Gloria Day - House of dark pleasure

Little did Doris know when she took the secretarial job offer from Romily Manor, the nature of the duties she was to perform. She hadn't counted on being a paid playmate for Mildred Wynton's twenty-five-year-old retarded son. Her horror deepened even further at the realization that she had to share her voluptuous body with the degenerate doctor and Mrs. Wynton's lascivious chauffeur. Mrs. Wynton was the mistress of the manor in name, but it was Doris' lush young body that held the title!

The needle plunged into Doris' arm again, and she lay very still on the bare mattress, her eyes open but unseeing, and the voices and sounds in the small room were just a garbled cacophony to her drugged ears.

"That'll keep her for four or five hours," said the heavy-set man of medium height and middle years.

He removed the needle from the syringe, replaced them both in a small case and snapped it shut.

"Thank you, Doctor Marston," said the tall, gaunt-faced woman, emphasizing the Doctor because Basil Marston wasn't a doctor any more: not since a zealous medical association had removed his name from its list because of unethical behavior or professional misconduct as they viewed his illegal operations and indiscriminate use of prohibited drugs.

"I don't like it," the ex-doctor muttered now, looking at the young girl on the bed.

A tousled lock of brunette hair had fallen onto her forehead, making Doris Dainton look younger than her twenty-three years. Her big, brown eyes – usually luminous and alert – were dull and listless, and her five-foot-one, one-hundred-pound body slumped, rather than lay, on the bed in the upstairs room in the bleak, rambling mansion in a remote part of Maine.

"You don't have to like it," said Mildred Wynton, coldly. "You just have to do what you're told." She jerked her head toward the door. "We'll go downstairs now." She turned to the fourth occupant of the room, forced a parody of a smile onto her face. "It's all yours, Willis, dear." She moved to the bedroom door, opened it, half-pushed Basil Marston into the corridor, then her smile became a leer as she added to her son: "Enjoy yourself, Willis." Her eyes flickered to the drugged girl again, and she moistened her lips as she finished in a whisper: "If you need me – just call." Then she moved out of the bedroom quickly, clicked shut the door behind her.

"It-it's horrible," muttered Basil as he descended the narrow stairway behind Mildred.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped over her shoulder. "It's not horrible at all." She reached the foot of the stairs, moved toward the old-fashioned but well-furnished sitting room. "Just because poor Willis – my son, remember, is somewhat unattractive to girls is no reason why he should be denied the… the normal pleasures of female…" she hesitated, then, "… company."

"Company!" Basil spat out the word, stared at the severe but not unattractive woman of forty-five. "He doesn't want company." He moved to a sideboard, poured whiskey from a decanter than took a big gulp as though he needed it very badly. "That-that freak – he's like a lust-crazed animal. All he wants is…"

"Don't call my son a freak!" Mildred's voice rose quiveringly high with anger. "He-he's just-just a little backward – just a little undeveloped in some ways." She snatched up the decanter, poured herself a generous drink, lifted it to her lips.

Basil watched her, a sardonic expression on his dark, still-handsome face. "In some ways," he repeated, bitterly, "just some ways!" He drained his glass.

Willis Wynton stared at the softly curved, lusciously inviting girl on the bed. An evil smile of anticipation crossed his misshapen face, and he drooled, saliva trickling down to his chin as his eyes drank in the sight of young and helpless female flesh that lay at his mercy.

He had a peculiar build, his legs being too short for his massive, bull-like torso and his arms – as if to make up for the brevity of his legs – were too long, causing his hands to dangle close to his knees.

He swung his hands loosely, now, as he moved toward the girl on the bed. His forehead, covered with a mass of long, black hair that hung down, was too wide – while his chin was too narrow, making the thick, sensuous lips seem out of place. His pointed tongue darted out, slicked at the edges of his mouth as he stared at Doris.

She was wearing a white-nylon blouse and short leather skirt; her feet, shoeless now, and legs, were encased in sheer pantyhose.

Willis reached to the top of her blouse, unbuttoned it, then gripped the thin fabric of her brassiere. He tugged at it gently, then seemed surprised when the flimsy garment ripped off. His eyes squinted as he stared at the twin mounds of soft, fragile flesh – then he slowly stroked Doris' breasts.

A low, guttural sound came from deep in his throat as he caressed the silky smoothness. Then he jerked himself back, grabbed at his crotch as though in pain.

His fingers trembled as he undid the front of his pants, then the huge, swollen organ thrust out and he wrapped his hand around the bulbous head of it, bent himself forward from the waist.

Doris lay unmoving, unseeing, unaware.

Willis stood by the head of the bed, his animal-like penis just inches from the drugged girl's face – then he pushed his pelvis forward, guided his shaft until its slitted ball of lust was touching Doris' cheek. He weaved his organ back and forth on the delicate softness of her cheek.

Low sounds of pleasure came from his throat as he performed his lewdly intimate action, and thin dribbles of moistness slid from the slitted mouth of his penis and oozed over Doris' cheek.

Suddenly, he dropped to his knees beside the bed, pressed his face over the girl's unfeeling body, encircled a small, pointed, pink nipple with his mouth, sucked it with sickening pleasure.

"Oooh, Maaamaa – Maamaaah," he mumbled, sucking and licking with wet, squelching sounds. He drew his head back abruptly, letting the saliva-slicked nipple slide from his lips with a plop. "You're not Mama," he mumbled, sounding more like a child than the twenty-five-year-old man that he was. "You're what-what Mama got for me," an infantile smile spread across his face, "… for me to play with." His hand caressed his penis as he spoke. "Mama said – enjoy yourself." His smile became wider. "I can do what I like – whatever I like." He reached down to the hem of the leather skirt, lifted it. "I-I know what I like to-to do…" he panted.

The pantyhose stretched tightly over Doris' belly and hips, so thin that the dark triangle of her pubic hairs was clearly visible. Willis clawed at it, and a long fingernail ripped at the crotch, tearing through the fragile silk, shredding it open until it was slitted from the waist to where it disappeared between her smoothly fleshed thighs.

Willis' eyes fastened on the thatch of dark foliage, then he touched it, stroked it gently at first, then more roughly.

His penis reared when his hand went lower, probed between the exposed thighs, found vaginal lips that were soft and wet and felt inside them.

"Nice pussy," he drooled, rubbing his finger in Doris' intimate moistness. "Soft, wet pussy!"

He drew back, breathing heavily through his nose. "I-I'm going to do it," he muttered, panting with excitement. "Mama said I can enjoy myself." He began ripping off his clothes with frantic haste, keeping his eyes on the small pink opening between Doris' thighs. "I'm going to push my cock inside your pussy!" He giggled, highly like a girl, then dragged off his remaining clothes.