The flies were the worst of the many indignities. Even the odors of decayed fish from the nearby wharves, and the sharp, acrid smell of male urine from the pissoir outside her window, h, had become part of the accepted background. She was aware that her own body had begun to add to the aroma. Next to the flies, she hated more than all the rest to feel the acute needs of her unwashed body.
She tried to shift her position, but the bonds which kept her spread-eagled on the soiled bed linen were not loose enough to permit much movement. She looked down through the valley of her proud young breasts, over the creamy flat tummy and the blonde curls of her womanly forest, to the iron rails at the foot of the bed. The ropes which secured her ankles were tied to the two corner posts.
The shifting movement had caused a little chafing, but her ankles didn't bother her as much as her wrists. She couldn't see them but she could imagine the red rawness of the skin from the burning sensations. Yet, this misery paled by comparison with the flies.
The insects, which had awakened her by crawling over the damp stickiness of her exposed vulva had flown away as she moved. She knew she would have to move repeatedly to keep them away. She tried to scream past the gag in her mouth, but the only sound it inside was in her own head, where the pressure was so great, that she gave up.
If only the La Jolla crowd could see her now! Darla Fleming, princess of the tennis courts, pacesetter of the flashy younger set, untouchable virgin with a reputation for semi-frigidity! If she had only given herself to Jeff, or Alan! She choked back a sob, knowing from bitter experience how much more miserable she'd be if she let herself start crying with that gag in her mouth.
Some flies had returned to feast in the forest of her sticky golden curls. She rolled her hips, and the movement made all but one stubborn insect buzz off. She could feel it moving across the moist outer lips, then into the slit of her sensitive inner lips. She thrust her hip upward, and it flew out and away, joining one of the groups of its fellows hovering in the air, or crawling on the many unclean surfaces in the shabby room.
The perspiration was gathering on her skin, and it added to the discomfort and to the closeness of the room, as if the June warmth and the humidity of the harbor area weren't enough.
She tried to take her thoughts off her misery, to get away from the unendurable present. Not daring to think of what might lie in the immediate future, she could only dwell on the past. And the most immediate experiences of the last two days were so luridly etched in her memory that they flashed past her all too slowly.
The sights and sounds of Marseilles were novel and intriguing to Darla Fleming. Her four years of French were just enough to add spice to the adventure. She and her mother did all the translating and interpreting for the family. Daddy Chuck's meager vocabulary, acquired in the latter part of World War II, was almost completely lost, and Tommy had chosen Spanish for his language courses. Well, little brother was anxious to do the honors when they got to Spain. He insisted that he didn't care much for the French.
At nineteen, Darla was in full flower. Her luscious body and charming personality were almost the exact replica of her mother at the same age. But her goals were different. Ann Fleming had become a bride at seventeen, marrying Charles Eldon Fleming II in 1946, the week after his separation from the army. Captain Fleming and his bride were a handsome couple, and Darla enjoyed looking at the old photographs in the numerous albums at home.
Darla wanted a few more years of freedom before committing her entire life and responsibilities to another. She had her hands full with the young males of her acquaintance, finding it difficult to convince them of her true wishes for non-involvement.
But underneath, the juices of her flowering womanhood ran swiftly and warm. She knew her susceptibility to the healthy maleness of her friends, and took great care to avoid temptations. She blushed when she thought of how she had been aroused even by her own father, on several occasions. Well, she knew better than to blame herself for that. The constant denial of her womanly desires increased her sensitivities. It was no wonder that being embraced by a proud and loving father could stir her unreasonably.
Especially a virile man like Daddy Chuck. Even now, at 42, he was more man than many of his juniors. Darla had seen numerous females make a play for the handsome industrialist. His six-one frame was in trim condition, only ten pounds heavier than he'd been in those wedding photos. And he still satisfied the constant hungers of his loyal wife.
Darla recalled all too clearly the scene she had witnessed by accident only a week before the trip started. At 1:30 in the morning, she had been unable to sleep, and decided to take a swim. The warm evening and the high walled security of the Fleming estate had lulled her normal precautions, and she simply tossed a shorty-short terry cloth robe on her naked body, and went across the patio to the pool. Bare footing over the cool concrete, she had stopped short at the sight of her parents on the huge canvas pad at the far side of the big pool. The five-foot, eight-inch length of her mother's ripe body lay in serene repose on the mat, elegant in the creamy skin which glowed under the bright moonlight.
