Carmel has one of the loveliest beaches in the world. Its sand manages to stay a virgin white and the beach front runs for two curving miles from the Pebble Beach golf course to what residents call "The Frank Lloyd Wright House" which is an imposing home built on the rocks, right above the ocean, by that famous architect.
The beach, in all its vastness, seems to absorb people as a sponge does water. It would take a large assembly to seem crowded. It looks crowded really only twice a year: on the Fourth of July, and during the Great Sandcastle Building Contest. On other days, people sunbathe, children play, surfers surf, brave ones swim, people ride horseback, and dogs race – tongue lolling, barking, after the seagulls. An occasional Sea Lion swims along just beyond the surf, old men fish, joggers jog and others simply stroll. All this happens and the beach doesn't seem crowded. Each person has a feeling of privacy.
People use the beach from morning until night when flickering orange bonfires warm groups of picnickers. At sundown, people are invariably seen walking or parked along Scenic Drive or simply sitting on benches along the road or seen standing, alone and quiet. Sunset in Carmel is a quiet time and people talk in hushed voices and lovers stroll hand in hand. Sunsets in Carmel are always dramatic and always different and always something seen on a postcard and cannot believe because they're too pretty, too colorful and too dramatic.
It certainly isn't thought unusual to see people with binoculars on the beach or sitting in parked cars along Scenic Drive. There are all sorts of wildlife to observe: gulls, terns, pelicans, seals, sea lions, sea otters, and, in season, the California Gray Whale in migratory herds. At times, the Killer Whales are seen, their dorsal fins cleaving the water of the bay in search of prey.
There was nothing unusual in the Mercedes-Benz that parked along Scenic day after day. Nor was there anything odd in the occupants – a man and a woman – watching the beach through powerful binoculars. They were attractive and well dressed and looked as if they belonged to the Carmel scene. The girl was young and extremely attractive with a dress that was just a little too colorful and low cut. Her cleavage showed, disappearing down into a soft shimmering shadow of warm flesh. Her black hair was long and swept across her forehead, and her smile was a dazzling white. Her nose was provocatively tilted on the end. The man, the driver, was older and his face was thin and spartan, aristocratic, and his black hair was sprinkled and streaked with gray. He wore gray. He was dressed in gray slacks, gray shirt, and gray cashmere sweater.
They were watching a solitary stroller who walked by herself down by the water's edge. They had been watching her for days. She walked the beach twice a day: in the early morning and at sunset. She walked to and from the beach to her house, a cottage, that was three short, tree-lined blocks to the ocean.
She drove into town once a day, going to the post office to mail letters and pick mail up. She shopped in the mouth of the Carmel Valley at the Safeway and Long's discount drug store. She only shopped once a week. She stayed home every night, watching television then retiring early. Only once since they had been watching her, had she gone out in the evening, going to an early movie alone.
The occupants of the car were Web Hardman and Nichole Parker. The person they were watching was Kim. Web focused his binoculars on her as she walked the beach, and he slowly brought her voluptuous young figure into a shimmering detail. He inspected details of her sensual, finely shaped body with a scientist's detachment and passion for detail. She wore little makeup. Her nose was so perfect, so delicate, that he was sure it had been bobbed. Yet, as he inspected it through the glasses, he knew it wasn't. There was a purple bruise mark on her neck that was almost concealed by a silk scarf; the bruise interested him. Her attitude interested him. Generally, her face was preoccupied, serious, and, at times, little sad. She was very definitely alone. A glint and flash of light on the fingers of her left hand told him she was married.
Her body was a pleasure for him to watch as she walked along in the loose sand. She always wore tight slacks that allowed him to see and imagine her long, firmly shaped thighs and tapered legs, her sensually petulant buttocks that twitched and ground with every step. And her breasts – always under sweaters or heavy sweat shirts that were too big for her (undoubtedly her husband's) – shook free, bouncing with a sprightly rhythm when she sometimes ran to avoid the last flat surge of a wave. Her body was strong, and the wind blew her flame red hair wild and ruffled around her face, giving her regal queen-like features a certain Irish bawdiness in appearance.
