmail, nor had he ever showed any of them to Rosemary; yet Rosemary and the other club members knew very well about the threatening film collection Vance had, of all the members, and about the guarantee they provided that the members would abide by the club's rules.
Rosemary, by now, knew the rules well - no brutality; no activities which would leave marks, for discovery by a husband or relative could bring the police; no mention of the circle to anyone; no absence from circle meetings except due to real illness or, in the case of women, menstrual periods - and Vance actually kept a chart of these and knew when to expect them; and there were certain rules about skipping a session, or leaving the circle entirely, which Rosemary knew well and which indeed it was her desperate intent now to get Vance to alter for her.
Definite as the rules were, they were all subject to alteration or softening by Vance. Vance was in effect - since he had all the lewdly incriminating films - the club's dictator.
The pretty brunette left the car and - keeping distant from the cliff - walked purposefully to his door, ringing until a servant appeared.
"Is Vance here?"
"Yes, Miss, he's in his study. Would you like to go in?"
"Thank you," said Rosemary, and she headed directly for the study. The servant, seeing that she knew her way, left her.
"Ah, Rosemary!"
Vance swirled in his chair, rose with extended hand, and seemed genuinely pleased to see her. "You bring an old man pleasure! I must say, I'm tired of this dreadful stuff." He pointed with a sweep of his hand to the papers strewn over his desk. "I'm thinking about giving it up. Thinking of retiring, so to speak. Just clip the coupons."
As usual he succeeded in disarming her. If only he looked and acted like the bastard he was, her job would be so much easier!
"Vance," she said, "I've just gotten a telegram."
Vance sat again in his chair, leaning back to listen.
"Kevin is coming home."
Vance sat silently, his eyes averted now to stare out at the sky and ocean. That was sympathy Rosemary saw in those little creases around his eyes now - Rosemary knew it! Perhaps she really could get what she wanted from him.
"Vance," she hurried on, "I want to leave the circle. Because Kevin is coming home." She paused. "If he found out, that would be the end of my life."
"I understand," Vance said, still staring reflectively out the windows, "I understand." He glanced at Rosemary for a second, taking in for the first time the length, age, and the purposefully planned ugliness of her dowdy dress - and a faint smile seemed to cross his lips.
"But Rosemary," he continued, reaching into a drawer at his side and pulling out a piece of paper, "there's this." He pushed the paper toward Rosemary.
It was a schedule.
And on it Rosemary was already slated for more depraved activities for the next two months, including the big weekend-long orgy down in Vance's summer house in Monterey which would take place in two months.
"We all know the rules," Vance said. "Any session you don't want to come to, you have to find a substitute for. An acceptable substitute - we don't want just anyone in here, of course. In fact, Rosemary, I really wonder that you've never had a substitute come to a meeting for you - most other members do it regularly. Heavens - even I do it!"
"I don't know anyone like that, anyone who would ..."
The circles around Vance's eyes tightened, and Rosemary knew she'd said it wrong. "I don't know a substitute," she corrected.
"Well then, Rosemary," Vance said softly, "I don't see how you expect to get out of the circle. You know the rules for quitting - bring two new girls into the circle to replace you. And if you don't know one substitute, however do you expect to find two?"
Rosemary sank into a chair near Vance, her head spinning. Of course she didn't know any substitutes - not one, certainly not two! Never in her life had she known anyone who did things like that; never; she herself had never done things like that.. . before getting trapped in the awful sex-circle! She knew the others had substitutes, she'd seen them at the various orgies and she had, god help her, once been had by a couple. But the others in the circle seemed to have it easier than Rosemary, in all ways. Who could she get to replace her? No one. No one but her could fill her place. But she had to get out! Christ!
Vance sensed her confusion. "Rosemary," he began, sliding his chair closer to her. "You know I can grant some special favors. I mean, I shouldn't - there's some danger." He touched his hands together by the fingertips. "There are several others who keep rather a close eye on what I do, who would like to divert the whole circle from me to them in one fell swoop, as it were, if I should turn out to be doing them wrong. Did you know that?"
Rosemary shook her head no. Once again Vance, in his soft, reassuring way, had calmed her and completely diverted her attention to his own problems.
