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 Talk to me: Night.Bane@hotmail.com
   Darkness approaches as Sarah makes her final appearance at The Visum.
   THE GENTLEMAN'S CLUB PT.  3 ((M/F: Reluc: Forced oral: Raped virgin)
   ROBERT'S RETURN
   Robert Higgins had a very deliberate way of doing things and required
his home be kept in similar fashion; any object out of place, no matter how
small, was cause for severe recrimination.  On this, the day of his return,
Sarah had gone to lengths to ensure that everything was just so.
   She ran her eyes thoroughly about the single-room dwelling one final
time, searching for anything that was in even the smallest way removed from
its rightful place.  She brushed away non-existent dust, arranged for the
hundredth time her husband's bed stand, and ensured yet again that his bed
coverings were perfectly laid.
   The sound of harness, followed by a single horse bray, signaled to her
that the time had come.  Robert was home!  She ran to the door, smoothing
her pearl-colored dress while fluffing her petticoats, and running her
fingers along her brilliant red hairline one last time to tuck any stray
strands behind her ears.
   The door opened and in stepped her husband, Robert Higgins.  Sarah, as
was the custom, stood waiting just inside the doorway.  Having entered,
Robert would drop his saddlebag and inspect everything, leaving no drawer
unopened and no cupboard door shut.
   Some fifteen minutes later Robert finished his inspection and, finding
nothing wanting, turned his attention to Sarah.
   "Sarah," he said, raising his arms for an embrace.
   "Robert," she replied, stepping forward.
   He patted her twice on the upper back before pulling away; it was
awkward, the kind of forced embrace one man might give his brother's wife
(if such an embrace were given at all), a perfunctory show of emotion
Robert felt his wife needed far more than he himself.
   "You've been well?" he asked.
   "Yes," she answered slowly, averting her gaze.  She really didn't want
to talk much about her goings on during his absence; rather, she was far
more interested in what he had done and what the future might hold.  This
was just as well, as Robert Higgins was not a man terribly interested in
what his wife had to say.
   "Very good, then.  I must say, I'm very pleased with how things have
gone the last two weeks.  It certainly appears that my hard work has paid
off!"
   "Yes, it does."
   "Well then, shall we eat?"
   Sarah's heart raced at the thought.  Would they actually be going out,
to celebrate-
   "I should very much like some biscuits and gravy.  The paltry offerings
available while traveling are hardly fit for a criminal!  I'll be reviewing
my papers," he said, brushing Sarah off with the back of his hand,
literally shooing her away.  "Tell me when it's done."
   "Yes, of course," she answered, bowing her head slightly and going to
the small kitchen, frowning.  Biscuits alone would take over an hour to
prepare...
   *
   "Ah, delicious, very good indeed."
   Sarah never prepared such a meal for herself, it taking so dreadfully
long; she appreciated that her husband enjoyed it, of course, even if he
never once said thank you.
   He was a man slow to appreciate, and slower still to compliment.
   While they spoke off and on during the meal (Robert mostly talking,
Sarah mostly listening), one thought kept nagging at the back of Sarah's
mind: Robert never really says anything to ME.
He spoke at length of the hardships of traveling, of the dickering with
various clients, of the seeming impossibility of attaining a quality meal
in most back wood locales (though he had tried, evidently, as he never ran
out of feeding troughs to disparage).  He spared no criticism of his firm's
handling of various affairs, everything from how cheap they were to their
deployment of a 'special negotiator' to the especially unruly and
uncooperative sellers.  It seemed that some men were so attached to their
property that they were simply unwilling to sell, no matter the price;
after a visit by the 'special negotiator,' they seemed to find religion and
often settled for a price lower than the highest number Robert himself had
offered.  It was very confusing, that, impossible to fathom how a man would
sell later for a price lower than he was initially offered.
   "Their loss, of course.  Ah, the hour grows late," he said, gazing at
his pocket watch expectantly.  He turned to Sarah: "After you've cleaned up
a bit, perhaps we should retire for the evening?"
   The dishes would take another hour, plus cleaning herself afterwards
('after you've cleaned up a bit' being the operative phrase) would take at
least half an hour more.  She was in for a late night.
   Perhaps, under the covers, she could chase with her husband that which
she had been capturing alone the last few nights.  This idea brought a
curious little smile, a twisting of her lips at the corner that would have
piqued the interest of any normal, red-blooded man.
   Robert seemed more intent on reviewing his papers...
   *
   Sarah was exhausted.  She'd spent all day cleaning, arranging, and
preparing for her husband's arrival.  Once he had arrived, she had actually
worked harder, preparing his meal, cleaning up afterwards, putting away his
personal effects, and washing herself in preparation for bed.  She almost
felt she'd rather just go to sleep even though it now meant, after her
husband's return, moving to her own much smaller cot situated at the foot
of her husband's bed.