Web slowly lowered the glasses and stared off, seeing Kim nothing more than a distant silhouette on the beach. He didn't want to show too much pleasure in Nichole's choice. It was a policy with him never to flatter her too much. Always let her be a little hungry. Yet, he was pleased with her choice. He was more than pleased! For the first time in a long while, he was sexually excited… He was aroused. Kim Stewart was a magnificent specimen and provided an interesting challenge. He looked at Nichole, smiling slightly. Since he had forced her to admit she would betray a friend, would betray them sexually, and then help him in the seduction, even Nichole had taken on a new sexual interest. It was mild, but an arousement nonetheless. He had become even more interested after he heard the name, Kim Stewart. He had her investigated by his bodyguard who was trained and very adept about such things. Be came back with a report on her. Married, living in a cottage in Carmel, her husband was an engineer and was away for six months in South America. Kim Stewart was alone, seldom went out other than for routines of living, and didn't see anyone. Her husband's parents, the Stewarts, lived in Pebble Beach. Apparently Kim had no communication or visits with them. A snapshot, taken by the bodyguard, showing Kim walking near the post office in tight white slacks, sneakers, and a loose red wool sweater, was enough to interest him more.
He watched her for days, his careful intelligence not missing a detail. Finally, he turned to Nichole. "I think she'll do."
Nichole broke into a dazzling smile of relief. She laughed and relaxed, leaning back, jutting out her young breasts provocatively and swinging them back and forth. Since he knew her for what she was, Nichole could afford a lewd grin, a look of utter depravity, to come over her face. She licked her lips, looking at Kim through the glasses once more. It was going to be fun to trick the trusting young wife, to lead her into depravity, to orgies, to wild moments when she would go a little insane and behave in a lewd and lascivious way. It would be wildly interesting and sexually exciting to see Kim come under the influence of Web, to see him break her to his will, to see her perform the way she did, to see her eager for a sexual perversion. If Kim could be led to act that way, it would make her feel better. Besides, it would please Web.
"I think she's definitely unhappy. Over what, I'm not so sure," the gray dressed man said to Nichole. "At first, I thought it was because her husband had left her. I thought she missed him."
"That's possible. She hasn't been married very long."
Web wagged a finger. "There's something more. I'm only guessing, but she had a bruise mark on her neck, a bruise that she was at pains to conceal. I saw it through the glasses when the wind blew it. Why would you conceal a bruise."
Nichole again gave a lewd grin, "When I was afraid they'd be too revealing."
"Exactly. Her husband goes away and she's concealing a bruise. Perhaps several bruises. And she's sad. Why? Because she misses her husband? Or does she miss being bruised?"
Nichole arched a cool eyebrow. "If she does, she'll be easy to bring around."
"No," Web said, shaking his head, "if she just missed the bruises, that would tell us a lot about her right away." His face bent into a superior smile. "What would you do if your husband was far away for six months, and you liked having him bruise you, you liked being bruised, pushed around?"
Nichole was unashamed, brazen. "I'd go out and find me someone."
"Exactly. A woman who enjoys being manhandled, who likes it rough, is a fairly free and sensual person. No, this Kim Stewart stays by herself and looks sad."
"Meaning what?" Nichole couldn't follow his thought.
"Meaning, her husband got a lithe physical with her and she didn't like it. Klaus, good bodyguard and informant that he is, told me they were drinking at The Red Lion and El Matador the night before he left. From all that Klaus could find out, her husband Henry had quite a bit to drink."
