Peter Jensen
The blackmailed mother book II

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday morning arrived all too soon.

Jennifer Carmel, the day before an innocent virgin teen-ager, stared at the blinds on the windows. Her skin was pale, as if the ice-water she felt in her veins was actually flowing in place of her blood. She was as confused as any little girl could have been and she tried to sort her ambivalent feelings as she lay under the covers of her bed.

She curled her legs up, letting the blankets fall away so that she could hug her knees protectively, and would have probably run to her parent if she had any to go to. Father was out of town. Father was not there to be the father she had needed before last night, and she knew that his upright morals wouldn't have allowed him to be the father on which she could rely on for judgment and understanding. Mother – hell, she hadn't gotten home until after Jennifer had, and the noise she'd made, whooping and hollering and… well, it had sounded like crying, but the young girl was too fogged with sleep and the effects of the marijuana, liquor, and the sex she'd seen and done to be completely cognizant. Mother was still asleep, and she wouldn't have under stood anyway. No, Jennifer felt that she was alone, with no one to turn to for guidance.

Mentally she was enmeshed in the guilt of having succumbed to temptation and allowed herself to display her sweet, tender pussy and taut breasts in front of all those kids – even though they were doing the same – and writhe abandonly in naked intercourse with Stan Lubin on the floor of that cabin. She swallowed, her shame-parched throat and looked down at her nubile, firm body with its snowy crests of rounded breasts and flat stomach and the black triangular silk of her sparse young pubic mound. As she looked down at herself, she miserably realized that although her dream had been shattered hopelessly and she had given up her virginity and her dignity all in one wild night, she wasn't entirely filled with self-abomination. Oh, there were the long-standing agonies to contend with, the morals and ethics which she'd been weaned on since birth, but for all of the warnings she'd received about allowing "advances" from a boy, she had to admit, if only privately to herself, that she hadn't broken out in warts or become wretchedly ill or really changed her basic nature much.

She had had a dream of a large, soft double-bed with white, frilly sheets and a husband lying tenderly between her open legs. She kept thinking about Stan Lubin buffeting her tender throbbing young cunt last night with his lust-filled cock, her breasts swollen and hurting from his trembling hands, and the way she willingly allowed him to do it to her over and over… until she was ready to promise him anything for the pleasure of having more. Now she had no dream, no bed, no tender patience, no husband… The dream hadn't become a nightmare but it hadn't left her totally at ease, the way her girl-friend Tamera certainly would be this morning. Of course, Tamera was experienced at letting guys fuck her – the salacious way she'd been with her boyfriend, Vic, last night, and then let one of the other football team members fuck her too was an indelible imprint on Jennifer's mind.

Physically she felt all right. Her head was thick and stuffy like muslin, but Tamera had told her afterwards, on the way home, that was to be expected until she got used to marijuana. The little teen-ager tentatively explored her breasts and loins, found them sensitive, but in a delightful, tingling way. Her still moist vagina was a little redder than usual – about the way the pink, hair-lined little slit looked after she had fingered it and made herself cum – and while her wet, tantalizing cunt hole was perhaps a little larger than before, it was more alive and healthy than she could ever recall. She let one finger slowly draw its way up from the puckered sphincter ring of her anus to her trembling red nub of her clitoris. Stan's white semen is still lying deep in my stomach, she thought, trying desperately to feel the overwhelming, inundating sordidness and dirty anguish that she had believed she should feel. But the more she dwelled on the episode, the more her whirling mind replayed the dizzy climb – starting from when Stan had put his arm around her in Vic's car. The drinking, the new sensation of marijuana, the heavy musk in the air as the other couples sank into their world of writhing, naked, pagan passion, up… up to where she was watching her girl-friend abandonly making love with her boyfriend while Stan kissed her firm, hard-nippled breasts and let his hand tease its way into her vaginal slit, her pink lips and clitoral bud and moist, quivering cunt mouth… and the lewd sight of his huge, blood-swollen penis moving into her virginal pussy, the shock of immediate pain… and then the breaking of her hymen and his merciless sawing back and forth while the pleasure drove her nearly insane.