   Clean, she crawled up into his bed, wearing only a shift--the thinnest,
smallest one she owned.  It was not at all like the nightgowns she usually
wore to bed, thick and cumbersome garments that she wrestled up and bunched
uncomfortably about her waist whilst performing her wifely duties.  This
smaller, thinner garment permitted a view of her body, something she had
never before offered to her husband.
   This was but the first of a great many things she intended to do for him
that she had never done before.
   Lying beneath the covers, Sarah nearly shivered with anticipation.  For
several nights now she had (shamefully, but not so much that it prevented
her) masturbated before going to sleep.  The very first night she hadn't
even made it to bed but instead used the tip of her finger and, with just
the slightest touch, had a miniscule orgasm while kneeling against her bed
frame, visions of Master Collins and his approval filling her mind.  The
second night she had slid between the sheets and covered herself
completely; beneath the covers, pitch black, she had thought of Mr. 
Winthrop's tongue, dancing around so delicately, and achieved a much more
robust release, one she was sure had lasted at least two or three seconds.
The next day--the last before her husband returned--all she could think
about was the coming night, the sure knowledge that she, Sarah, would be
experiencing a certain self-induced pleasure, wriggling purposely beneath
the sheets.
   That night she thought, not of Master Collins, or of Mr.  Winthrop, but
her own passion as she manipulated herself, a concentration focused on her
finger and the feeling that if she just barely brushed the side and rubbed
down, in a very particular way, she might reveal the most outrageous
feelings she had ever known.  She did, it was, and she most certainly had.
   Of course, this self manipulation did not come without consequence. 
Thinking back, she could never remember being specifically told that it was
wrong to touch herself, she had just known.  And yet, was it wrong to give
herself such pleasure?  Surely she provided this for her husband!  If it
was not wrong for him, why should it be so for her?
   Wasn't she allowed to enjoy the physical act?
   Even alone?
   She felt that, certainly, she was!  And she had decided that she WOULD!
   Still, in her prayers (which she no longer delivered kneeling beside the
bed) she failed to mention these personal, ah, indiscretions, feeling that
eventually the time would come.  It didn't matter that He knew all--she
preferred very much not to think of Him looking down upon her as she
furtively moved her fingers around underneath the covers.
   *
   A shuffling about indicated that her husband was coming to bed.  Sarah
was very nervous; for the first time, she was actually looking forward to
performing her wifely duties.  She hoped that he would be pleased with her
choice of garments.  She felt the bed shift as he sat on the edge and
watched his back as he blew out the candle.
   The room was very dark.  He lifted the edge of the covers and slid
beneath, lying precisely beside her lengthwise, the same as always.  She
knew what came next--he would slink around and down, placing himself
between her thighs.  That was the point, the parting of her legs that
usually saw her disconnect and concentrate instead on many other things
than that which her husband was preparing to do.
   Tonight she accommodated him, spreading her knees and parting her
thighs. Instead of closing her eyes or looking away she searched for him.
Even though it was dark, her eyes were becoming accustomed enough so that
she could see a dark shape hovering, a slight twinkle of starlight
reflected from his eyes.  He paused a moment, weight on his knees, with a
hand on either side of her waist supporting his upper body.
   It had never occurred to her to even question what he did as a husband,
she having had no reference point for comparison.  Now, twisted though her
experience was, she knew that men touched women (sometimes cruelly),
caressing, stroking, twisting and, occasionally, squeezing almost
uncomfortably in all the places that women were round and soft and full. 
She had spent so many years hiding her body, even from her husband, that
she failed to notice his failure to notice, an observation she was wholly
unable to comprehend.
   She heard him muttering under his breath, words she couldn't understand,
and felt him shuffling around.  He's lowering his drawers, she realized. 
As always she merely laid there, arms at her sides, waiting for him to do
what he would--only this time with the tiniest flicker of desire deep
within her breast.
   Seconds later the bed began shaking, rocking quickly back and forth. 
Sarah herself remained untouched.  He's...  he's touching...  himself, she
realized with shock.  He's touching himself!  She reached back in her mind,
searching those dark moments she had tried so desperately to ignore, trying
to remember a time when he...  no, it couldn't be!  A dawning realization
struck home: He's never touched me before!
   Meanwhile Robert continued, the bed rocking more frantically now.  It
had been less than a minute since he began when he paused and grunted,
muttering again incoherently.  Sarah noted dully that a warm wet sticky
substance splashed onto her thighs.  Her husband grunted twice more,
followed by the discharge of more ejaculate, before he sighed, quickly
shucked his drawers up and rolled over to the side.  He none too subtly
reached back and pushed her shoulder--Sarah immediately understood it as a
dismissal, that it was over, and she moved down to her cot at the foot of
his bed.
