His hand came to my arm, settled under my armpit as he yanked me to my feet, shoving me ahead of him at a little trot as he pushed me down the hall. I got the sinking feeling in my stomach that told me I was in for about of agonizing torture.

  The others looked on, grinning like apes. They knew what was coming, they were mentally licking their chops at the thought. These men were soldiers in the Mafia Family, they had no more conscience than a hungry snake.

  The hall was not a long one. At its end, to the left, was a door. The door stood open invitingly. I saw steps, then the hand around my arm gave me a shove. I started down those steps headfirst.

  I only managed to save myself from a nasty fall by grabbing hold of the banister. I slithered and skidded on my nyloned feet, slammed into the wall, and then ran down the rest of the staircase by myself.

  The big bruiser who had shoved me was coming down the steps slowly, chuckling to himself. I put my eyes about the big room in which I found myself, and my blood ran cold.

  There was a meat hook suspended from the ceiling. There were also chains set into the stone walls of this cellar, their manacles open, ready to hold the wrists of a helpless prisoner. My eyes opened in surprise to see an old-fashioned stock in this place, one of those contraptions in which a man or woman was placed centuries ago, to be made the butt of ridicule and laughter by the townspeople. I wondered what the Mafia wanted one of these things for. I soon found out.

  Big Boy was grabbing my arm again, yanking me forward. His fellow soldati followed him, grinning widely as they formed a little circle about us. Big Boy swung me sideways, sent me staggering into the arms of a button.

  His hands closed on my dress. His arms swung me again, back and forth, until the cloth of the dress ripped. When the dress was torn half off, he let go and sent me across the circle where another man completed the job he had begun. He tore what was left of the tattered dress completely off me.

  I stood in nylons, bra and panties. But not for long.

  A hand reached out, grabbed my bra strap in back and gave a fierce yank. Cloth shredded, snaps let go, and the bra gave way, to dangle on my shoulder straps so that part of one breast was exposed.

  A different set of fingers caught the Olga between the bra cups and jerked. I went one way, the bra remained in the hand of the soldier who had seized it. He waved it above his head as if it had been a war trophy.

  I stumbled backwards into a pair of arms that went around me, the hands grabbing a feel of my boobs. I tried to fight back, I kicked at his shins, but there were no shoes on my feet, those Pappagallos were somewhere in the sewer system of Paris.

  The hands let go of my breasts, shoving me sideways to yet another button who ripped at my panties, shredding them. They came away in his hands. I was naked in garter-belt and nylons.

  The leering eyes took me in, studying the size of my trembling breasts, the amount of hair on my mons veneris. I did not shrink from those lecherous stares, I was too proud for that. They could strip me, they could feel me up, but they would not break my spirit.

  To my stupefaction, I saw them begin to undress.

  I should have guessed it, I suppose. It was to be a gang rape. Nothing less would have satisfied their idea of manliness.

  Maybe I should have tried to break free, to try out my karate and judo punches on them. There were eight of them, all told. The two men I had wounded back in the alleyway were off somewhere getting their wounds attended to, I guess. But the men who had been waiting here at the house more than made up for their absence.

  The men were naked in moments, their clothing tossed carelessly behind them. I stood surrounded by eight big, hairy men, each of them with a healthy erection.

  “Look, fellows,” I began.

  “Take her,” the bruiser growled.

  They leaped at me, they sandwiched me between their hot, sweaty bodies, they damn near crushed me to death. It was something like a New York subway rush at five o’clock. The only difference was, these men had their clothes off.

  I couldn’t do a doggone thing except suffer the hands that stroked and petted me, and try to close my thighs against the male members that sought to pry away between them. I felt those hard-ons against my buttocks, my thighs, my belly. I wriggled and panted, trying to get loose.

  Hands were at my breasts, fondling them. Fingers caught hold of my nipples and tugged. Somebody had a hand wedged into my pubic bush, had caught hold of the curly hairs down there, and tugged.