How could she lie here now and even admit that she had liked it? But she had! The revelation that she had liked it, had liked the attention from Stan, had liked the comradeship from the others – all this bothered her more than the smaller amounts of guilt her upbringing still made her feel. Yes, I… like it, and… and oh God, I want it again. I want to cum with Stan's cock in me. She must be sick, must be a juvenile delinquent and pervert for having no true shame for her actions, but only an emptiness inside her belly which was crying for more. Her body had not only betrayed her, but was forcing her to search out for further indecencies. Tears of humiliation cascaded down her cheeks in a tiny waterfall of self-incrimination.

Slowly, like an automaton, she rose and began to dress. Heaped in one corner were her soiled, even ripped clothes; souvenirs of last night's debauched party. She averted her wet, puffed eyes from them, a shiver of apprehension rippling through her as she zipped up a pair of stretch pants. They reminded her that Stan Lubin had made her promise to… to have more than himself, to let some of his friends take turns gang-fucking her, and he'd mentioned other… things he wanted to do to her too. And it was all going to start that very day. He was going to pick her up at the house, and as he'd threatened, she'd better be waiting and ready. Or else.

Sam Zeigler sat in his luxurious appointed office and toyed with a miniature Spanish dagger he used as a letter opener. His swarthy face was lit by the glare of his desk lamp, making the evil smirk which crossed his mouth that much more devilish. He leaned back in his leather chair, pricking his thumb with the opener absently. Yeah, Oliss and his wife had cooked up a wild scheme, and whether it worked or not, he had been getting a lot of fun out of it. He laid his head against the chair and shut his eyes and once more he dreamed of the salacious evening he'd shared with that innocent young wife of Roger Carmel, the black-haired Lonnie, and the insatiable Mrs. Cylvia Oliss. It had all taken place up one floor, in his "show-room" – and peripherally he made a mental note to himself to raise the girl performer's salary by a hundred a week. His lips curled into a slightly wider smile as he thought of the performer's near hysterical submission to Fang, his German Shepherd in front of all of his special customers. She never been fucked by a dog before, and certainly wasn't aware that it was going to happen to her last night; but the best shows are the spontaneous types when the girl is truly terrified and not just acting – just like she hadn't been acting when Fang had slipped his huge animal cock inside her pussy and made her writhe her naked young body around in lewd ecstasy.

The girl had enjoyed it, Fang had enjoyed it – the wild young wife, Lonnie, had enjoyed it, getting heated up from that and Cylvia's hot lashing of pink tongue against her raven-crested, clenching vaginal slit until she'd have been willing to let the whole Club Royale staff fuck her… which was an idea to file away for the future. Zeigler could still see in his mind's eye how the once-proud Lonnie Carmel had looked when he had finished fucking her silly, sprawled nakedly open on the couch, quivering, her satin legs wide-stretched on either side and her arms dangling doll-like over the edges. Her belly had been filled to the bursting point with his hot, sticky cum, and her wet matted pubic hair had glistened lewdly in the room's dim light, the insides of her creamy thighs smeared with his white semen, which trickled together with her own co-mingling climatic lubricants and Cylvia's saliva between her soft, yielding crevice and puddled on the couch fabric below.

The lewd, evilly erotic memories stirred the heat in his blood, making his throbbing cock jerk in his pants. God, he wasn't sure he could hold off fucking that hot bitch of a wife again while Cylvia Oliss set up the deal for later on tonight. He wanted to have her stretched out again, her tight little cunt lips sliding smoothly around his hardened penis like a greased oval ring… He groaned and placed his hand down, trying to stop the building pressures in his testicles from making his now painful erection from bulging his trousers any worse than they were already.

But on second thought, why couldn't he have the luscious Mrs. Carmel again? Right now, if he wanted to – which he did. It couldn't hurt the Oliss plan; all he had to make sure was that Lonnie was at the club later. Come to think of it, what difference did it make whether it hurt the plans or not? Zeigler had already started his own machination going, one independent of the Olisses for the simple reason he had no intention of sharing the money Carmel's invention would bring to them. If the Oliss plan worked, all well and fine he'd ease them out after they handed over the goods. If his own plan worked, then he wouldn't even have to put up with a scene of recriminations and threats which would be sure to follow the realization by the Olisses that they'd been taken. Besides, two ways were better than one – Zeigler like to hedge his bets; or, like so many of the underworld executives, he didn't gamble unless it was on a sure thing.

