Augustus Tulare: Painful paradise

He reassessed the shuddering tingle that had run through him, and decided that the brief glimpse of the officer had merely reminded him of his virginal passenger. And the anticipation of what he would do with her when he got to his destination had brought on a thrill of physical excitement.

When he found himself ahead of the mainstream of traffic, he eased up to sixty-five and relaxed, resting his dark hair back against the cushioned headrest, and letting the smoothly running car almost drive itself.

He was extremely pleased with his final swing over this large territory. Not only had he accomplished his personal goals, but he had actually reaped a larger amount of orders for Boswell than had ever been previously recorded for the four-state district.

He could resign with an unbeaten record and the gratitude of the company. Especially when they learned that he would himself be a potential buyer of their products.

He laughed to himself as he wondered what Sherm Boswell and his sales manager, Curt Webster, would do if they knew what kind of a facility the Harshman Research Foundation really maintained in the isolated woods of Northern California.

It had taken Paul Harshman six years of hard work for Boswell Bio-Ceuticals to establish the kind of future he had been dreaming of for most of his life. The fact that he had made some sizable contributions to the illegal narcotics flow in the Southwest had helped him reach his goal several years sooner than he could have managed it as a super-salesman with a degree in pharmacy.

Paul's carefully planned collaboration with hijackers had resulted in the theft of several million dollars over those six years. Not in cash, but in highly negotiable narcotics and other pharmaceutical products.

With his share, Paul had invested in the remotely located old sanitarium with spacious grounds and surprisingly sturdy buildings. His remodeling of the facility had made it an ultra-modern plant on the inside, without disturbing the quiet old serenity of the antique-appearing exterior.

Of course, Boswell – and any other curious parties – would be told that there was a silent backer who furnished the capital for the foundation. And the name of Dr. Jonas Stillwell would add to their respect and awe of Paul's organizational ability.

They couldn't know that Stillwell's magic name in the field of antibiotic research might have been overshadowed by the notoriety from which Paul had saved the brilliant doctor.

As he drove north on the four-lane freeway, Paul mused over the manner in which accidental meetings had placed him in such a very advantageous position.

First, he had met Marv Gilman at that San Francisco party. It was a selected group. Only those who had passed several screenings and become firmly identified as sexual-discipline fanatics were at that wild orgy of booze, bodies and blood!

Marv had been a passive addict, strangely enough, and Paul later marveled at the steely personality Gilman displayed in business. Because on that night, Gilman had been crawling like a beaten schoolboy before the punishment he was getting from a tiny brunette in leather costume and five-inch heels. It was more logical when Paul made himself regard his own conduct in the eyes of "normal" society. He knew that he appeared to be a gentle, courteous and chivalrous man. Quite the opposite of his conduct when he had a cringing female at his feet, and a whip in his hand!

But when a growing acquaintanceship with Gilman led to Paul's collaboration with Marv's hijackers, it seemed quite natural. It might have been because both activities were frowned on by the more conservative elements of society.

Now, Dr. Stillwell was quite a different proposition.

As he ramped off the freeway and headed northeast into the wooded foothills, Paul recalled the first time he had seen the noted Dr. Stillwell…

The party had been on a houseboat in the bay.

When Paul arrived, and had been passed through the security guards on deck, he spent little time in boozing. He had one quick drink with the host and hostess – president and recording secretary, respectively, of the secret Lucifer's Leather League – then headed into the main cabin, where things were starting to get exciting.

After watching the half-dozen couples in the salon for a few minutes, Paul went to the cabin his hostess had told him to use, and opened the compact overnight case he had brought.

In twenty minutes, he had stripped and then donned the skintight leather costume which had cost him close to two-hundred dollars. Coiled whip in hand, he left the small cabin and circulated in the salon. When he saw the tall, ripe blonde in the coarse suede peasant costume, he knew she was what he wanted. That large-boned frame was well-padded enough to sustain a lot of disciplinary punishment without much marking or other after-effects.

He headed toward her, and as he neared the spot where she stood, looking like a lost, frightened child in spite of her height, he spotted a muscular character in russet-brown leather briefs and jacket and matching shin-high boots – apparently headed for the same quarry.

Paul got there first. He grabbed one of her limply dangling wrists and pulled it to him. Her blue eyes admitted his presence, and he could see the pent-up passion behind the icy wall in them, just waiting for the application of controlled punishment to release the Siberian tigress inside her.

"Have you been taken, slave?" he asked. Her eyes dropped, and he could barely hear her reply in the hum of the conversation and the tinkle of iced glasses. But her enunciation was sharp and clear in spite of the low volume.

"No, my Lord!" she said. "I have just arrived."

"I take you for my own!" he thundered, in accordance with the club rules. He led her only one step before he found his path completely blocked by the massive man in russet-brown.

"Challenge of choice, by seniority!" rumbled the man. Paul eyed the sizable bulk, noticed the salt-and-pepper hair and matching mustache, the large hands with slender, spatulate fingers.

"Your code?" Paul asked, determined not to lose this particularly choice specimen he had collared unless it was unavoidable.

"M-thirty-one-C-ten-one-oh-eight," intoned the challenger.

"You may be my senior in years lived, but not as a League member," replied Paul. He grinned his triumph at the older man, and thanked his lucky stars he had joined when he did. "M-thirty-one-C-ten-oh-ninety-seven," he countered.

The gray-haired challenger frowned, then made a last attempt to get the slave of his choice.

"But I need her!" he explained. "My thing is too big for all of the others that haven't been taken." His expression indicated that he thought he had justified his challenge in another way, but Paul wasn't buying it.

"I don't care how damned big your thing is – and, incidentally, how do you know mine isn't bigger, you braggart? – this wench is officially mine, and I'm about to take her where I can put her through her paces."

"No! No! No!" protested the other. "You don't understand. My slave has to be able to take this inside her before the night is over." The hand he had kept at his side now brought up the coils of a whip. Its butt was an expertly sewed leather cylinder that appeared to be about two-and-one-quarter inches in diameter and at least eight inches in length.

The girl, still held by Paul's steely finger around her wrist, moaned as she eyed it, and pulled away from it as though it were a snake. Paul kept his grasp on the taut wrist while coolly addressing his erstwhile challenger.

"I'm afraid you'll have to satisfy yourself with using the other end of your thing tonight, friend, unless you're lucky enough to find another strapping specimen like this juicy wench, here."