  My teeth bit my lower lip. I was not going to cry out, I would not ask for mercy. They wouldn’t have showed me any pity, anyhow.

  “Bastards! Bastards!” I screamed.

  Slowly the circle began to move. I was a little puzzled by this, I didn’t know what they had in mind. Well, not entirely, that is. The circle of men with me between them slid across the floor.

  It dawned on me what they had in mind when I saw the wooden stocks. I really fought, then. I clawed at whatever section of a male anatomy I could, I even fastened my teeth in an arm.

  They were too many for me, too strong. I was tossed about like a leaf in the wind, I was shoved toward the stocks, a hand grabbed my neck and bent it downward. Somebody got behind me and pushed.

  My neck went into the hole for which it had been shaped. The handheld it there while the top part was lowered. One by one, my arms were caught, brought forward and upward so they could be put into the holes prepared for them.

  It was like having an ox yoke around your neck that you had no way of removing. My arms were held in the wooden vise, I couldn’t get them free no matter how much I tried. The rest of me was absolutely helpless, naturally.

  A hand slapped my buttocks, spanking me. My hanging breasts shook lewdly to that slapping hand, and the sight was thoroughly enjoyed by the buttons standing around and watching. I guess my buttock-flesh jiggled to that hand that half caressed even as it spanked. I was bent forward, unable to do more than hop about on each nyloned foot, which made those other portions of my anatomy bobble and shake like jello.

  “I go first,” said the bruiser.

  Hands slid up and down the fronts of my legs. They caught those legs about the knees and lifted them, spreading them wide. The man behind me, who held me so easily, was staring at my con, so freely offered to his eyes.

  I hung in the stocks, unable to close my thighs, I was open to his thrust. And thrust he did, seconds later, driving his manhood deep inside me.

  He paused then, savoring the feel of my flesh that held him. Hands came from either side of me to slide around my dangling breasts. They played with me, those hands, they teased my rigid brown nipples, they hefted and toyed with my titties.

  Against my will I was getting hot.

  I could feel my clitoris expanding, sliding out between the folds of my genitals. Somebody put his hand down there and caressed it. My hips bucked, I whimpered.

  Big Boy went wild. He drove himself in and out, his lower belly slapping against my buttocks at each forward jab. My head was held by the stock so tightly that I could look only straight ahead, or a little to one side or the other. That wooden barrier reared its weight above my head and to either side for about three feet.

  So I could not see Big Boy nor the men who were ranged on either side of him, staring at what he was doing to me or watching my own naked body as it jerked and shuddered. But I could hear them.

  “He’s a bull, that man!”

  “Hey, Carlo! Leave some for us!”

  “Look at her she loves it.”

  “You’re getting to her, Carlo!”

  He was, too. Against my will, in the face of all my opposition, my flesh was stronger than my will. I couldn’t fight him off, I just hung in those stocks and took it. And he was causing what the French call avoir le feu au cul. I got hot, in other words.

  I raised and lowered my hips to aid him in his penetration, I felt the juices flow from my con. I sobbed and groaned in my sensual lusts even while my mind scolded me for that enjoyment.

  Carlo was a sexually strong man, he stayed with me for a long time. He jabbed and rammed himself in and out, he gave me orgasm after orgasm until he finally tired and slapping himself fully between my widespread thighs, he spilled his creme inside me.

  He bellowed out his delight, he quivered from head to foot. His hands slipped on my thighs where he gripped them, he let go his hold and I fell forward, my feet trying to give me a foothold on the floor so I wouldn’t put so much weight on my neck and knees where the wooden stock gripped them.

  He must have stepped back, because another guy got between my legs, lifted them and drove his excited flesh into me.

  I enjoyed him, too, and the next man.

  But after that, it got to be an agony. Man after man, I lost count of them after a while, must have his personal lusts satisfied by my aching con. After a time, I heard my voice begging and pleading. They paid me no never mind, but went on with what they were doing.

  There was no mercy, no pity, in any of them.