Along with the recruitment of the Olisses some months back, Sam Zeigler had also hired a call-girl that he knew. She had been a private secretary before turning to the profession of prostitution for the simplest of reasons: she liked the money and liked the work. What the hell, as she had said, she'd been going to bed with men for years; she might as well start getting money for what she'd always given away. Zeigler, spotting the combination of beauty – for Kim Copeland was one of the cutest girls he'd ever met – and talent in and out of the bed, told her to go to Kirsten and get a job at the Skopos manufacturing plant. She was to be a ringer, and one way or the other see if she could get information on the device Carmel was making.

Kim hated the small town; only the fat bonus Zeigler paid her every week made up for the dust and dumb characters and no action. She couldn't ply her trade without jeopardizing her job – which she had she had finally gotten – so Zeigler had to fork over her average weekly take on top of his bonus, and added to her paycheck at Skopos, she was able to salt away a sizable amount. But the only position which had occurred at Skopos had been secretary to the personnel manager and the result was that she had learned very little about the miniscopos, even in spite of the love affair she had instigated with the assistant chief of production. It seemed that all the important information was stored in Roger Carmel's head, and others only knew inconsequential bits and pieces of the whole jig-saw, and had no access to his files.

Martin Oliss had always considered Roger Carmel of such upstanding character that the man would never dream of having an extra-marital affair. Zeigler had gone along with the opinion just in case he could somehow use his "ace-in-the hole", Kim Copeland, but the gangster was shrewder than Oliss, and knew that just because a man is honest, doesn't mean that he can't be blinded momentarily and lose control of himself. Oliss, Zeigler concluded, confused an accidental fall from grace with a planned consideration by a person to be dishonest, for obviously Oliss had never done anything evil or lewd without a thorough review of exactly what he was doing. And even if Roger Carmel did reject the advances of a pro like Kim Copeland, it was worth a try…

Kim Copeland had been phoned that morning; Zeigler had just hung up the phone from talking to her. She had been enthusiastic about the assignment, and knew just the partner to get for the taking of the pictures while she and Carmel were in her home, fucking like hell on her bed. She'd used the man many times before when she was running a blackmail racket, and since the squeeze on Carmel was different only because there was going to be information handed over instead of money, she was on familiar turf and could handle herself and Carmel with practiced ease. After all, she'd told Zeigler, Carmel is just another man. A damned fine-looking one, she'd added, and she was getting tired of the production assistant anyway.

Zeigler laughed softly to himself. Sometime today or tonight, Roger Carmel was going to end up fucking Kim Copeland – and that called for a little celebration. Like fuck Roger Carmel's beautiful, naive little wife again. He reached for the phone-book to look up the Carmel number. Then he put the book aside and picked up the telephone. Knowing that he had fucked her silly for over three hours last night only made him desire her more, and he lewdly hoped that she would tease him again with her defensively resisting protests. All in vain, all in vain, he mused, and whistled as he dialed her number.

A sudden blast from a car horn awoke Lonnie Carmel. Then there was the fuzzy, distant, only half-jointed sound of the pattering of shoes and the slamming of a door… the roar of an engine, and the squeal of tires. Lonnie lay still for a time, listening. The house was now silent, strangely so, and the softness of her drowsiness was slow to dissipate, like fog on a cold, wet morning.

Lonnie moved at last, only to feel excruciating pain. "Ohhh," she groaned aloud, "what happened to me?" Her head was like a block of molten lead, and her muscles were tied in spasming knots which made her want to jump – but then the pain in her skull would begin and she had to lie still until it passed. She had a hard time thinking – remembering what had happened to her…

The drinking – the capitulation of her aroused, frustrated body to the blandishments, hands, mouth, and blonde-haired vagina of Cylvia Oliss – the obscene show with that nubile little girl and that monster beast of a German Shepherd dog – Sam Zeigler, naked and plunging his fiery cock deep, deep into her feverish, wide-splayed vagina… a vagina that had only been touched by her husband before…

The total impact of what she had allowed to happen to her hit hard and the traces of her sleepiness vanished. She shot upright, impervious to the pain. "My God!" Questions began to run through her head faster than her muddled brain could answer them. How did I get home? Who dressed me? Why did it happen at all? Why? Why?