"It's not quite the dictatorship it might appear. Any group, any undertaking, has always got several people waiting nearby, like hungry buzzards, to swoop in if the leader should show signs of weakness. But. .. we're getting sidetracked. That's not your problem, but mine ..." He raised himself from his chair to stand closer to Rosemary - but he still did not touch her.
"Rosemary, I like you. I'll help you - I'll take the risk. I'll either have to find the subs myself, or somehow snow the other irritated members. . . but I'll do it. If... if..." He allowed his hand to drop affectionately onto her shoulder, to even slide somewhat from her smoothly sloping shoulder downward to the beginning swell of one round, firmly set breast.
From Vance, that was a shock!
He had never taken part in any of the group's wildest sex activities - never - except to watch or make films, himself fully dressed. And he'd never touched the almost irresistibly sensuous Rosemary except in the dating days when he'd helped her in and out of cars and rooms. Now, hungrily, almost pathetically, he had allowed one hand to slip down almost to the faintly visible nipple of her curving breast. And though Vance had personally seen her voluptuous and naked body being fucked, this present sly action, from him, was somehow even more obscene. She felt like a whore. A whore! Vance's hand, shy as a schoolboy's, had now established tentative contact with her involuntarily erecting nipple beneath the coarse material of her dress.
"I'll let you out, Rosemary," Vance said, recovering himself, if you'll... do me a favor. A personal favor."
Rosemary shuddered, beginning to get the drift.
Vance added: "And if you do that little favor, I will, I promise, return the films to you. Every one." He went nostalgically on: "Even though several are personal favorites of mine."
Rosemary's flesh cringed at that last. The bastard! What did that queer do with the films, show them for himself in his spare time? Masturbating all the while, perhaps? People told obscene stories like that about Vance, though they were only idle rumors - no one knew for sure what he actually did. But - from what he just said about the lewdly implicating films of pretty Rosemary - she wondered if there might be some truth to them!
"What do you say, Rosemary?"
"What CAN I say?"
Vance spun away from her and stood before a window. After a minute's silence, he said: "I don't want it to be like that. I'm not a beast, Rosemary. I like you - it's really as simple as that. Don't be bitter, Rosemary. Would it at least be possible to have sex as a favor - if not enjoy it?"
"If I may ask - how do you want it, Vance?" She shuddered.
"Quite normally. You on the bottom, on your back, me on top. We can go in a bedroom if you would like to be comfortable."
Rosemary gritted her teeth. She had to summon every ounce of courage for this task, for somehow being touched by Vance of all people, and in so cold and calculated a fashion as this, was more humiliating and obscene than anything she'd ever done. Yet she had to do it - if only for her dear husband Kevin. She had to lay on her back and let this disgusting man do it to her, and she could only hope that that was all. She was clenching her teeth so hard they began to give her pain, and finally she stopped, resigned, her tanned face glowing pinkly with anger. There was no alternative: she had to submit.
"We don't need to go to the bedroom," Rosemary said. "We can do it here. Wherever you want." Anything to just get it over with. Obscene it would be, no matter what. Just get it done.
"The rug there is thick," Vance said, motioning with his hand. "Perhaps that will be adequate ..."
"It will be adequate." She paused. "Shall I. . . undress now?"
"Please. But let me get my camera."
"Vance! You bastard! Don't take more pictures of me! What do you mean, you're letting me out, if you're going to make still more pictures?"
Vance walked next to Rosemary and put his arm around her, not seeming to notice that she cringed. He said softly - though his voice trembled with lascivious desire - "Rosemary, as a special favor for me, please let me make some pictures of your beautiful body. To remember you by. I like you, you know. You'll get all of the movies back, but I would like now to just make a couple of still photographs of you which do not include the head. Nothing to worry about. I'll use my polaroid, and you can see for yourself that they don't include the head."
Rosemary, tears running down her cheeks, unzipped the back of the long, ugly dress and let it fall to the floor. Underneath she had forgotten to dress ugly - she hadn't expected anyone to be seeing underneath! She had on, as was her habit, white bikini panties and a white half-brassiere which fringed into lace just where the still faintly apparent nipples were. Vance took one picture of Rosemary in her underwear, and Rosemary jerked - startled - at the camera's click. Then she stepped slowly and trembling out of her sheer nylon panties as Vance kneeled down across from her.