Nichole felt a familiar shudder and masochistic thrill go through her body at the mention of the bodyguard's name. Klaus was strong and hung like a bull, and he ready knew how to fuck, and she had done a lot of things with Klaus, things she had watched on film afterwards. Klaus, and Ernie, the chauffeur, were sometimes teamed with her when Web wanted to watch or wanted to entertain his guests. She tried not to think of Klaus and concentrated on Kim. She frowned. "If that's true, if he got rough and she didn't like it, she's going to be tough. Maybe it won't be possible." She bit her lower lip and looked beseechingly at Web.
Web allowed himself a weary look of polite disgust. He sighed. The trouble with Nichole was – she had no real imagination, no real understanding of carnality. She loved it, wallowed in it, but didn't ready understand it. She had no genius for it. Left to her own devices, she would never land Kim. He saw he was going to have to supervise Nichole's every move, carefully school her on what to say. "You leap to the obvious fact and your practical, greedy, earthbound imagination is content to rest there. A bruise, a beating, a husband leaving. She did not like being beat up, right?"
"Right."
"Wrong. That is the most obvious thing. And it's stupid, for it completely rules out what I tell you exists in every woman. Supposing she is troubled because she did like it?"
Nichole tilted her head, suddenly seeing what he was hinting at. "Possible."
"Not only possible, it's probable. Supposing she enjoyed it more than she ever suspected? Supposing, for the first time in her life, she was sexually excited?" He leaned close to her, smiling. "Remember how guilty you felt at first?"
Nichole's nostrils flared with a quick passion at his nearness. It was true. Still, at times, she felt guilty.
Web started the car up and they pulled away. "We're gong home and make plans. We're going to make them carefully, from your first reunion with her up until the time she stands in front of me."
Nichole felt a surge of lewd passion at the idea; there definitely was something wonderfully obscene, sexual, and horny in plotting the humiliation of Kim Stewart. She squirmed her fishy young buttocks against the leather seat. "Tell me what you'll do to her," she said in a breathy voice.
Web chuckled. "I'll do better than that. I'll practice them on you."
Nichole sat with her eyes almost closed, her lips red and pouting and trembled, the nostrils of her pert nose wickedly flaring in unconcealed excitement. She felt her suddenly tingling nipples growing taut, and she crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs tight. Her sensual little body trembled in fine spasms and lewd excitement as she felt her wetly trembling cunt swell and become moist with a hot itching that was sweetly maddening. She needed relief from that itching. She needed to feel on fire and be naked and lewd. She needed to be fucked! She needed her body fucked and defiled. She wanted to be fucked again and again, not just once. She wanted to be fucked by more than one man at the same time. She wanted to be naked in front of Web and have him tell her all the horribly exciting, wicked things that he was going to do to her friend, Kim. She wanted him to practice sex on her.
She said nothing for the rest of the drive through Carmel and through the Pebble Beach gate all the way to the house. She sat trying to calm her breathing and the flaming animal passion that coursed through her body. Web would call her and she would be ready. She gritted her teeth. He knew how to turn her on, he knew how to excite her. Just a few words and he had her feeling hopelessly aroused and ready to fuck anyone or anything. He had her trained, and she clenched her fists and hoped – she couldn't pray – that he would use her… use her body… until she was a screaming, wildly writhing naked mass of wantonness…
Web Hardman didn't know how right he was. It was his genius to detect traces of sexuality or lewdness in a person's make up. Once, in a rare mood, he had bragged that he could talk to a person ten minutes, merely passing the time of day or making polite cocktail chatter, and be able to tell if that person was sensual or not. He prided himself on his knowledge of human nature and his powers of observation. He knew, after watching Kim for a few days, from watching her walk, toss her head, from the way she looked out to sea, the way she held her shoulders and contained her hips, he knew that she was deeply sensual… and ashamed of it!
But he had guessed right about Hank Stewart's wife. She had been brutalized and had, after it was all over, after Hank was long asleep, learned just how much she enjoyed his rough treatment. She had played with her breasts, hurting them, stinging and tingling her nipples and then getting up from the bed, fleeing in a guilty way to the closet where she put on a heavy terry-cloth robe and ran to the bathroom.