   Seconds later Robert Higgins snores filled the room.
   *
   Sarah wiped herself with a rag before nestling deep into her cot.  As
she pulled a quilt up to her chin, many thoughts at once crowded into her
mind: Was it always so?  Had he never, in all their years of marriage,
touched her?  Was this...  The most difficult thought of all: Was this why
they had no children?
   Have we never consummated our marriage?
   Sarah wasn't able to sleep for a very long time.
   *
   The next day Robert was at the firm long hours, not returning home until
well past seven in the evening.  Sarah, ever dutiful, had dinner prepared,
and they ate it in virtual silence.  Robert again spoke of the firm, boring
her with many esoteric legal details that held no interest for her.  The
few times she tried to speak he brushed her off or ignored her, as if she
were simply another piece of furniture or, worse, a mere boarder whose job
it was to take care of his many needs.
   Yes, a boarder, that described their relationship almost perfectly,
Sarah realized.
   Tonight, she would take drastic measures.
   Tonight, she would get his undivided attention.
   *
   Robert was sleeping, snoring loudly as always, when Sarah (again wearing
the very thin shift) climbed up into his bed and slid underneath the
sheets. This was the scariest part, pressing her advantage.
   She was sure there was no shortage of men--based on her experience at
The Visum--who would welcome, even crave, this sort of attention.  She
hoped her husband would be receptive.
   She was prepared to become his Wife.
   Safely in bed without waking him, Sarah began by slowly stroking his
side, dragging her fingertips up and down his flank.  Soon enough she
placed her hand beneath his nightshirt and began rubbing his back, pressing
her thumbs into tight muscles.
   He groaned softly--evidently what she was doing was working--and rolled
over onto his back.
   "What...  what are you...  doing?" he asked groggily.
   Sarah didn't answer, instead transferred her attentions to his stomach,
running her fingers through thick curly hair and up to his chest.  Her
husband would never be confused with a workman; his muscles were
ill-defined, more suited for walking and riding than for any sort of heavy
lifting.  Still, she gave them all her complete attention, treating him as
if he were the hardiest of labor men who, sore from a long days work,
required extensive rehabilitation before doing it all again the following
day.
   As she moved down Sarah gently tugged his night trousers down over the
hips and past his knees, an act that took more courage than she had
imagined.  She carefully avoided looking up, not wanting to be distracted
and not wanting to provide him a point to complain or resist.
   Finally it was done--her husband lay on his back, trouser-less, and she
knelt between his legs, a position neither of them had experienced in their
lives.
   From her kneeling position she looked up and saw, for the first time,
her husband's penis.  It was neither disappointing nor impressive; rather,
it appeared the same as Master Collins, albeit noticeably smaller.  In her
mind the size didn't register--surely, like anything else, they came in all
shapes and sizes?
   It was rock-hard, a thick veiny appendage that seemed to hover, the tip
not touching his body as it wavered back and forth.  It twitched randomly,
a jerk that seemed almost involuntary.
   The tip glistened, as if a single drop of fluid had leaked from within.
She took the shaft of it in her hand and squeezed tentatively, exploring
the feel and function in a way she knew would not have been possible only
weeks before.
   A full moon, arcing across the sky, moved into the window corner and
flooded the room with soft white light.  Sarah, rigid penis in hand, looked
up and saw her husband staring back at her, an unreadable look on his face.
He said and did nothing, merely lay there.
   Having taken matters into her own hands to this point, Sarah saw no
reason to stop and moved her face and mouth towards her husband's engorged
member.  As the tip of it pressed against her lips, Robert Higgins looked
straight up and closed his eyes.
   *
   Sarah took it all into her mouth, a task much easier than it had been
with Master Collins.  Her husband's member had a way of shivering, as if it
were a volcano threatening to erupt at any time.  The familiar trickle of
seminal fluid, not unpleasant, leaked into her mouth, a slick substance
that aided lubrication as she alternately raised and lowered her lips
wrapped snugly around his throbbing manhood.  After an especially copious
burst, followed by a single pelvic thrust, she felt, for the first time,
her husband's hands on the side of her head, lifting her away from the task
she had set herself about.
   "What is this?" he asked.  "What are you doing?"
   His words were harsh; she might have been a petty thief, caught in the
act red-handed.
   "I...  that is...  I'm..."
   "You've never done this before.  Where did you learn it?" An accusation.
   Sarah didn't respond.
   A full minute of silence, during which neither of them spoke or moved,
followed.
   Robert broke it.
   "Is this what you want?" he asked, grabbing her shift and yanking
sideways, tossing her on her back.  "Is it?" he repeated, jerking down
viciously and ripping the thin garment lengthwise.  He gazed upon her naked
breasts, large and full, quivering palely in the moonlight.  "How about
this, then?" he asked hoarsely, closing his fingers around one enlarged
nipple and twisting uncomfortably.