From her shadowed vantage point, Darla watched as her equally naked father knelt at Ann's feet. His short, brown hair glinted in the moonlight, and Darla could see bright droplets of water on his muscular body. Obviously, her parents had decided on a midnight swim, believing her to be in bed. Tommy wasn't due home from college until the weekend.
Daddy Chuck's hands took the slim ankles and moved them aside and upward. He went forward, and his face pushed into the valley of Ann's lovely breasts. Darla's breath caught as she watched the kisses he bestowed on the creamy mounds. Her own full globes ached as she watched him nibbling and tonguing the peaks, and she felt her nipples distend in sympathetic passion.
A mild guilt feeling tried to move her away from the scene. It was a private thing, between a man and a woman. What's more, it was her own father and mother. But her hungry body was tingling with its own fevers, and in the self-imposed restrictions of her young life, this was the only direct sexual play she had ever encountered. It was too much for her susceptibilities. She moved quietly and stealthily along the shadowed edges of the tall shrubs which surrounded the end of the pool. She didn't stop until she was behind the bush nearest the canvas pad.
She was only a few yards from the damp bodies, and she could hear her mother's low, purring sounds, and the wet, lapping sounds of her father's tongue and lips. He had moved down, now, across the sleek belly into the blonde, feathery curls be low.
Darla knelt in the grass, her hands clutching her fevered breasts, fingering the swollen nipples frantically. She saw the creamy tanned thighs open wide, and one of the feet, with its neatly pedicured nails pointed right at Darla's hiding place.
Chuck Fleming's lips and tongue were searching tenderly among the blonde curls, and Darla knew he had found what he sought when Ann's purring sounds became a louder, continuous moan, and the full hips rose from the pad. Ann's hands reached down and grasped the brown curls of her lover's head, pulling the ministering mouth tighter to her damp, heated flesh.
He's eating her cunt! Darla thought to herself. My God! That must feel wonderful. The girl dropped one hand from its clutching, squeezing movements at her breast. It sought the blonde jungle at the juncture of her quivering thighs. Her fingers parted the wet lips, and began to massage the stiff little bud of her passion.
Oh-h! I wish it were me! To have those lips and that tongue in my cunt would drive me wild! Darla's hand was covered now with the hot liquid of her passion's lubricant. Her breath was labored, and a jellylike weakness was creeping through her thighs and loins.
"Chuck! Oh, lover, drink me! Drink me dry!" Ann's trembling voice on Darla's ears excited her even more. She saw the wiggling hips moving in spasms as the climax built. Then a shuddering jerk of the moonlit body gave Darla the knowledge that her mother had found release. At that moment, her own orgasm began, and she shook under the intensity of its effect on her body.
Darla took her weight off one knee, and moved her thighs close together. It squeezed her hand in place, nestling it tight in the sloppy, swollen lips, and maintaining a glowing feeling with its pressure on her most sensitive spot.
Chuck had changed his position, and Darla could see the rigid tool of his loving art. The three-quarter view afforded her all too clearly a complete awareness of what took place.
Ann's thighs were drawn back and even farther apart, now. The gleaming pink meat of her womanhood was vulnerably spread wide, and Darla could see the juices flowing down it. Then Chuck's body hid the pulsing love-mouth as he positioned himself over his wife.
Darla moved quietly to place herself in another position, not able to make herself leave, knowing that she had to see everything. Then she watched as the purplish pink head of the rigid lance lay lightly in the wet lips Ann's hips raised, and Chuck's hips went forward. The shaft buried itself in the depths, and the sight of its hairy luggage swinging against the wet portals below it was too much for Darla.
Again, she worked feverishly in the sloppy heat of her crotch. Now, the anxious massage seemed not enough. As she watched the slow strokes of the plunging rod, she thrust a finger of her other hand into the tightness of her own virginal passage. The pain almost made her cry out, but she retained enough awareness in the midst of her extreme passion to bite back the sound.
She gave up the attempt, afraid of betraying her presence, and contented herself with massaging her hard bud and rolling her nipples – first one, then the other – between the fingers of her other hand.
Oh-h! If just watching can do this to me, what would it toe like to have a wonderful prick like that inside me? It looked so good, I almost crawled over there and put it in my mouth! My God! What kind of a nymphomaniac am I, anyhow? Her breath was sobbing in her throat as she worked her fingers in the slippery swollen meat of her nether lips.
Then she watched her father cease his plunging, grab her mother's buttocks, and press hard against her. Ann's husky voice was pleading.
"Fuck me deep, Chuck! Ohhhhhh! Now! Squirt the goodies in me! My cunt's so hungry for you!" The coarse words from the normally refined and quiet woman seemed to excite her husband tremendously. He cried out softly, and his buttocks squeezed together.