She stumbled from her bed and lurched against the bureau, staring at herself in the mirror. "Oh no," she moaned thickly, "I must be dreaming it. I must be. I just must be."

Yet heavy lines marred her fresh, young skin, and her eyes were sunk deeply in their black rimmed sockets as though she'd aged ten years overnight. She looked down at her naked, curvaceous nude body and saw the mass of burnished marks and rose-colored bruises around her breasts and inner thighs. Her rich, full dark-tipped breasts were nearly raw, and light exploration of her pubic area with her fingers proved to be exceedingly painful. She tried to tentatively feel between her black soft hair and down between the swollen, inflamed lips of her well-fucked cunt, but she couldn't; she had to grip the edge of the bureau from the sharp spasm of ache which lanced from her pussy up through her belly.

"Oh, God, oh God, oh God," she chanted, and then forcing back tears and a wracking sob, she opened the closet next to her and took out a chenille robe Roger had given her the previous Christmas. She slipped it over her lithe, trembling nakedness and buttoned it part way down, then holding the bottom portion with her hand, she stepped out into the hallway, almost fearful that her innocent daughter would see her like this.

In the kitchen, after plugging in the percolator, Lonnie glimpsed a sheet of ruled notepaper on the table. She crossed and picked it up and saw that it was a message from Jennifer in her neat, round handwriting.

Mom, it read, Have gone for the day with Stan. Hope you don't mind. Will be back tonight. Love Jennifer.

Lonnie crumpled the note and flung it from her. Poor, naive Jennifer. Her daughter was with this Lubin boy – did her day also include being with Tamera Oliss and her boyfriend, Vic Cain? Lonnie shuddered and sunk to one of the chairs, miserably placing her chin in her palms. Cylvia Oliss, how that "friend" had fooled her! Was her daughter the same way? Was Jennifer safe with Stan and Vic and Tamera… or were they all as depraved as Tamera's mother, and were trying to lead little Jennifer into the same kind of wild, salacious life as Cylvia had introduced Lonnie to? The horror of having her young teen-age offspring having her tender mind and body warped by the corruption that Cylvia represented made her almost want to vomit.

Lonnie thought for a crazy moment of phoning the police, and reporting that her daughter was in danger… then the bubbling of the coffee brought her back to reality, and as she poured herself a cup and walked back in the bedroom, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed with the knowledge that such a panicked move would be disastrous. For one thing, she had no way of knowing that Tamera was like her mother, or that even if she was, that Jennifer was with her or in danger. After all, it was daylight out there, and Jennifer knew enough not to drink or let boys get too fresh with her – heaven knows Lonnie had told her about saving herself for her husband enough times – and tonight she would have the chance for a real heart-to-heart, mother-daughter chat. Then, in the privacy and calmness of their own home, she could make Jennifer understand how important it would be to end her friendship with Tamera.

To go to the police, hysterical and obviously overcome with fear, would force Lonnie to admit her own wretched part in the affair… and then everybody would know what kind of woman she'd allowed herself to become. Everybody – including her husband, Roger. Roger would be repulsed, brand her a whore, and rightly so; he would divorce her, and she would be like so much excrement in his eyes. And Jennifer could ever be taken away from her! Dear God, what a nightmare she was living!