   "No," she whispered.  "I..."
   "I see," he said, now grasping the entire breast and squeezing as if
wringing out a soaked washcloth.  He manipulated her hefty breast with his
hand, pinching and squeezing, exploring for the first time his wife's
momentous bounty.
   It wasn't the gentle, loving moment Sarah had imagined it would or
should be; rather it was a nearly mechanical exercise, one in which he now
used both hands, and he squeezed so hard he seemed determined to feel every
single fiber contained within her substantial mammary glands.  She knew
that these should feed her children one day--but tonight her husband was
selfishly handling them in a way she found very unsettling.  She squirmed
uncomfortably, flinched as he took both nipples between his thumb and
forefingers and began pulling them simultaneously.
   It seemed not to please him but, instead, to trigger some other, darker
motivation.  "I think you should finish what you started," he said darkly,
an edge to his voice.  Releasing her tortured nipples he laid back down on
his back.  The air was thick with expectation.
   Sarah, still on her own back, slowly sat up.
   "Robert, you don't understand--"
   "Suddenly shy?" he asked.
   She didn't answer; instead, she leaned over his torso, taking his length
in one hand while gazing down upon it with an entirely different
perspective than she had moments before.  She hesitated--this was not what
she had wanted.
   Not at all.
   "Go ahead then.  Your wickedness knows no bounds!  Are you to act a
whore's part without finishing?"
   "No," she whispered, lowering her head slowly.
   "Let's be about it then," he replied, a new and wholly unexpected tone
entering his voice.  Sarah turned her head quickly, searching his eyes.
   Robert Higgins position on all of this was clear: his face held a
mixture of disgust and contempt--a look he reserved for the lowest of the
low, but now squared directly at his wife.
   Sarah turned her face away and lowered it.  As her lips closed over the
broad engorged phallic tip, she felt almost exactly the same as she had,
weeks before, while kneeling before Master Collins.  That this should be
her husband, that she had initiated the act herself, and that she felt the
irresistible pressure to finish it only exaggerated her shame.
   *
   "That's it," her husband whispered, lying perfectly still.  "I only ever
treated you with honor and respect!  But this," he said, careful not to
move or assist in any way his wife's depraved debauchery, "is this what you
wanted?  Is it?" he repeated as he felt Sarah's teeth graze his shaft.
   Single-minded, she didn't respond.  Eager to finish, she moved a bit
more quickly, bobbing her head up and down smoothly.  Her husband's words,
painful though they were, failed to interrupt her task.
   Robert couldn't believe his wife was taking him in her mouth, sucking
hungrily as if she were very thirsty.  "You'll drink," he whispered. 
"Suck," he commanded, "Suck!"
   Seconds later, it was over.  Without warning Sarah felt a surge of hot
semen flood her mouth; it was very tart, causing her to gag a bit.
   "Drink it!  Quench your thirst!" Robert said, rolling his eyes into the
back of his head.
   Sarah stopped moving and held her head perfectly still.
   Finished, penis deflated and empty of seed, her husband roughly pushed
her away by the shoulders before pulling his blankets up and wrapping
himself thoroughly.  He flailed his feet towards her, forcing her to move.
   To leave.
   Tired, depressed, and disappointed beyond measure, Sarah returned to her
cot and, having wiped her mouth with a rag, fell into fitful sleep.  All
night, a man's organ ravaged her mouth, plunging relentlessly back and
forth--sometimes it was Master Collins, and sometimes it was her husband.
   No matter--the shame was always the same.
   *
   The next day, Robert acted as if nothing had happened, conducting
himself cordially.  He went to work, came home, ate, and prepared for bed
as he always did.
   However, after all the days chores were finally done, after she crawled
into her cot, she heard him shuffle around and slip from his bed.  She
assumed he was going to relieve himself in the aft chamber pot until she
heard his bare feet plodding in her direction.  Looking up, she saw him
standing over, his penis dangling from the hole in his night pants.
   "I think we've established you know what to do with this," he said
onerously, hands on hips.  "This wickedness must be emptied from your
personage.  Perhaps after tonight it won't be necessary again."
   Dumbstruck Sarah didn't move, only stared as his penis began to lengthen
and list to the side, rising on its own in preparation.  Within seconds it
stood straight up, a small fierce red-tipped baton.
   "On your knees, then," he said in a voice full of judgment and
condemnation.  "You know what to do."
   As Sarah went to her knees, she wondered just what she had gotten
herself into.
   *
   As she sucked, Sarah knew that Robert was speaking but she was able to
successfully tune most of it out.  A few words--disappointment, despair,
trollop--reached her ears, words that would have given her pause if she
didn't see, hanging at his sides, her husbands tightly curled fists.