Darla had all she could do to keep from crying out herself, as she watched his muscles spasm, knowing that he was pumping some delightfully exciting elixir into the hot, female depths. She smothered her sounds as she moaned softly to herself, feeling the huge wave of heat tear through her body. A warm extra flow of juice poured over her hand, and she fell over backward and lay, trembling in the cool grass.
It was lucky that Chuck and Ann took their time about getting up off the mat. Darla's legs were like water as she tried to get to her feet, and they barely supported her as she slipped through the shadows back to the house. By the time she reached the French windows of her room, and entered, little streams of fluid were running down both thighs, tickling the sensitive skin.
She rushed into her shower and bathed quickly, ending up with a cold needle-spray. It seemed to help calm her down.
But, lying in bed, afterward, she kept seeing the actions she had witnessed, and before she realized it was happening, her hand was again seeking the heated and swollen lips. When she found how slippery and wet they had become from those recalled sights, she gave up all hope of restraint, and worked herself through another fevered climax, until she lay spent, panting for breath. Then she had to shower all over again.
Recalling the shameful episode had affected her strongly, Darla knew. She could feel the flow of her juices running down the crevice of her crotch, and wetting her tense anus before it added to the stains on the soiled linen. She twitched her hips and moved upward to shake off the flies, again, and to try to relieve the hot, tingling feeling around her genitals.
She fought back the sobs again, as she remembered how she had spied on her parents that night. They were wonderful parents. The mother who was so like her daughter in appearance, and apparently in passion, and the handsome, virile, accomplished father, who was so proud of his girls. She remembered how pleased he was the other morning – was it only two days ago?
They had left the hotel and started to see the sights of Marseilles. They intended to spend only two days there, until Chuck could make contact with a French competitor whose firm he considered buying to merge with his owes European company.
Darla and Ann were dressed exactly alike, in matching blouses and miniskirts, even to the sexy little boots. Chuck walked between them, and his pride in their beauty was evident to all who looked, including the girls themselves.
Tired as they were when they returned to the hotel, they were laughing and full of enjoyment from the novelty of the visit. Tommy had awakened from a nap in his room, and had joined them for a few minutes before going off on his own to look up a friend who had been an exchange student at his school.
Then Chuck and Ann flaked out in their room, and Darla rested for a short while. But she became restless, and decided to take a walk in the little park she could see from her window. She left a note on her table, and headed for the cool-looking greenery.
Looking back, she cursed herself for the hundredth time for her foolhardiness.
Walking through the park, which turned out to be quite small, shabby, and very dusty, when she once was inside it, she had seen a curious little shop across the boulevard, and had walked over to window shop.
Later, when she realized that she had waled several blocks down the street, and was entering a rather disreputable-looking neighborhood, she turned and crossed the boulevard and started back to the hotel.
When the car first pulled up beside her, she thought it was a taxi, and leaned down to the window, telling the driver she didn't need him, but thanks just the same. She realized that her French was quite good. As her head lowered to look into the window of the vehicle, the back door opened, and she was pulled into the car before she could make a sound. Then it was too late.
Something soft was pushed against her face, then she choked on acrid fumes. Trying to hold her breath was useless, for her captor had arms of steel, and she couldn't fight away to get a breath of pure air. The fog closed over her, and she knew nothing else until she awakened in the dirty bed, roped into submission, and gagged on a handkerchief from her own purse. Her head hurt, and her ears were ringing strangely.
The sun had gone down, but a dim bulb burned in a ceiling fixture, and she could finally focus her eyes well enough to see two people in the room with her.
The woman who sat on the bed beside her could have been any age from sixteen to thirty-six. The impression given by her too-plentiful makeup and frowzy dress was one of coarseness. Darla had the thought that this could be a very young girl who had lived a very hard and fast life. Her black hair was done up in Spanish style, with a cheap comb which was studded with phony gems. The gaudy and equally phony ring on one finger was turning the skin brassy green, and under the hand with the ring, a knee showed whitely where a neglected run had opened a black stocking.
The man who had just entered the room was now leaning against the chipped paint of the door. He was maybe an inch taller than Darla's five-eight, and he looked wiry, but not too thin. Darla's first impression was that he could be one of the apache dancers of the cabarets. His olive complexion was complemented by the black curls at the front of his brow. He had a gypsy air about him, more pronounced as he flashed white teeth at Darla. He addressed her in French.
"I see you're awake, Miss Fleming. I hope you are not too uncomfortable." His smile seemed more to mock her than to put her at ease. She tried to speak, but the gag prevented any significant sound from passing her lips, and no one made a move to withdraw it.