  They were brute beasts, I guess. All they could think about was the excited state of their peckers. Me, I was the object of their animal cravings, I was here, naked and helpless, unable to fight their sexual quirks.

  When they were finally done with me, an hour and a half later at the very least—I hung from that wooden contraption like a dead thing. I mewled a little in my pain, I know tears of agony from my bruised con were streaking my cheeks.

  “Give her a little time to get her strength back,” said the bruiser called Carlo. “Right now, she won’t be able to appreciate what we’re going to do to her unless she talks.”

  “What do you want to know?” I asked.

  “Ey! She isn’t as dead as she seems.”

  Carlo stepped in front of me, putting a ham-like hand to my chin, lifting it so I had to look up into his flat black eyes.

  “Where are the plates?” he growled. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I don’t have them.”

  He grinned, showing blackened teeth. “You went down into the sewers after them. You came up alone. You must have them.”

  I shook my head as best I could in the stock. “I got one man down there, yes. The other one got away. He ran out of that manhole opening right before you arrived. You must have seen him.”

  “You lie, you bitch. There was nobody in that alley.”

  Scarface sure must be a fast runner, I thought numbly. Then the answer occurred to me. He must have dodged into a doorway, maybe it was unlocked, ready for him. These crooks who infest underground Paris know their way around, the little alleys and cul-de-sacs are to them as the Place de la Concorde and the Champs Elysees are to the respectable Parisian.

  “Just the same, he got out of the sewers ahead of me. I can’t help it if you guys are blind, not to have seen him. He’s the one that has the plates.”

  His palm cracked my cheek. “Bitch! Putain! Tell the truth.”

  “It is the truth! I didn’t have the plates on me, did I? You stripped me naked, you whoring bastards. Did you find the plates? Did you?”

  I saw doubt and uncertainty grow on his crude features. He looked from me to his men. “They weren’t in her clothing,” he snarled. “But that shoulder bag of hers—”

  “Nothing there, Carlo. No plates, that is. Her little automatic, yes. And a wallet with cards in it and money. But no plates.”

  “They have to be someplace!” Carlo raged. “Of course. You hid them in the sewers, didn’t you?”

  “Why should I do that? I didn’t know you were going to pop up and surprise me.”

  Carlo walked around the big room. I hung there naked in the stocks. My legs were like rubber, but I had to use them to brace myself, it hurt too much when I sagged.

  “I don’t know what to do except call the boss,” he muttered at last. “Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

  He came to stand in front of me, scowling. “I don’t know what to do with you, either. If what you say is true, you aren’t much good to us. We’ll have to kill you and dump you in the Seine—or maybe into those sewers.

  “If you do know something you haven’t told us, you’re going to be sorry.” He showed his blackened teeth again, in a cruel grin. “But in order to suffer, you have to be stronger than you are. Tony!”

  One of the men who was getting dressed turned his head. He was a small man, young, but with a strong body. A lock of his black hair dangled in front of his forehead.

  “Free her, Tony. Give her something to eat and a little wine. I want her strong for later, after I talk to the boss himself.”

  I wondered vaguely who this mysterious boss might be. I felt hands working the metal clamps of the stocks, lifting out an arm, then freeing my neck and other wrist. My legs sagged, I fell in a mass of twisted limbs on the floor. Honestly, I was so damn weak, I don’t think I could have made it to my feet by myself.

  Tony lifted me, dragged me toward a flat wooden table to one side of the stocks. Here he dropped me, grabbing some straps that were there and tying my wrists and ankles. I lay spreadeagled on that table and stared up at the ceiling wondering how I was going to die, and when.

  They all went away for a little time, leaving me there to recuperate. I closed my eyes, I rested physically while my brain kept on churning with thoughts.

  There had to be a way out of this bind. In the past, I’d always been able to come up with an idea that would lead to my escape from a tight corner such as this. Right now, though, my mind was as empty of ideas as a colander is empty of water.

  I fought the straps that held me. They would not give. My body was going to remain here until those Mafia buttons came back to torture or to kill me.