   His fingers flexed in time with her motion.  When she held him firmly in
her gullet his hands clenched very tightly; when only the tip rested
between her lips, his fingers relaxed and hung open.  They repeated this
dance, flex, relax, flex, and relax, until quite suddenly his hands boxed
her ears.
   "Drink it!  Thirsty whore, drink!  DRINK!" he growled.
   This time the semen was almost hot, a blazing sensation of blasted
throat as it pumped nearly straight down into her stomach.
   Sarah, dutiful, stop moving her head and swallowed.
   Two days ago, this had been the furthest thing from her mind.  She had
envisioned a mutual exploration of their matrimonial bonds, a path to
eventual childrearing.  This...  this was something altogether different.
At least, she told herself, head hung as he pulled his night pants over
himself, he's going out of town in the morning.
   *
   Her husband left first thing the next morning; of course, she had arisen
and ensured all preparations for his departure were attended to.  After a
perfunctory parting, where he failed even to embrace her--"Goodbye, Sarah,"
he'd said, vague finality in his words--he unceremoniously stepped through
the door, pulling it to without a look back.
   Mind agape with thought, Sarah took the rest of the day to ponder her
circumstance.  She had a lot to think about.
   I know why I have no children was her first thought, followed almost
immediately by I am not a wife!  Could a woman married so long without
consummation consider herself married?  Had not the Lord said, "Go forth
and multiply"?  She wasn't sure who was to blame--her husband, who had so
fully abandoned and ignored his Biblical command, or herself for lacking
the knowledge to realize the slight in the first place?  Was such a
statement, "Go forth and multiply," even one so contained in the Holiest of
Documents, tantamount to "Fuck off!"?  That thought, incorporating a term
so crass, sent her into depths of deepest shame, causing a searing blush
that gave her heat such that she might fill a bucket with perspiration.
   I married Robert in the church, she reasoned.  Of COURSE he's my
husband! And proudly so!  Even as she thought it, the nebulous nature of
their marriage failed to crystallize.  Is something wrong with me?  she
wondered, not for the first time since realizing she was still possessing
of her Virtue.  How else to explain his neglect?
   As she lay on her husband's bed, whiling away the hours lost in
transitive thought, her mind raced from scenario to scenario, concocting
elaborate explanations for why she was in such a marriage, for why her
husband had neglected her so, for why she had no children.
   For why, at this rate, she would never bear ANY children!
   Sarah couldn't help the tears that came.  It seemed she was at a
crossroads of sorts; upon realizing she had never been made a proper wife,
had she not deigned to take matters in hand, as it were?  To make things
right?
   Did I not try hard enough?  she asked, eyes cast to the ceiling.  What
else must I do?
   A sudden pounding on the door interrupted her private, unspoken
conversation.
   "BANG!  BANG!  BANG!"
   Sarah stood, flattened her plain brown ankle-length work dress and
walked towards the door warily.  The last thing she expected was a visitor;
the last thing she wanted was a solicitor; the last thing she needed was
bad news.
   The last person she expected to see through her cracked doorway was
Jennifer, Mr.  Winthrop's, ah, companion.
   "Sarah?" Jennifer asked, shifting back and forth nervously.  "Mr. 
Brown, 'e's askin' for ya.  At the Visum.  Said you'd wanna come."
   At mention of Mr.  Brown, Sarah couldn't the skip of her heart, the near
instant pounding beneath her breast.
   Douglas Brown, in her whole life the only man who had spoken to her
(however briefly) as an equal.  The only man who had ever apologized for
wronging her.
   Douglas Brown wanted to see her.
   "Said urgent like," Jennifer added, hands clasped behind her back.
   "Sure, alright then.  Just let me change--"
   "Now," Jennifer breathed, looking around quickly, "we need to go now."
   Sarah nodded, retrieved her small hand purse, and followed Jenny to the
carriage, noting with irritation the presence of the very coarse men who
had come for her the first time she traveled to The Visum.  If she had paid
any closer attention, she would have realized how keenly the carriage men
stared upon her, as if they could see beneath her heavy clothing.  If she
had noticed, perhaps she would have paused to consider getting into the
carriage.
   Perhaps.
   Nevertheless she entered the horse drawn carriage, welcoming this
respite from the day's tortured evaluation of her troubled marriage.  She
quite looked forward to conversing with Mr.  Brown, an adult conversation
about any manner of things devoid of kneeling or squatting or spreading.
   In her mind Sarah was sure of Mr.  Brown's motivations--or, perhaps more
accurately, his lack thereof.
   Sarah settled in for an hour and a half's rickety journey.
   THE VISUM
   The journey passed without exchange of a single word between the two
women.  The drivers made good time, taking just over an hour before they
rolled up outside the gentlemen's club.
