Peter Jensen - The blackmailed mother book I

The girl was following the orders of the dog as Lonnie gazed enraptured at the salacious sight. The dog was nuzzling the girl's pelvis, and what he wanted was plain – for the girl to turn over on her stomach. And the girl, after one wild-eyed shudder of terror, obediently knelt, elevating her firm young buttocks, bending before the great animal in abject surrender. His relentless tongue had crushed all revulsion, his viscous temper halting any hope of resistance. She cowered, face to the bed, awaiting his attack.

Lonnie's nerves were shattered, her brain dulled almost comatose by the large amounts of alcohol she'd consumed, and her body was prickling with sexual heat. She knew deep in her mind that she should flee this carnal house, for Cylvia's friend, Sam Zeigler, was far too fast for her and this wasn't being true to Roger. She owed her husband faithfulness and herself a chance to let the wound of her earlier transgression time to heal. But she couldn't resist the maddening teasing of her inflamed cunt, and the lewd sight of the little girl and the monster dog was just too much to bear.

"What… what is she waiting for?" the young housewife whimpered gutturally. "She's… she's just hunched like that. What's the dog… the dog going to do to her?"

"Why," Zeigler chuckled throatily, lewdly, "the dog's going to fuck her, Lonnie."

"Wh-what?" His obscene explanation burned her brain.

"Fuck her," Cylvia Oliss cut in eagerly. "Fuck her just like Sam here is going to fuck you while I watch!"

Lonnie Carmel went out of her mind at that moment, and a thin film glazed over her eyes. She nearly fainted. Something had to give!

The El Mecca was the best motel in Kirsten, Nevada – which wasn't saying a whole hell of a lot for it. The town's two other motels had been built during the motoring craze of the Thirties; were peeling and yellow, little more than cracked wash basins and sagging beds that would collapse if they ever saw a married couple. The local trade frequented the two, and on Friday and Saturday nights they employed two cleaning girls to change the bed linen, the in-and-outers so fast and frequent.

The El Mecca was a good ten years old, a drab stucco imitation of a Spanish hacienda, but it was clean and had a decent little combo six nights a week, and it catered to the salesmen and businessmen on the prowl and the divorcees and married women wanting to be prowled. There were the usual slot machines in evidence, but anybody who'd stayed at the El Mecca or frequented it for very long soon gave wide berth to the one-armed bandits – the odds were set worse than the ones on the third floor of the Club Royale.

Earlier in the same evening as Roger Carmel's unexpected return to the Skopos plant in Kirsten, he and Martin Oliss sat in the small bar, drinking a couple of scotch-and-waters and adding their own conversation to the murmur of other voices. Roger was moody, reflecting on his unpacified wife five hundred miles away and what the hell he could do about it – which was nothing – and how he could convince her that trips such as the one he was on were necessary – which was an impossibility.

Martin Oliss was busier thinking of the right psychological moment in which to spring his portion of the trap. They'd arrived after Skopos had closed for the day there. Carmel would be stuck in Kirsten until his invention was finished; theoretically Oliss would be in the town only long enough to take some pictures and ideas for stories, and then return to Rapier City.

Oliss had the hunch that both he and Carmel would be back before the weekend was out. That was, if his wife and daughter played their parts successfully. If either or both of them failed, he was to have received a telephone call, but he hadn't as of yet, so he figured (correctly) that all had gone according to schedule. There would be that other phone call tomorrow or Sunday – but that was in the future, and not included in the immediate task on hand. He had serious doubts that he'd be able to steal the figures and charts on Carmel's miniskopos while he was here; the nature of the set-up almost precluded that miracle, but even if he did land the prize, the insidious plot he'd hatched in desperation would still carry on. There was no way of stopping it, in fact, now that the wheels had begun to turn.

Oliss ran his finger around the rim of his glass and stared at the amber fluid in it as if in deep, disturbed contemplation. "Roger," he said slowly, heavily, "I've got to talk to you."

Carmel looked at his business associate, curious. He was never as close to Martin Oliss as his wife was to Cylvia or his daughter was to Tamera, but that wasn't through the fault of Martin. In spite of Carmel's feeling of uneasiness that he got occasionally when around the sales vice-president, it was more a matter that he, Carmel, wasn't one for any close ties save for his family. He didn't have either the time or temperament for pals and buddies, and the little spare time he did have he preferred to spend in the warm bosom of his family. So he was a little surprised by the tone in Oliss' voice. They'd been talking for the last few hours, on the plane and here at the El Mecca, but of inconsequentialities. That wasn't the kind of "talking" Oliss was now intimating. Something was on his mind, something that was troubling him greatly.

"Yes, Martin," Carmel said. "About what?"

"I…" Oliss pursed his lips. "Here, let me buy you another drink." He hooked a finger toward the bartender.

"Well, if you don't want to tell me…"

"It isn't that, Roger. It's…" He bit his lip. "Ah, hell. I'll be blunt. Sometimes we don't want to spill something to a friend because it's private and personal. You know what I mean?"

"That's true," Carmel agreed, tasting his fresh drink.

"I mean, it's sort of embarrassing, and it's difficult to judge just how much of a friend a person is at times like that."

"Well, I don't think you should trust anybody too quickly, Martin. Where self-interest is concerned most people will betray you, and a guy has only one or two genuine buddies throughout his whole life if he's lucky. But," he said, "on the other hand, I'm not the kind for butt-kissing or politics or petty gossiping. So in that sense, I'm a friend. At least a better risk than most." He shrugged. "Of course, it's up to you."

Oliss contemplated his scotch again, and then swung to Carmel abruptly, his face wrenched by the seeming pain of his indecision. "No, Roger. No, it concerns you, too."

"Me?"

"Yes, and… intimately." Oliss gritted his teeth. "I… well, I'll start at the beginning." He took a deep breath, knowing that he had Carmel hooked. "A month back I learned my wife was seeing another man. I love Cylvia very much, just as you love Lonnie I'm sure, so you can imagine how I felt when I thought that she was running around on me."

"Running ar…" Carmel's eyes bulged. "You mean, having an affair? Cylvia? Are you sure?"

"Oh, more sure than I care to think about," Oliss said bitterly. "You see, her lover came to see me." He saw Carmel's mouth open, and he waved his hand. "No, not for a divorce. Worse than that." Oliss leaned toward Carmel and looked him in the eye. "He was one of those slimy Latin lover types; you know the kind. Worm their way in before the woman knows what's happening. Anyway, he threatened exposure, a scandal, all of the lowest and rottenest tricks he could think of if I didn't… cooperate."

"Cooperate? I don't follow, Martin. Cooperate how?"

Oliss dropped his voice as if utterly ashamed. "By spying on you, Roger. By stealing your invention and turning it over to him. He said he had pictures and proof. Oh, God, I was sick!"

"My… invention! I can't believe it! You mean another company would stoop to such filth as to seduce your wife and then blackmail you into taking my miniskopos?" He shook his head, dazed.