Lonnie managed to climb back into bed and stretch out, the coffee steaming on the table alongside her. Some of the beginning hysteria with which she had awakened passed as she sipped the brew, and now her mind could reply to some of her questions. She remembered the almost dreamlike trance she had fallen into after cumming… cumming how many times? That was lost, the count not taken at the time. Cylvia and Zeigler must have dressed her and carried her to the car after they'd had their way with her; there was the dim recollection of watching Cylvia Oliss and the gangster obscenely fucking together on one of the couches after she was unable to spread her exhausted thighs again. They must have taken her home and seen to it that she was in bed…

Cylvia. Her girl-friend's name was like a cancer in Lonnie's mind. The thought of that bisexual bitch and the flagrantly lewd acts she had performed on Lonnie's body, of her willingness to have that Sam Zeigler seduce the heretofore faithful wife, her constant desire for further perversions… What had possessed Cylvia to do such things? What did the lovely blonde woman have against Lonnie? Lonnie had trusted her, accepted her as a friend and protector, and for her to lead Lonnie into perversion and participate while her helplessly drugged body was subjected to the most depraved indignities – was there some thing in her nature which enjoyed seeing the humiliation of others?

Then, with an anguished groan of realization, Lonnie remembered that she herself had been drawn by the ravishment of the young girl by the monstrous German Shepherd. She had been repulsed at first, but then she had watched with fascination, her own unleashed passions, permitting Zeigler and Cylvia to take possession of her hungry body. She was no better than they were, merely newer at the games; hadn't her own body bucked and twisted in its own lustful fulfillment beneath her attackers? And hadn't she actually instigated some of the perverse forms of sexual delight? God, yes… she had, she had…!

She unbuttoned her bathrobe and once more inspected her radiant, shining white body, this time not looking for outward signs of damage, but traces of dissipation. Strange, she admitted, no body would know that I had been fucked and sucked half-crazy by both a man and a woman last night…

She concentrated on her breasts, and thought of how Sam Zeigler and Cylvia had taken their taut, puckish uplift and made them come alive. Yes, made her come alive, she was forced to confess, come alive and beg for Zeigler's huge, throbbing penis to salve her tortured, palpitating cunt. Lonnie squeezed her eyes shut as the erotic remembrances flooded through her… she had never felt so alone, so helpless in all her life. Going to her husband would be tantamount to ending her marriage, which was now her one support; going to the authorities was out for the same reasons she couldn't go to them with her fears about Jennifer; going to her daughter never occurred to her.

The torment which boiled through Lonnie Carmel's mind was worse than the agonies Jennifer suffered, for the black-haired young wife and mother had had nearly twice as many years to be come infused with the mores and guilts of her parents and society. That, and she was of an older, less permissive age, and the strictures against what she had done were much stronger than the ones Jennifer faced. Yet Lonnie also had many more years of sexual experience with her husband, and her body was not beginning to be awakened but already the product of fire and lust. It had been channeled into a higher plane of awareness by the Oliss' – and that meant that Lonnie was that much more demanding and conscious of her requirements. Even as she thought of the night before and the depraved way she and her girl-friend and Zeigler had been with each other, her hands brushed her bruised, violated body, reliving the feelings.

Her fingertips cooled her hot flesh and in spite of herself, Lonnie touched one tender nipple. The little rosebud flowered into a hardened chip, and then in shock Lonnie sat up. Oh God, I mustn't! Her breath shuddered, ragged and pulsating. Control yourself. Stop this… this carnal thinking! She gazed down at her naked loins, seeing them outwardly calm but feeling that they were already a seething mass of sensual desire. Her pink-rimmed cunt lips seemed to twitch and spasm through the covering of her dark curling pubic hair, and as sore as her vagina was, she spread her legs, drawing the lips apart so that the blood colored skin and her clitoris were visible, and the darker, more wet and sensitive opening gaped, tingling from the rush of cool air. Groaning she lay back, the blood rising in her cheeks as more vividly than ever the memories of Zeigler's virile body, his thick pulsing cock and heavy testicles swaying beneath his hirsute loins… and of Cylvia Oliss, taut-breasted and desire hot in her eyes, her blonde pubic hair a fleecy, moist blanket around her thin, pink pussy and her creamy, satin-soft inner thighs…

Her hips dug back on their own volition and before she could gather the strength to resist the compelling flame in her belly, she began to rub her palms around her hair-fringed cuntal valley, her fingers gently moving back and forth over her moistening, coral-tinged vaginal lips, and the tide of her passion began to flow over her once again. I must be sick… I can't allow tats… I must stop myself… I…

And then the phone rang.