   Jennifer, having quickly exited the coach, nearly ran to The Visum
entrance and disappeared through the doors, the doorman waving her through
expansively.
   Sarah, on the other hand, approached much more cautiously, mind ablaze
with possibilities.  For the moment, all thought of her husband and the
state of her marriage were shoved aside as she pondered (not without a
small pang of guilt, it should be noted) what exactly Mr.  Brown had in
store tonight.  She certainly believed him to be a man of his word, at this
point; he had made it abundantly clear that no other demands would be made
of her.
   The doorman stood at attention just outside The Visum's entrance as
Sarah warily approached.  She was aware that certain protocols were to be
followed whilst at The Visum; still, in this particular situation,
unescorted, it was altogether unclear exactly what was expected.  At any
rate, this was not a circumstance where Sarah was a typical "guest"
(whatever that was) and she felt no obligation whatsoever to follow anyone
around, to be put through her paces.  She was meeting up with Mr.  Brown
for what, she was sure, would soon be a deep conversation about her
husband's increased responsibility (and concordant pay), an apology for
past transgressions, that sort of thing.  Sarah was no lapdog tonight-
   --never again.
   She walked through the door, pulling her nondescript dress up slightly
as she crossed the threshold.  This time she was determined to have a good
look around, to see exactly what kind of place Dus Aliter Visum was.
   Sarah realized immediately the unparalleled opulence with which she was
surrounded--worked cherry tables, inlaid chairs lined with silver,
elaborate trim running at both floor and ceiling levels--opulence that
starkly contrasted how very plain she must look, wearing what amounted to
nothing more than a mere servant's dress with dirty, worn shoes and hair
pulled aside with a pin.
   The Dining Room's extravagant décor was exaggerated tonight by how very
deserted it was, with only a single occupied table in the far corner--in
Mr. Brown's corner--though the lighting was subdued such that the man sat
back away from the table, nondescript.  Sarah gazed around the walls,
absorbing the various paintings, portraits and landscapes, before stepping
across the room towards Mr.  Brown's table.
   "You like them?" a deep, rumbling voice called from the table.
   Startled, Sarah jumped slightly and paused.  That's not Mr.  Brown, she
thought, a bolt of pure terror running down her spine.  It was as if her
body were suddenly void of any volition, a rag doll standing lifeless,
waiting for its owner to determine what her arms and legs should do.
   "I do believe I asked you a question," the voice added, its owner
leaning forward into the flickering candlelight.
   Sarah was too shocked to respond.
   "Personally, I could care less what hangs on the walls here," Thaddeus
Collins said, "although I fully expect an answer to my question."
   Sarah nodded quickly.  "Yes," she said, mind reeling, "I like them."
What is he doing here?  WHERE IS MR.  BROWN?
   "Sarah," Collins said, chuckling softly, "the pleasantries must be
observed.  You haven't forgotten so quickly, have you, how to conduct
yourself?"
   "No...  no, sir," she answered, a familiar, uncomfortable knot forming
in the pit of her stomach.  This couldn't be happening...
   "Sit," he said, remaining seated.
   Sarah looked around quickly before slowly stepping forward.  She did not
immediately sit down but instead stood behind the chair opposite Collins,
holding the back.  She noted that the table was empty save a single glass
of water, half empty (or half full, as it were) at Mr.  Collins' hand.  She
observed his fingers, thick as sausages, close around the glass and lift so
that he took a big swig, spilling water from the corners of his mouth and
down his chin.  He lowered the glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his
other hand in the process.  His hands were simply enormous.
   Sarah stood stock-still.  She couldn't figure out why she was here,
where Mr.  Brown was, or why he had permitted her to be alone with this...
this MAN.  Her brow furrowed, small lines of doubt crossing her forehead as
she concentrated on trying to figure this out-
   --on trying, the hardest she had ever tried anything, to avoid thinking
about what exactly Mr.  Collins' intentions were.
   She was somewhat less than successful.
   "You have a question?" he observed.  "Ask it."
   Sarah took a deep breath, permission to speak given.  (That she should
require as much from Thaddeus Collins was a separate matter, one best left
to consider another day.) "Mr.  Collins, I was given to understand that Mr.
Brown requested my presence." She said it very quickly, afraid she would
wither into silence under his steady gaze.  The way she said it, the words
ran almost unintelligibly together.
   Collins scratched his head, exaggerating his movements as an actor in a
play.  He looked around in mock surprise.  "I don't see him around.  How
fortunate for me."
   Sarah felt her gaze drawn to him, as if he were a giant masculine magnet
she was powerless to resist.