In the bathroom, the door shut, she felt safe. She listened at the door and heard Hank's heavy snore occasionally. She was safe, she had time. Her breath coming quickly, her eyes aglow, glinting and reflecting an inner excitement, she turned to the bathroom mirror and pulled the robe back over her shoulders, letting it fall to where it was tied loosely around her waist. She stood, naked to the waist and examined her firm young breasts in the mirror and under the antiseptic bathroom light.
She saw vivid red scratches on her tender flesh and her seeping blood somehow excited her. There were light pink scratches and darkening bruises on her shoulders, neck, and inner arms. Her lips, always full on her wide generous mouth, were a little puffed, and they hurt.
Yet the hurt – all the little hurts – excited her in some alien unexplained way. Guiltily, she wondered if there was anything wrong with her, wondering if she was "abnormal" in some way for liking it, being excited by it. If only…
She waved a hand in front of her face and refused to finish the thought as her flesh turned to goose-flesh at half the thought.
She stared at her large, softly upthrust breasts in the mirror, cupping one and lifting it, then letting it drop quiveringly free. Her finger and thumb pinched her nipple again, and she watched herself doing it and saw her nipple gather and swell to life and become pointed and taut. Her mouth open slightly, her breath coming lighter and faster, she watched in the mirror as she put both hands on her nipples and pinched. Her eyes were half-closed, a look of indulgent lewdness came over her face as she gently dug her nails into her tender, pinkly pale flesh. Her little nipples grew very taut and even more sensitive; she closed her eyes and shuddered, taking a deep breath. It did feel good, in a strange new way. It felt good! She had never thought about it before nor had anyone ever treated her as roughly as that.
Again the thought came to her. This time she could not resist thinking it out: if only Hank had been rough and loving at the same time. If only he hadn't been drunk, if only he had been sober and treating her rough in a cold calculating way, as part of love-making?
The thought of Hank treating thus as a policy made her body shake in wanton excitement. She trembled from head to foot and felt an arousal, a sex desire and thrill like she never imagined existed. Her hands shaking visibly, she undid the belt of the robe and it fell silently around her feet. Her eyes half-closed, her eyesight suddenly fuzzed and her brain reeling, the young wife looked at the rest of her naked body. Her magnificent thighs were bruised and welted. Her groin was flushed pink. She turned slowly, twisting her head to see her proudly fleshed twin buttocks. A dark, deep shudder tremored its way up her spine when she saw marks where his nails had been imbedded in her softly yielding flesh.
It was a stolen, secret, guilty, sexual moment when she nakedly stood in front of the mirror and brazenly looked at her body, turning this way and that, touching herself here and there. She grinned, thinking this is what a prostitute does after she has had a rough customer. A further thrill ran through her as she imagined herself a whore, a prostitute, standing in front of her fellow whores and showing them her battered body. They would look and know what she had been through.
She stood still, gazing off. Every woman, at one time or another in her life, has tried to imagine, to fantasize what it would be like to be a whore, a common prostitute working in a whorehouse. Although few will admit it, every woman is secretly excited by the idea. Kim found herself being aroused by the idea, adding, building on her excitement at the thought of Hank handling her rough as a matter of course.
Her fingers went up to her erect little nipples again, and she fondled them and tweaked them, pinching as hard as she dared and feeling the stinging pain shoot through her body and turn into a hot smoky pleasure. Her wetly trembling vagina was hot and beginning to itch with a fierceness that wouldn't be denied. She squeezed her firm young thighs together, compressing her lust-swollen pussy lips and feeling an intense delight and momentary relief.