Lonnie pulled her hand away from her moist, tingling pussy, and not bothering with the robe walked rapidly to the hall desk. She stopped the phone's insistent clamor on its third ring. Roger… maybe it's Roger… "Yes?" she asked hesitantly, hoping to hear her husband's reassuring and familiar voice.

Instead she heard a voice that sounded like coal rattling down a chute, a voice which was all too familiar and anything but reassuring. "Lonnie?"

A cold, clammy creepiness stole along her spine, as if a snake was crawling up her backsides. "What… what do you want?"

"You know who this is?"

"Y-yes," the hapless young mother moaned. "You're Sam. Sam Zeigler."

The voice on the other end chuckled confidently. "That's right, Lonnie-baby, Sam Zeigler. And I wanted to tell you what a pleasant time I had last night. I enjoyed fucking you greatly, I did." Again the lewd snicker, and Lonnie's body chilled as if suddenly plunged in ice. She wanted to hang up and then dress in something big and bulky and warm. "I've been thinking about what fun we had, and I'd like to see you again."

"No… never!" she gasped, the blood rushing to her face in an uncontrollable blush, the shock of his words and their implications striking her with deathly horror. "I'm never going to allow such… things to happen like that again! Never, you hear, Mr. Zeigler?"

"Oh, I hear you, Lonnie, but now you hear me," Zeigler snapped back, his tone rasping and menacing. "If you think your escapade last night is upsetting to you now, how would you like your husband to find out what you did? How you wanted me to fuck you over and over and how you licked that sweet pussy of your friend, Mrs. Cylvia Oliss, until she was cumming along with you and me. Huh, Mrs. Pure-heart? What would happen to your marriage and family then?"

"You – you wouldn't!" Lonnie groaned, stumbling against the table and almost dropping the receiver from her nerve-shattered hand.

"Not if we come to some kind of… arrangement, Lonnie, baby. We're both adults, aren't we? I'm sure that if you try hard you can think of ways to keep me happy and quiet."

"Blackmail!" the horrified wife cried out. "You're sick! A sick, degenerate blackmailer!"

"Don't call me names, Mrs. Carmel," Zeigler snapped back harshly. "I mean, you are the Mrs. Lonnie Carmel the adulteress, aren't you? You are married to Roger Carmel, but let me and Cylvia Oliss fuck you silly at my club last night, aren't you?" He barked out a caustic, lewd laugh at his rhetorical, if vulgar, question. "Of course you are. And I'll be at your house in a little while, Mrs. Carmel. Lonnie, baby."

"What – what for?"

"To see just how much my silence is really worth," came the smooth, assured reply. "Be there, and be ready to please me."

"But…"

"Oh, and another thing. I like thin black undies. You got any? Sure, you do. All women have. Well, wear them, bra and panties." With that last demand, the gangster hung up.

Lonnie shook desperately, gaping at the dead instrument. It took a long moment for her to get hold of herself, and then her mind was a seething torrent of agony and despair. He wanted her again. He wanted to debase and humiliate her again as he had last night, and what could she do to stop it? She had to think… but it was no use. To hide, to deny what she had done with him and Cylvia would be foolish. Zeigler was just the kind of slimy man who would do as he threatened. She was trapped, and she would have to submit or somehow muster the courage and fight him when he arrived. Thank God, at least, her daughter wasn't here.

Before going to the bedroom she poured herself a quick glass of scotch, and though the taste was harsh and the liquid molten fire in her throat and stomach, she downed the glass – and had an other for courage. Then she went and found the black bra and panties given to her on a past birthday, which because of their sheerness were impractical and embarrassing to wear normally. Over these she slipped a white cotton sheath with a gold chain belt, and then spent considerable time in front of the vanity putting on her makeup and combing her hair.

She wanted to be as alluring as she could when Sam Zeigler arrived in hopes of convincing him to give her the silence she needed without compromising herself too deeply. But she had the forelorn knowledge that if Zeigler insisted, she would not be able to resist.