But that wasn't the way it was to be. It wasn't her father's incessant peevish bickering which she had long since learned to bear with patience, it was the relentless nagging in the pit of her stomach… in her genital area… that was driving her to distraction. She seemed to be in such a constantly aroused condition that she — June Corbin Wright formerly so self-controlled in matters of sex — found herself obliged to masturbate in the toilet like an adolescent two or three times a day just to dampen the fires of lust raging inside her passion-crazed vagina long enough to enable her to do her job.
And at home in the long evenings after her father had turned off his light in the bedroom across the hall, she began to experiment with different ways of making herself cum — with candles, with a pestle she found in the kitchen drawer, even with the rounded head of one of her father's long unused canes which she rammed up her wildly puckering anus one night in a humiliating orgy of self-debasement. That moment she remembered with clarity for she had felt in her shattered brain that she was committing both sodomy and incest at the same time, her flesh crawling with delicious horror as she squatted lower and lower, driving the bulbous cock-like head of the cane farther and farther up her lacerated rectum while she hysterically drubbed the swollen bud of her clitoris so hard that, when she finally came with great gasping sobs, it was too sore to touch again that night…
Underneath all her feelings of guilt and self-loathing because of her enslavement to her body's insatiable demands was the undeniable knowledge that none of the sensations which she artificially provoked in herself came anywhere near in intensity to the one she had experienced that afternoon… just from watching. No matter what she did to herself, she couldn't recapture the soul-quaking voluptuous thrill that had electrified her being as she watched Cliff Farrow's long thick cock pistoning in and out of her sister's hot little pussy.
Was she really a voyeur? Was that to be her lonely unhappy fate? She started taking books on abnormal psychology out of the library to peruse late at night in her bed… Freud, Stekel, Reik. The case histories excited her, and, more often than not, the forgotten book slipped unnoticed off the bed as she thrashed around in her tangled sheets, her proud beautiful face twisted grotesquely in her vain efforts to make the breakthrough into that unknown world of total sensuality which she had glimpsed so briefly.
She felt that each bitter failure was bringing her closer and closer to the brink of madness until that day the telegram arrived…
Tiffany in terrible trouble
Need your help desperately
Wire arrival 72 West 8th
Cliff
June didn't hesitate a minute. She hired a nurse to look after her father, packed a bag and left for New York on the next train. She didn't know why, really… only knew that she was driven… or relentlessly drawn… toward the source of her intolerable misery.
CHAPTER TWO
One gray fall afternoon several days before this telegram was sent, in an exclusive club high above the dismal windswept streets of lower Manhattan, two expensively dressed gentlemen had just finished discussing the effects of the latest peace initiative on the stock market and were turning their thoughts to lighter subjects. Their relationship was broker-client, but over the years they had become close friends despite the enormous differences in their characters and backgrounds.
Axel Borman, the broker, was a massive bear-like gray-haired man approaching fifty who gave an impression almost of a ponderousness which, as his opponents on the handball courts of the club found out to their regret, was totally misleading. He kept his muscular, heavy-framed body in excellent condition and could still move faster than many men half his age. As for the quality of his mind, it was generally referred to as being of the steel-trap variety. The son of a poor Wisconsin farmer, he had put himself through college, won a scholarship to the Harvard Business School and gone on to become the top executive and driving force in one of Wall Street's most prestigious brokerage firms.
His client, Breckenridge Richmond III, known to his close friends as "Jock", was cast from a completely different mold. Scion of an illustrious old American family and heir to a considerable fortune, which, incidentally, he had more than doubled by having the good sense to take Axel Borman's advice, he was a trim slender man, about five feet eight, blond, blue-eyed, with a lazy indolent manner of moving and speaking which gave to strangers the impression that he was just one more of the brainless rich who had inherited their wealth and couldn't get a job as a messenger boy if he had to do it on his own. Only his closest friends knew that he had graduated from Princeton at the top of his class and had been one of the most decorated fighter pilots of the Korean war. Blessed with perfect coordination, wiry strength and apparently limitless endurance, he was one of the few members of the club who could trounce Axel at handball. This was a fact which often entered obliquely into their less serious conversations.
"I was just wondering, Jock," Axel was saying as he studied the long fine ash on the tip of his cigar, "what kind of shape you're in these days; for example, do you think you can still run fast enough to snatch a lady's handbag on a crowded city street and get away with it?"
"You should know what kind of shape I'm in," Jock reminded his friend pleasantly. "What was the score the last time we played?" He knew better than to ask the reason for this odd question, which had come completely out of the blue. Axel enjoyed taking people by surprise. "Anyway," he added, "if it's this city you're talking about, that's not much of a test. Nobody would bother to chase me."
"I would," Borman replied firmly.
"Oh well, if it was only you…" Jock let his voice trail off, waiting for Axel to come to the point. The older man opened his dispatch case, pulled out a manila envelope and handed it across the table.
"What do these say to you?" he asked, a faint smile of anticipation creasing his square-jawed, usually expressionless face.
Jock opened the envelope and gave a low whistle of astonishment. Inside there were three glossy photographs, close-ups of a young girl sucking a very hefty cock indeed. In the first shot only the tip of the swollen head was inside her ovalled mouth, and her eyes were wide open, registering shock or fear. From the way the photograph was cut it looked like her disembodied head had been stuck on the end of the mighty shaft the way warring South American tribes used to plant the heads of their victims on the ends of their spears.
In the second photo the girl's expression had changed completely, and her eyes were crinkled with pleasure as half of the thick tubular rod had disappeared into her mouth. In the third there was no more cock to be seen, just the girl's nose buried in a thick growth of pubic hair and her chin nestled against two gigantic balls. Her expression was both dreamily blissful and wistful at the same time.
"She looks like she could use more of the same." Jock commented dryly. "And damned if I wouldn't like to give it to her."
"Recognize her?" Borman asked.
"No…" Jock hesitated, studying the delicate heart-shaped face in the first photo carefully. "Say, this isn't the girl in that cruddy fuck movie you showed us last week, is it?"
"Right." Borman nodded emphatically. "And the reason you didn't recognize her at first is because she's such a lousy actress. With a cock in her mouth, she's Sarah Bernhardt. Unfortunately, even in those dumb movies you have to walk into a room sometimes or say hello and this kid is so stiff she's painful to watch. She takes your mind off sex, for Chrissake. I'm getting awfully tired of lousy fuck movies made by amateur actors and actresses," he finished irascibly.