"Spread your legs a little," he ordered.
The nerve of the man! She had never before blatantly posed for pictures. He had made the films of her, but he had never given directions, he had shot them spontaneously and usually she hadn't even noticed him hovering nearby with the camera. But this - this business of posing, of him telling her just exactly what to do with her helplessly exposed body - it really shamed her! Yet what else could she do, what else could she do but obey?
Reluctantly, she spread her thighs slightly.
"Wider!" Vance shouted. "Don't be such a prude."
Rosemary slowly separated her feet outward, as Vance zoomed in and shot a picture of her exposed pussy mound, with its thin "vee" of intensely black hair running down between her provocatively parted legs, revealing the contour of her pink cuntal slit where the sparse hair thinned out and the deep blushing color of her vaginal lips showed through. Rosemary was built, all right. And as with any woman, she had a slight streak of the exhibitionist in her, and under the right conditions she did like to have her enticing young body observed. But not now, not in this cold, obscene way by this creepy Vance!
After taking the picture of her spread vagina, Vance developed it and then showed it, along with the former picture of Rosemary in her skimpy white underwear, to the relieved girl, so that she could verify that it did not show her face and could not be used for blackmail. She laughed inwardly at the one of her in her suggestively skimpy underwear - it was like something from a pin-up magazine. But when she saw the second, the one shot upward from between her brazenly separated legs, she did not laugh - by the geometry of things she had never seen her own naked pink vagina from below. She'd never seen any of the films Vance had made. This picture was so obscene, so disgusting to her because it was all black pubic hair and rose-blushing cunt, with very little figure around it. Is that the way Vance wanted to remember her individuality? "And now from the back," Vance commanded.
Damn the man! Damn him! And to think she had sometimes begun to consider him her friend! Why couldn't he do the moving, why did it have to be her as though she were some trapped butterfly being mounted on a pin for scientific study? She turned around until her smooth sloping back was facing the camera and, sighing, spread her slender legs again as she had done before, planting her feet invitingly outward to a revealing distance of four or more feet apart. Was that good enough? she wondered, blushing furiously from shame.
"Bend forward!" Vance ordered, answering her thought.
Rosemary leaned slightly forward, the position a strain for her stretching body until the camera finally clicked. Soon Vance brought the picture to her - a pair of large firm buttocks in the center of the picture, a glimpse of wispy black hair beginning near the bottom of the deep narrow crevice between them and dropping to expand into the fuller curls of her pussy mound which was presented in a flat pink plane, with the entire softly glistening length of both her outer and inner vaginal lips visible.
"Now spread the cheeks, please," Vance said.
She took the curving mounds of her naked buttocks in her hands and pulled them widely apart, feeling the cool air rush into her provocatively exposed genitals.
Vance clicked, waited, pulled the picture out and waved it excitedly before her. God! God almighty! She was providing grist for a pornography shop! There was a woman - could it be her? - with an ass-cheek clamped in each hand and pulled so far apart that the brownish pink crevice between her fleshy buttocks was a strained, taut expanse of tender skin, and there was the hairless little ring of an anus - so opened from the stretching that she could see into it for half an inch - and her soft, full-lipped cunt protruding so far and spreading so wide that it seemed to be turned inside-out with several moistly gleaming inches of the pink vaginal walls visible. That was her! That exposure of womanly vagina in sufficient detail for a medical text was her! And, worst of all, she could see in the picture what she could now begin to feel so excitedly between her legs: her cunt was slick and wet.
Her shamed blushing increased still more at her terrible awareness that she - despite herself - was getting some lascivious pleasure out of this photographic abuse. The warm moisture beginning to trickle so glisteningly between her legs gave her away.
And Vance would be sure to take notice of it. "Now from a chair," Vance commanded.
Rosemary sat on the arm of a chair, her legs dangling, feeling the air stimulatingly graze her moistened pussy.
"Now on all fours."
Rosemary obeyed, and the camera clicked.