"Just as soon as your father delivers a package to a specified place, you will be released near your hotel. Until then, I am very much afraid that your discomfort is necessary to our plans."
She struggled at her bonds, and tried again to speak. Her eyes were wild with her attempts to communicate. She had to tell them what they couldn't know, before this went on any longer.
Charles Fleming was quite an individualist. He was a man who acted with the courage of his convictions. And if Darla had heard him once state his attitude on kidnapping, she must have heard it a dozen times. Charles Eldon Fleming II knew his vulnerabilities as a man of wealth who received more publicity than he desired. He took many precautions to lessen the opportunities for those who might wish to victimize him. Darla and Tommy had been very closely supervised and guarded, especially in their earlier years. Few temptations and no opportunities were offered to would-be kidnappers.
But Fleming was adamant on one facet of this particular crime. He believed that only a fool would comply with a ransom request. It just was not practical for a kidnapper to operate so that the person kidnapped could not recognize him. Inevitably, the criminal would have to consider the possibility of identification and pursuit. So, once he proved that he had the missing victim captive, he would be likely to kill such a witness without further ado.
If he didn't do it then, he would never do it. At any rate, no guarantee ever existed that a kidnap victim would survive after the ransom was paid. Fleming believed that the only course was to play cat and mouse with the extortionists, calling in the FBI and the police at the start, and with no intention of ever paying off.
Right or wrong, Darla knew he wouldn't give in now. His pride as an American was also at stake, here. He wouldn't let any non-American sucker him, no matter what.
Darla continued her struggle to communicate this to her captors. But they ignored her efforts.
"My friend still return within the hour. If he brings the money, you are as good as returned to your family. Now, we will go and get something to eat. Come, Yvette."
They had left her alone, then returned a few minutes later and offered her food. When her gag was removed, she drank a little of the wine they gave her, to moisten her mouth so she could talk.
They laughed at her when she told them what her father's attitude was on kidnapping. They insisted that his talk about the subject would change, now that he was faced with the actuality, rather than the theory. No amount of persuasion could convince them otherwise. Darla was so shaken that she could not eat. They let her relieve herself, Yvette standing in the small bathroom with her, then they tied her to the bed again.
That had been Wednesday, the day they abducted her.
Thursday she remembered with shudders. Thursday she would always remember! Wednesday night had been unpleasant, especially after the third member of the group returned empty-handed. There had been much loud discussion, most of it arguing, all of it in French. She could hear a little of it through the thin wall, and interpret most of what she heard.
She knew when they had decided to wait until morning before making the next demand. Things had quieted down, and the gypsy-type had stuck his head in the door to give her the word.
"Your foolish father has refused to cooperate so far, just as you predicted. But I believe that tomorrow he will meet our demands, just as I predicted. You see, we are going to send him some pictures of you which should make him wish to end your visit with us. Good night, Mademoiselle."
Thursday, though, her real misery had started. It was after she had eaten two croissants, and had drunk a cup of surprisingly good cocked better than the hotel served.
The gypsy-type came into her room, sipping at a cup of the same brew. He watched her as she finished her last bite of croissant, and then he spoke to her as he lit a cigarette.
"Today will not be a good day for you, Mademoiselle Darla. It will not be a day you will wish to remember. But that is life, of course. One has those days."
"While you were unconscious from the anesthetic, we discovered the curious fact of your virginity. No need to blush; it was Yvette who made the inspection for us. But you will have less privacy from your hosts in the nest hours. I suggest that you rest while you can. It is your father who angers me, and I do not wish this to be more difficult for you than necessary."
As if on command, Yvette removed the breakfast tray from the decrepit dressing table beside the bed, and went out through the doorway to the other room. When she returned, she removed Darla's clothes all of them. Protest was useless, she knew, so she saved her strength, waiting for what she feared would follow.
The man looked at her appraisingly, and she felt defiled by his inspection. His gaze dwelled overly long on her full, ripe breasts and again on her curly, blonde triangle. "I think that I shall have to sample such a tasty treat before she is spoiled for all time. His dark eves gleamed greedily, and he met her shocked gaze with insolence."
"It is only just that I drive some pleasure for the trouble I must endure. Is it not so?"
She shuddered, and jumped into the bed, pulling the dirty linen sheet over her, as he laughed shortly, still watching her, letting his eyes appreciate the soft curves under the stained sheet.