Brazenly, Kim stood up close to the mirror, admiring her body with a guilty glee. It was sexual, very sexual. It was a full-blown body and, imagining herself as a whore, she imagined that she had the best body of any girl in the brothel. She was the star attraction, and men waited for her to be free. The thought sent shivers up and down her spine and she stood straight, shoulders back, her hot nipples touching the cold glass of the mirror. Her breath was coming rapidly, leaving a little spot fogged on the mirror. With the flat of her hands, she felt her rib cage and let her hands wander down over her tautly flat stomach and feel the bruises and see the four wavering, parallel fingernail scratch marks that started at her pubic hair and went up to her navel.
Her hands were in her pubic hair now, a place she never touched herself. One palm cupped her round, prominent mound of Venus, and her fingertips found the delicate valley where her budding clitoris slept. One outstretched finger barely touched the clitoris, yet it was enough to send lewd pleasure rippling through her naked young body and make her clitoris swell until it was a little pink bud that was oiled with her excitement and maddeningly like a ball bearing as her finger probed for it and rubbed it, sending ever increasing waves of lascivious pleasure through her body.
Kim stopped and licked her lips nervously. Although she had heard about masturbation and knew girls who had done it, she had never allowed herself to touch herself down there. It was wrong, it wasn't normal! Now, feeling her sensually aroused body so feverish, feeling so much had happened to her, Kim knew that just once she was going to be wicked. As long as Hank had behaved as shamelessly as he had, then she had the right to behave as she wished. Checking the door to make sure it was locked, the naked young redhead dragged a stool over to the mirror and stood in front of it again, taking in her long, lithely lovely body which was crowned by her glory – her two full, melon-like breasts.
She put one foot up on the stool, the knee bent and exposing her nakedly glistening pink little pussy. Her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings as she put her hands on her cunt and gently, slowly and lewdly, spread her fluted cuntal lips to expose the entire blushing slit. She looked in the mirror and saw her wetly pulsating cunt and its tiny, distended clitoris. Without volition, her fingers began working at the sensitive little nerve bud, sending spasms of lewd pleasure rippling through her body.
The young wife's eyes were almost closed and her nostrils were widely flared as she watched herself in the mirror. She tried to imagine how it would be and how she would feel doing a wicked thing like this in front of Hank, exciting and pleasing him. She would love doing it! She crouched a little and slowly sank her middle finger into her wetly clasping cunt, feeling the slipperiness of the lubrication and the hot velvet walls milking her own finger. She contracted her vaginal muscles, squeezing on the finger as she shoved it in deeper. It felt so good! It felt so very, very good! She began sawing in and out, her ripe young hips slowly and rhythmically beginning to pump in time to her strokes. She watched herself in the mirror, fascinated with the lewdness of her pumping motion. She felt hot and feverish all over with a wild molten feeling beginning to stir deep in her groin.
Her orgasm was building as she increased the tempo of her fingering in and out of her hotly pulsing cunt, pulling it out to the tip of the nail then plunging it wetly glistening back in again up to the palm. Her hips were pumping easily, smoothly, with a lewd fucking motion she had once seen from a topless dancer in San Francisco that Hank had insisted on seeing. He had dragged her along, and Kim had been embarrassed – aside from the dancer, she was the only woman in the place and all the men were looking at her covered body… not the naked dancer's.
Now, she wished she had watched that girl more closely. She would like to dance lewdly for Hank. Her mind reeled again with the hot lascivious thoughts she was having. She wished to dance, nakedly sensuous and wicked… not only for Hank, but for a lot of people.
Her brazenness fused in her and made her further increase her rhythm and pace of her finger fucking into her own heatedly excited pussy. She crouched a little and spread her legs even more. Suddenly, her free hand was cupping her breast and squeezing the nipple, pinching it tight and sending bolts of pained sensuality through her that mingled like an explosive smoky substance in her groin, boiling, building and churning as it drove her harder and harder.
