Jonathan Everest - The tortured tourists

Her mouth began to move on the flesh it held, stroking it in hungry grabs. As she felt herself soaring upward in uncontrollable agony mixed with ecstasy, she felt the throbbing pulsations of the meaty mouthful, and Gerault's grunting sounds marked time with the spurts of his seed against her throat. She swallowed heavily, and managed not to choke.

Then the Moroccan was moaning and humming his release, and the pumping of his spurting liquid inside her passage marked the end of her climb. She fell suddenly into utter darkness.

As she recalled the degradation of the Thursday morning orgy, she felt more violated than she had when it occurred. She could still feet the sticky strings of semen on her cheek, as though she hod just now awakened from the faint which followed the assault.

That had been only yesterday. And most of that afternoon and all of last night, she had slept, exhaustedly. Her young body was mending itself, she knew. But the lack of food since that shocking extent, and the shame she felt as she thought about those photos being seen by her family, made her feel sick all offer.

She jerked to chase away the flies, again. Then the door opened and Gerault and Yvette entered. They removed the gag from her mouth and gypsy-type addressed her.

"You are going to join your family. If you promise to be quiet and cooperate, we will not replace this handkerchief in your mouth. Do you promise to do as you are told?"

Darla's mouth was too dry to speak, but she nodded. Yvette brought her a drink of water from the bathroom, and she held the first sip in her mouth a moment, then swallowed painfully. Soon she was gulping down the entire glassful.

They untied the ropes, and helped her up. She moved slowly to the bathroom on wobbly legs, leaning on Yvette's arm all the way. After relieving herself, she tried to clean up a little. There was no washcloth, but she did the best she could. There was a bidet in the room, and she managed to douche herself satisfactorily, though the clear water burned in numerous areas, as the protecting film of lubricant was rinsed away.

They blindfolded her, and led her off. She was helped into a car, and heard the doors close. Then they were moving. The trip seemed endless. Finally, she began to get frightened. Were they really taking her somewhere to kill her?

"Where are we going? We've traveled long enough to drive clear across Marseilles several times." There was a sob in her voice. She put her hands over her face, out of habit, as she started to cry under the blindfold.

"Do not worry, little cabbage. Your family is no longer at the hotel where you left them. We are going to a different place, and you will see them soon."

As one part of her mind absorbed this consolation, another part worked on his phrasing. The term petite chou had seemed ridiculous and alien in French literature. But these people actually did use the term. Little cabbage! She felt more like a used piece of meat!

She knew that Gerault sat on her left, and even if occasional bumps in the bad road had not thrown her arm against Yvette's breast, Darla would have known the brunette sat on her right, if only from the odor. This woman was a living example of the legend about the French use of perfume as a substitute for bathing. Yet, it wasn't all legend, she knew. In the days when bathing was considered detrimental to the health, even by the medical profession, scents were developed to mask the strong body odors. But there was no excuse for it in the twentieth century!

She realized with a little thrill that when her hands had been pressed to her face, part of her blindfold had been shifted, and a small slit of light was in her eyes. She hoped it hadn't been noticed. Stealthily, she moved her head about, pretending to relieve a stiff neck, adding to the effect by massaging it with her hands as she turned it.

Suddenly she caught a glimpse of a road sign ahead. She tried to memorize what she had seen, but they passed it very quickly. Her mind worked at it, trying to be sure what she had seen. Was it Salon 65 kilometers, Aix 32 kilometers? Or what was the other name and figure? St. Martin something? She didn't know. Maybe the little bit she thought she had seen might be of value later.

She tried to get an occasional glimpse of the scenery, looking for usable landmarks, thanking her special Providence that the thin material was coarsely woven, enabling her to distinguish quite a bit through its screening.

She could see that Le Boeuf, at the wheel, wore a chauffeur's cap, and that a heavy tint in the door glasses probably prevented anyone outside seeing into the car very well. It seamed to be an old vehicle, but rather well cared for. It was some kind of limousine, because there was a partition between the front and back, although the glass had been rolled almost completely down.

Then she began to see people on bicycles, and an occasional car coming from the opposite direction. Suddenly they were in a small town; she saw something which almost made her gasp. She stopped her reaction just before they would have heard her sharp intake of breath.

There before her, definitely recognizable from a photograph in Daddy Chuck's wartime album, was a building which had been called, in 1945, Hall of States. She could remember the signs from the photo; signs which ran around the upper part of the lower-floor facade, each with the name of a state. It had been a sort of service club for troops in the area.

Her heart pounded with the recognition. She had figured out that if she were blindfolded, it had to be because of some advantage she would acquire by knowing the route they took. So she had made some headway without their knowing it.

The big car took off on an oblique angle, down a street which soon became another semi-improved road. They rode for several miles before the car slowed, then turned up a lane between long hedgerows, and approached a big stone farmhouse. They stopped in front of the large door, and Le Boeuf got out and opened the back door of the car. Gerault got out, and reached inside, taking Darla's hand to guide her out.

Soon they were inside the building, and when the door closed, Darla's blindfold was removed. She made a great fuss over blinking and rubbing around her eyes, elaborating on her deception.

Then she was taken to a door at the back of the house, and as it opened, she saw steps leading down into a cellar. Gerault went ahead of her, and Le Boeuf followed behind, as they descended the wooden stairs. Gerault stopped at the bottom, and turned on a switch. As the place filled with light, Darla's breath caught in a gasping sob. The walls of the cellar were of the same heavy stone as the rest of the farmhouse. Arid along two wells of the dismal, dungeon are place, shackles were fastened to the stones with huge iron rings. She saw the three figures shackled to the cruel chains, and cried heartbrokenly as she ran toward them.

"Daddy Chuck!" she sobbed, throwing her arms about the nearest prisoner. She looked up into his face, and his eyes were fun of his mental agony. His face had a beaten look.

She left him in confusion and ran to her mother, who was chained on the adjoining wall, hugging the limply hanging body, which came tensely alive under her daughter's embrace. The two sobbed in unison at their plight, then Darla reached over and squeezed Tommy's hand above its manacled wrist, right next to Ann's position on the wall.

Darla whirled to their captors with the fire of anger in her blue eyes. She almost spit out her words at them.

"What do you madmen think you're doing! You'll never get any money this way!" She was so full of her hate that she couldn't say another word, but just stood there, seething. She didn't even realize that she had spoken to them in English, until Gerault answered.