   As her brilliant, light blue eyes went to Collins face, she found the
same hard, unyielding gray eyes as the son staring back at her.  She
remembered all too well staring into those nearly same eyes, one on each
side of the son's rampant manhood as it slowly entered her mouth weeks
before.  All color drained from her already pale face, a kind of paralyzing
pall falling over.  Collins, whose face was up to now expressionless,
smiled ever so slightly, clearly amused at the change of demeanor that
overtook the poor girl standing before him.
   "Remove your hairpin.  I'm sure I prefer it down."
   "What--what?" she responded.
   "Are you deaf?"
   "No--no, s-s-sir."
   "Well, then."
   Sarah's shaking hand went to her head and removed the pin, freeing her
thick red hair to fall about her shoulders.
   Collins stood and walked over behind Sarah, where he placed his hands on
her shoulders.
   Sarah tensed her arms, clutching the chair back tightly between whitened
knuckles.
   "Mr.  Collins," she asked, voice unusually high, "where is Mr.  Brown?"
   "No more questions."
   His hands squeezed her shoulders and began massaging in a way Sarah,
despite conscious revolt, found her body responding to.  He ran his thumbs
in tight circles around her shoulder blades, to the outside of her arms,
and in the high ridge of Sarah's upper back just below her neck.  He rubbed
her neck as well, long side to side applications of pressure that released
tightened muscle pressure--but in no way relieved the anguish that
threatened, any second, to send Sarah into unrestrained hysterics.
   Collins leaned in and began whispering in her ear, hands holding her
shoulders firmly in place.
   "That clerk husband of yours has cost me money--a lot of money." His
words, rough-edged and menacing, sent her heart racing as a freight train
screaming perilously out of control.  "You've cost me a small fortune as
well.  That son of mine, once seen, had to have you.  Still," he added,
leaning in even closer and inhaling her essence, "he has very good taste."
   They stood silent a moment, he breathing slow and evenly, she rather
anxiously.  She stood, ram rod straight, waiting.
   She had done this her whole life, waited for someone to tell her what to
do, what to feel--when to do it, and when not to feel.
   "Sarah?"
   "Yes, Mr.  Collins?" she replied automatically.
   "Before this night is through," he said, enormous satisfaction dripping
from every syllable, "I shall very much enjoy fucking you."
   *
   Sarah jumped and tried to run away, but he merely seized one forearm and
pulled her to, squeezing mightily and wrenching her to his side.  There was
no escape.
   From there, it was easy enough for him to practically tuck her under one
arm and carry her as nothing more than an especially juicy, succulent ham
back to the Dessert Room where he nearly tossed her through the door.
   As she scrambled off the floor he stepped through, closing and latching
the door.  One word, "Platform," spoken flatly, was beyond negotiation.  By
now Sarah knew there was no meeting Mr.  Brown tonight--no fancy dinner,
comfortable carriage ride, or hours of pleasant conversation beneath a
starry sky.
   Tonight there was only the Dessert Room, a room that had seemed ever so
much bigger the first time she'd been.  Now it was a claustrophobic prison,
an ever-tightening cell with only a single platform situated in the very
center.
   "Platform," he repeated, faintly impatient.
   She slowly walked towards it, stopping when her knees pressed against
the side.  Collins followed immediately behind and closed a hand
momentarily around her neck before sliding it down to the neckline of her
dress.
   "Are you, or should it?" he asked, pulling uncomfortably down.  The
message couldn't be clearer--are you going to take this off or should I
remove it forcibly?
   Not like this, Sarah thought, shaking her head.  Please, not like this.
Having only just come into the realization, the last few days, that her
Virtue remained, that her husband had never actually completed... 
completed his...  husbandly duties, that her marriage was not consummated,
she was not now prepared to give up such a prize to the brute standing
behind her.
   Collins misread the shaking of her head.  "Fine," he muttered, raising
his elbow while securing the neckline between his fingers.  "We shall do it
my way."
   "RRIIIIPPPPPP!"
   The buttoned collar bit into her neck as Collins yanked viciously down.
The worn fabric gave after a slight pause, tearing with a terrific rip and
popping off button after button, sending them bouncing across the hard
wooden floor.  Freed of her shoulders, the dress was shoved down her back
and over her shapely hindquarters where it subsequently fell to her feet,
leaving her covered in only an immodest shift.  He stepped in closely,
pressing his chest into her back.
   "Arms up," he commanded.  Stricken, Sarah failed to comply.  "Arms up!"
he repeated, helping by pressing her elbows upwards until she held her own
arms overhead.
   "Now then," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her torso and cupping
her very full breasts, one in each hand, "let us just see what we have
here."
   MR.  BROWN
   Douglas Brown knocked on the door again, much louder than before.  It
was dark; an indecent hour to be calling upon a married woman, but there
was nothing for it.
   He had to see her.
   He vividly remembered the first night, taking her to The Visum, when he
realized how very unlike her husband Sarah Higgins was.  A woman of
substance, with striking features and a fierce loyalty that drove her to
depths no woman he had yet met could match.