  In about an hour, I heard footsteps. Tony boy was coming down the stairs with a tray.

  He put the tray on the table, then looked at me. I could see a plate of spaghetti, a chunk of bread and some blue cheese. There was a small bottle of wine, and a glass. Tony scratched his head.

  “I’ll have to feed you, I guess,” he muttered. “Why not untie one hand?” I asked. “Yeah. I guess I could do that.”

  He unfastened the strap that held my right wrist. I smiled up at him, thanked him. “It would be even better if you’d undo both wrists. Then I could sit up and hold the tray on my lap.”

  When he looked dubious about that, I added, “My ankles will still be tied. I won’t be able to go anywhere. Not with you here.”

  That made sense to him. He unfastened my left wrist, then put the tray across my naked middle as I sat up.

  I reached for the fork and dug into the spaghetti. It was pretty good, excellent as a matter of fact. Or maybe I was hungry. I complimented him on the cooking of that pasta.

  “I didn’t do it, it was Maria.”

  “Maria? Who’s she?”

  “Eddie’s wife. Eddie owns the house, it’s in his name. They live here, Eddie and Maria.”

  I looked up in surprise. “Don’t the others? Carlo and the rest?”

  “No. They all go home to eat and sleep.”

  “You’re here.”

  “Yeah, but I’m watching you.”

  I finished the spaghetti, pouring the wine quite freely until the bottle was empty. Tony came toward the table to take away the tray. My hand was on the empty bottle. I tightened my fingers about its neck.

  The bottle cracked across Tony’s head as I swung it. He went down in a heap.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  All I had to do was bend forward as if I were about to touch my toes, then unfasten the straps that held my ankles. I swung my legs over the edge of the table and stood up. My legs were still rubbery, I swayed and tottered.

  But my legs were strong enough to carry me across the floor to my Gucci handbag where one of the buttons had flung it after going through it. I snatched it up, breathing a sigh of thankfulness that my Colt automatic was still inside it.

  I lifted the Colt in my hand, carried it back to where Tony boy was stirring. I could have shot him, but the sound would have alerted Eddie and Maria.

  Instead, I brought the barrel of the gun down across the back of his head. He slumped and lay motionless.

  My clothes were a total wreck, but I couldn’t run out of the house stark naked. I ignored my bra and panties, but I did lift what was left of my dress and bring it over my head. It was mostly tatters and tears, but it hid a few parts of me. I ran for the staircase in my bare feet.

  If Eddie or Maria had showed then, I would have shot them dead. But the house was quiet, I didn’t hear any sound as I went up those stairs.

  Not until I was in the hall did I heard any sound, then it was only muted voices from the rear of this downstairs section, where I assumed the kitchen to be. Eddie and Maria would be in there eating.

  I guess they thought Tony was fooling around with me down in the cellar, since he hadn’t returned. Let them think that, I gloated, and ran for the front door.

  It was dark-time beyond that door.

  Overhead the stars shone down, from buildings around this one electric lights made a soft gleam in the night. I ran out onto the porch and down the steps.

  There wasn’t the faintest thought in my head about what I was going to do, except get away from that place as fast as my bare feet would take me. I started to run across the street, with the notion of losing myself somewhere.

  That was when a flashy maroon Porsche two-seater convertible came flying out of the French night and damn near ran me over. I jumped back, brakes squealed and the Porsche slid to a stop twenty feet away and then backed up toward me.

  A gorgeous blonde was driving it. Her face was a mirror of dismay. “I’m terribly sorry! Really, I was daydreaming and never saw—my goodness! What happened to you?”

  I glanced down, saw that a large part of my other wise naked body was hanging out of the tattered remnants of my dress.

  “A bunch of apes grabbed me and gang-raped me,” I panted, putting a sob into my throat.

  Violent eyes opened wide. They were a deep blue, actually, I was to learn later, with tiny flecks of red in them that made them seem violet. Long blonde lashes fluttered.

 

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