"Good. Now stay like that, but spread the lips with your fingers." And Rosemary brought one hand up between her legs, obediently stretching the hair-lined outer lips with two fingers. Again the camera clicked. Vance brought her a picture the center of which was consumed by a wide sparse curl-fringed crescent of rosy vaginal pink.
"Now the last, up on my desk. That's right, on your back. Knees up. Legs wide, wide apart. Separate the lips nicely with your fingers. Good. Now stroke the clitoris so it gets nice and big. Come on, more! Good, good, very good, Now - see that letter opener next to you, the one with the wooden handle; Big, isn't it? That nice carved, Victorian wooden handle has - shall we say - been places most letter openers haven't been. You'll find a little knob at the side to disconnect the blade; do so, put the blade away, I don't want you to hurt yourself. Right, blade away. Now . .. stick it in."
She hated this, all of it, the pictures that came out were too obscene, and Vance's lustfully building gaze and intentions were too demanding and possessive. She knew that he could, just by looking at her, realize how wantonly excited she was getting despite herself. And he could see her shame, too, he could see her violently flushing face though he kept it out of the horrible pictures. She grasped the long wooden handle in one hand and, using the fingers of the other, guided it slowly and reluctantly toward the fluted flowering opening of her vagina. The ornately carved shaft just touched the black hair-fringed, swollen lips. It was so cold! And hard, and unlubricated. She did not want anything like that inside of her.
"Come on now, be a good girl!" Vance said.
She teased the hair-lined lips of her reluctantly receiving cunt with the wooden shaft, getting used to its coldness, and then gritted her teeth tightly and pressed: the shaft slid just inside her wetly throbbing pussy. Rosemary started, groaning slightly. It didn't hurt her, it was just so hard and cold and such a strange feeling to find up her warmly moistened cunt. She pressed harder and the tiny elastic ring of her stretching vaginal opening admitted another one . . . two .. . three inches. She took her hand away from the handle and let it remain where it was clasped only by the resilient muscles of her tight little cunt. Her heart was beating so fast that the handle, sticking up in the air, quivered lewdly with each beat of her racing pulse.
"Now, Rosemary, slide it in and out until it gets wet. Until you get good and wet. For I want that too to show on the photograph."
Rosemary sunk the smooth, wooden shaft in another two inches, and then pulled it out, feeling the hard, foreign object ripple her tightly clinging vaginal flesh in little waves as it tugged with some difficulty outward. Then she pushed it in again to six inches and felt wild tingling sensations as the same tiny waves of flesh rippled up and down the whole length of her rapidly adjusting vagina. She began to pump impatiently faster, becoming excited, despite herself - and despite the obscene man standing three feet away with his camera poised. As she pumped, the sensations of fucking came to her, though this shaft was narrower and wood-hard, with little protrusions and indentations from the carving which grazed the walls of her cunt and caused a slight, bearable overtone of pain to mingle almost enjoyably with the pleasure. The secretions now gushing from her excited cunt smoothed the whole process, making a slight slurping sound as the handle slid in and out. She pumped still faster, forgetting herself, forgetting the purpose of this and swallowing even her shame, gyrating her full, firm-fleshed buttocks down against the desk in lewd little circles and clenching her tight cuntal muscle to speed the swiftly building approach of a climax.
"Now stop!" Vance ordered.
Rosemary, deeply panting, stopped only by an act of considerable will power. While Vance moved in still closer and the camera clicked. In a moment he held a picture before her nose of a headless woman laying naked on a desk with a strange carved wooden stick pruriently half-sunk into the wet hole between her wide splayed legs, the remainder of the stick a shiny glistening wet from the woman's aroused secretions. Even the surface of the mahogany desk between her legs was darkened with wetness.
"We've made enough photographs," Vance said softly. "Thank you, Rosemary. I shall always treasure these."
The unwillingly aroused young girl lay still on the desk in a haze of confusion and shame, the handle still obscenely embedded in her besieged vagina. Her near-climaxing vaginal muscles clenching and unclenching every few seconds. She'd been so close to a climax; she still breathed heavily and irregularly, and sweat formed all over her naked sun-bronzed body in little beads.
Across the room, Vance removed his clothes.