She was going to cum! And the wantonly aroused girl felt her cum was going to be sweet and searing, like nothing she had ever felt before. Her nakedly voluptuous body was tense now and her heavy breasts were jiggling as she sawed her finger in and out faster and faster. Suddenly she needed even more. Her free hand left her breasts and flew down, nails savagely clawing at one cheek of her ass as she leaned forward and reached for her anus. She jumped when her outstretched fingers touched it, feeling it sore from Hank's wild probings. Yet an urgency, an unrelenting need and lewd promise of untold delights made her go on.
Her finger pressed against the rubbery tight ring and parted it, and she felt her finger filling the entrance to her rectum and the forbidden feeling filled her with a lust-crazed desire she had never dreamed of before. Her sphincter muscle closed tightly around the fingertip. A low lewd moan escaped her throat as she watched herself in the mirror and felt her ripely sensitive body beginning an inward swelling that she knew would culminate in an orgasm.
Her finger fucked in and out of her anus, and she hissed in her breath and it seemed like another person who whispered, "Oooooohhhh, that's so gooooood!"
It thrilled her so much it made her think of lewd things she wanted to do with Hank. With anybody! The thought fused and exploded in her mind and she was wild with cum and wantonness, her face contorted as she nakedly crouched in front of the mirror. Sweat broke out from the effort as she sawed madly in and out of her pulpy, moistly soft cunt that was so hot and wormed her finger deeper into her tightly puckering anus. Mad obscene thoughts and ideas ran through her mind. Supposing she were a whore for just one night?
Her hips pumping, her belly moving in abandoned undulations and her loins rhythmically fucking out toward the mirror in a smooth, ball-bearing, obscene way, Kim could see her finger disappear into her wetly glistening pink cuntal flesh. Her thumb massaged the little brown nib of her clitoris, and she began panting and crouching lower, splaying out her legs even more, allowing herself greater freedom to stick her other finger up her rectum.
A lewd relaxation came over her; with a wanton will she never knew she possessed, she relaxed her tensely tightened cuntal and anal muscles as her hips pumped back and forth. She shoved her outstretched finger all the way up her anus and moaned and wiggled with delight from the feeling it gave her. She took her finger out of her cunt only to shove three fingers into the warmly milking flesh. More thaw anything, she wanted to be fucked, to be raped.
Fucked! Raped!
The words were obscene in her mind and only excited her all the more. She saw her wild face in the mirror, her nakedly crouched body with her huge, pure-white breasts savagely jiggling and quivering with her efforts as she finger fucked both cunt and rectum.
It started as a ripple, then grew into surface undulations that seemed to follow one on another and build until she felt a huge, thick, wave of sweet hot electricity was flowing through her body. She tensed, gasped for breath. Her back arched, her warmly quivering breasts jutted out and brushed against the mirror. Her groin began to convulse in fine spasms which she found impossible to control as her cum shot through her. Her legs shook and she sunk to her knees in front of the mirror, panting, her eyes showing all white.
She seemed held, transfixed, pinned in time and place as her cum wracked her body in the wildest, most beautiful way. Gradually, it subsided and she was left sitting on the floor, panting for breath.
Guiltily, she looked at herself in the mirror, at her naked young body which was still quivering and trembling occasionally with the residue of her orgasm. Shame came over her and she couldn't look at herself. Scampering to her feet, she quickly showered, turning the water on as hot as she could stand it and scrubbing until her creamy translucent skin was a bright pink and most of the welts and scratches camouflaged.
Kim was ashamed of herself. She vowed she would never do anything like that again. She wouldn't even think like that ever again. The young wife excused herself by saying such a thing could happen to her only because of all they had to drink, Hank's actions, and his going away. It was am emotional time for both of them, and she excused his behavior as well as her own.
Dressing in another demure nightie, she unlocked the door and saw her husband was still sound asleep. It was difficult getting him under the covers, and she was concerned about his head and the coming morning when he had to make a plane. She got in bed next to his snoring body and snapped the lights out.
It took a long time for her to get to sleep and, while waiting for sleep to come, she forced herself not to think about sex… or the possible joys of working in a whorehouse…