Yvette sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, as he left the room. Darla's eyes strained to see an avenue of escape. The window was barred, and she knew it was on the second floor. When she had returned from the bathroom, she had seen that the street below was not busy. She could only spot one pedestrian, a man who fumbled with his fly as he entered the pissoir on the sidewalk.
Maybe they were only threatening her, anyhow. Trying to get her scared so they could make her tell her father something on the phone, or write him a note. After all, would they really dare to rape a tourist, one whose family had wealth enough to expend thousands of dollars in vengefully tracking down such criminals?
While lying there, trying to decide whether to make a wild dash for the window, she fell asleep. And when she was awakened, it was too late.
Yes, she would remember Thursday. Her eyes opened, and she saw that Yvette was gone. The gypsy-type was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. It had been his hand on her breast which brought her out of her sleep. At the foot of the bed was another man. He was huge, and very black. A Moroccan, probably. He stood with his arms folded, hands clasped to upper arms. He was a little taller than her father, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds.
But his face was not as frightening as the gypsy-type's leering countenance. The black seemed not to enjoy his position, even when the other man suddenly whipped back the sheet and exposed her ripe body to view.
"You may have much more meat, Le Boeuf, but this is one of a fine quality, is it not? Mignon, eh?" He chuckled to himself, then ran a cool, moist hand over her belly. She shivered.
They were actually going to do it, she realized. And she could never get to the window, now. Then her wrists and ankles were being tied, again. She struggled fiercely, now, but it was too little and too late. The Moroccan was helping, and soon she was spread-eagled once more, this time with her clothes gone.
Then she felt the cool hands on her thighs, moving over the soft skin, tracing upward across her belly, until they reached the full, ripe mounds of her breasts. The hands clutched, one on each proud hemisphere, and she felt a sharp pain as something tiny pricked her.
"Give me your cigarette, Gerault," said the Moroccan. "It will not help to burn her with your ashes."
So that's what felt like a needle; a spark from his cigarette. She felt the hand leave her left breast, then return. The Moroccan's footsteps had neared that side of the bed and retreated, as he took the butt from the gypsy. Is his name Gerald? It's so hard to tell French names just from hearing them.
A tremor ran through her as he put his lips on her right breast, nibbling the peak with tantalizing slowness. She felt the nipple distend as it betrayed her, and then his lips were around it, and his tongue was tattooing its spongy fullness. She writhed under him, and he chuckled with his mouth full of her breast.
He toyed with her nipples until her breasts ached, and her teeth were clenched in a firm refusal to show her emotional involvement. Then he moved his mouth down her body, trailing his tongue across the sensitive nerve-ends of her belly, dipping it into her navel and swirling it around the touchy dimple. She arched away from his kiss, but the bed springs were too weak and the mattress too matted to provide any significant distance between them. His avid tongue followed her no matter where she moved.
When his mouth was nibbling its way through the blonde forest of her loins. She gasped as his lips nibbled at the edge of the golden jungle, then his tongue found her open slit, and her ankles were secured too far apart to give her knees the freedom they had to have if she were to try to close her thighs to him. He was enjoying his feast. Little moaning sounds slipped past his busy lips as they worked at the pink, moist meat of her vulva. She finally could hold back her tension no longer, and a loud gasp escaped her just as he found her tightening bud with his searching tongue.
Her body arched again – upward this time. Her need had been so emphasized by his expert mouth that she reached out for fulfillment. His head was buried in her loins, and she could hear the moist workings of his lips and tongue.
He's eating my cunt! Oh, God! It feels wonderful! She couldn't control her thoughts any more than she could control the thrusting of her hips, the shuddering tremors that ran through her body. His lips and tongue are driving me out of my mind!
She felt her hips wiggling from side to side, getting the very most from his hungry mouth, then she was trembling in every part of her body, and she knew she was reaching her pinnacle of passion. Her memory came back to haunt her, like the vision of guilt that it was in her mind, and she saw her parents on the mat at the pool side.
Suddenly she was her mother, and as Ann's demands had triggered her, so Darla's were now controlling her every sensation. I'm creaming all over the place, and he's drinking it like wine! She felt her last barrier crumble, and she moaned at him, then yelled.
"Oh, Daddy! Drink me! Drink me dry!" Then her mind closed as a pink cloudy mist surrounded her, and she felt herself falling, floating downward, endlessly.
She opened her eyes to look into Gerault's face. He was standing beside the bed, and he was now naked. His hard tool was standing rigidly out from his belly, and the wiry black curls at its base seemed coarser than the brown ringlets her father sported. She was afraid, really afraid for the first time, she knew. He was going to pierce her maiden head, now!