A. Verse: The Violation of Marcia Thomaston

At last the Cadillac drew up before a lonely house, set off by a picket fence: a wooden structure, of three stories, antiquated… and yet, there were sumptuous red velvet curtains in the windows; here and there she saw the suggestion of light.

What was this house and why had she been taken to it?

The door of the house opened. She saw two men, rough-looking, uncouth individuals, make for the car.

The chauffeur got out, his cap pulled over his face, coat collar still turned up and the two men went up to him; words were exchanged and one of the men gesticulated toward Marcia; she, petrified with apprehension, watched through the window of the Cadillac.

Then, to her growing uneasiness, she saw the men advance to the door of the car; one, taking a key handed him by the chauffeur, opened the lock, then swung wide the door; his companion thrust his head into the car and in a harsh voice, growled, “O.K., baby, this is it! Get out and hurry it up!”

Marcia gasped. Used all her life to honeyed words, to obsequious deference to her slightest whims, she was taken aback by the uncouth address-and when she recovered her assurance, it was to rely on:her iciest tone, with which she had crushed many an insulting headwaiter at New York’s finest establishments. “How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice, you-you boor!” ~The fellow, whose head peered in at her, laughed and, turning to his companion, mockingly commented, “Uppity little bitch, ain’t she? She’ll give the customers a real treat, eh, Joe?”

“Let’s get her out, so’s I can take a look and tell,” said his companion.

“Are ya gonna come out, or do I hafta drag you by the hair?”

“Wh-what!” Marcia could not believe her ears.

Without waiting for her to affectatiously assume an expression of outraged dignity, the first ruffian reached in and grasped her by the wrist.

“Let-let go of me… if I must get out, I can manage for myself!” she exclaimed, her heart constricting at the loathsome contact.

“Let’s go, then! Get that frame of yours out and no tricks,” warned the ruffian.

And, her head held high, she got out of the car, with haughty manner, her gloved hand holding her skirt daintily, her fur wrap thrown dashingly around her slim shoulders.

She looked around, trying to learn her whereabouts. This section was totally unfamiliar to her. The two men stood close by, but her chauffeur had already disappeared into the house.

Joe, the older of the two, who had stood outside the car while his companion took charge of Marcia, now menaced her with his hand buried in his overcoat pocket. “Up the stairs, sister,” he growled.

Marcia, realizing that compliance was the most sensible policy, obeyed, the two men walking behind her.

As she advanced up the wooden stairway, Bill, the younger man, murmured to Joe, “Classy gams the gal’s got… wonder who’s gonna be the first to start her off? The Boss, maybe, huh?”

“Close your trap,” harshly whispered his comrade; but Marcia had made out some of the interchange and her uneasiness mounted.

When she reached the porch, Joe went ahead of her, while Bill stayed behind, on guard; Joe rang the bell and the door was at once opened by a buxom, stern-faced woman, dressed, curiously enough, in an evening gown, with diamond pendants sparkling from her ears; her face was rouged and powdered to hide the ravages of the years. Marcia at once felt a vague distaste creep over her in the presence of this witch.

The two men slipped around her, closing the door and stood, hands in their coat pockets; Marcia was now convinced she was the victim of a kidnapping plot and her old insolence returned to her.

The woman confronted her, her eyes intent on the lavish sable coat, the air of outraged dignity, the seemingly invulnerable hauteur Of the young debutante.

Marcia, collecting her cool poise, began, “I suppose you must be in charge of this gang, Madame-”

“Madame-that’s a hot one,” guffawed Bill, but Joe angrily murmured, “Can it, you sap!”

The unknown woman regarded Marcia a moment, then replied, “Yes, I am.”

“Well, then, how much do you want to let me go? My father will pay any ransom; of course- you realize we’re important people-and the police will surely track you down if you aren’t careful, of me.”

“We’ll be very careful with you, honey,” said the woman and the ghost of a smile played on her heavily rouged lips. “Suppose, now, you take off that coat.

What’s your name, by the way?”

“I don’t have to tell you until I’m sure you’ll get in touch with my parents,” said Marcia, “and as for taking off my coat, I’m not to be ordered!”

“Her coat, Joe,” snapped the woman, compressing her lips. And before the surprised Marcia could defend herself, Joe had seized her neck with his left hand and wrenched the expensive coat off her shoulders with his right.

“Oh! You unspeakable brute!” exclaimed Marcia, pale with anger and she struck out with her gloved right hand, slapping him across the mouth.

Sheltered as she had been from the world in her pampered eighteen years, she was totally unprepared for his reaction: it caule, in the form of a brutal blow of his palm across her cheek that sent her reeling, dazed, her flawless skin crimsoned from the blow.

“Ohbhhh!” she gasped, tottering and regaining her equilibrium.

“Take her up to her room, Bill,” said the woman. “She’ll need to freshen up a bit before customers start arriving.”

Marcia’s befuddled brain vaguely registered these words; her assurance and insolence had been so staggered by the swift pace of events that she did not protest when the younger guard set heavy fingers on her gloved wrist and led her up the stairs at the back of the foyer of the house.

He led her down the corridor of the second floor, to a room at the very end of the hail, unlocked the door and thrust her roughly inside, locking the door on “her.

The arrogant and beautiful young debutante, so superbly gowned for the social festivities announcing her arrival upon the stage of the elite, was a prisoner, in a room of a deserted house miles from New York!

For a moment she stood, stupefied; then her anger returned to her and in an excess of temper she threw herself at the door, tugging at the knob, beating on the door with her gloved fists.

Silence, silence, responded; only the echo of her hammering returned to mock her.

She turned around, pale and trembling; she began to take notice of the room in which she was kept prisoner.’

It was a strange room, elegantly furnished in fastidious style; but, for all its correctness, it contained strange elements, which made her sensation of uneasiness return.

Here and there were love seats, lush and inviting… a wide, plush-lined divan was at one side of the room… several large Louis Quinze mirrors, oval and ornate in decorative, frames, were placed at the corners. At the right, as her eyes slowly turned to contemplate, was a boudoir table and, fascinated by some strange impulse, she slowly advanced toward it.

“Why… why…, it looks like my own,” she murmured to herself and that enigmatic, troubling aura of fear and apprehension piqued her…

‘Her eyes rose, surveying the walls and now again she was strangely uneasy.

There were many pictures, placed in abundance on the walls. She drew closer, to observe and suddenly she gasped.

For what she regarded was an enlarged photograph of a beautiful, naked girl on a couch, with an equally naked male bending over her loins, his face conveying a lustful expression.

Her eyes hastily recoiled. She gazed at the next picture-it too was a scene of carnal intercourse: a blond girl, clad only in a chemise, was on all fours on a lush rug; and, holding high the hem of her light garment in one hand, while with the other he groped for her pendant, bare breasts, was a naked male, his organ of consummation aimed for the delectable downed nook’ revealed between the girl’s widened thighs “Horrible…“ murmured Marcia, her face contorting with disgust. “What sort of place must this be and why has no one told me what the ransom terms are to be?”