   Certainly, she had been taken advantage of.  The Collins boy had seen to
that.  Still, it hadn't seemed right, seeing her knelt before him,
worshipping in such a unique and profane manner.  He had felt a pang of
embarrassment for the poor girl that night.
   The following week, visiting her at home, he had almost backed out on
the follow-up request.  The uproar at The Visum was unprecedented; many
members had heard about the performance and approached him, enquiring as to
the plump redhead's next appearance.  "Are her teats really so large,
Douglas?" and "Did she really suck him dry?" were the most common
questions. He'd felt obligated to arrange two more visits, so intense was
the pressure.
   Still, complete impertinence and an utter breach of trust was what those
questions were.  In hindsight, it was easy to make such a determination.
   "What happens at The Visum stays at The Visum."
   A mantra long in the making, it seemed some had forgotten and were
speaking out of turn; especially grievous was the young woman they were
speaking about, a lass he knew to be honorable and, it was true, more than
fetching.
   The strangest thing had happened: in the midst of being polite to her,
of asking a seemingly innocent question, he had quite by accident
discovered how very...  sweet--yes, sweet was the word--the poor girl was.
A genuine young woman possessing of such a regal bearing, who wanted
nothing in the world more than to have children and a home to raise them
in, should not be subjected to such indignities--no matter how ridiculous
or undeserving her husband.
   It was one thing for Charles Winthrop to bring his housekeeper; that
Jennifer girl had lain with more men than General Sherman marched to
Savannah, truth be told.  A common whore really, no better than any other
of the opportunistic strumpets who made occasional appearances at The
Visum. Most of the young women who performed there--Jennifer included--were
compensated handsomely for their services.
   And then, in a pinch and having no other option--and holding a
particular grudge against the righteous clerk who, truth be told, was very
good at his job if unbearable in the process of doing it--he decided to
target two birds with one stone, the young woman he had seen a handful of
times and her self-important husband.  This would give him an advantage
over both; although not a particularly vindictive man, Brown knew how to
obtain and use leverage.  He had assumed the woman to be cast in the same
mold as the husband, opinionated, headstrong, and boring beyond belief.
   The bigger question was what the clerk would do when he discovered his
worth.  For now he failed completely to understand his value--but that
would not last.  When he realized what he could command, he would need to
be brought to heel, which was where the wife came in.  At this critical
juncture, with telegraphing contracts coming down the pipe, a field clerk
capable of closing deals--cheaply and efficiently, while avoiding invoking
the services of the Collins' clan--was a commodity of highest value.  True
enough he carried on over-much about his religious leanings, but Brown was
sure it was exactly that which led to his exactitude in securing land deeds
and property easements with such alacrity.
   Through it all, taking the long view, he never expected to feel anything
for the girl.
   Certainly, he would not have dreamed he would find himself knocking on
her door at such an indecent hour.
   After pounding again without an answer, it was clear she wasn't home. 
Her husband left just this morning--what would have her out at this hour,
on the day of his departure?
   As Brown walked to his carriage, studying the ground carefully to be
sure of his footing, he saw a pair of deeply rutted tracks.
   Fresh.
   "No," he whispered, a sudden thought storming broadside into his
foremost attention.
   He remembered the meeting, a few hours before, the obvious
disappointment as the blond giant of a man took a payment substantially
less than he was accustomed to.
   'The clerk,' the blond man asked, more statement than query.
   'Yes, the clerk closed the deal,' Brown had answered.
   Thaddeus Collins had left in a flash, offering neither his hand nor a
departing salutation as he stormed out of the office with a very determined
set to his jaw.
   I should have known, Brown thought as he ran and jumped into his
carriage.  He cracked the whip quickly.
   "Hagh!  Hagh!" he called, urging his pair of horses.  He could make it
to The Visum in just under an hour, if his horses could bear the pace.
   He only hoped it would be fast enough.
   THADDEUS COLLINS
   Sarah knelt unsteadily on the solitary platform, buck-naked.  She jerked
her head back and forth, searching for Mr.  Collins.
   "Shall I put blinkers on you, little mare?" he asked.
   A silly giggle issued from behind.
   "She don' know her place, Mr.  Collins," Jennifer's shrill voice called
out.  "'ave to teach her, eh?"
   "Yes, I believe some instruction is in order."
   Sarah was aghast at her predicament: she was on her hands and knees,
centered on the platform, thick straps fastened about her ankles and
wrists. Testing slightly, there was no way she could pull either her hands
or feet any closer than they already were.  She closed her thighs--that she
could do--but at the cost of exaggerating how far apart her ankles and feet
were.  Her head slumped; great shocks of fiery red hair fell on either side
of her face.  She wouldn't cry--no, she most certainly wouldn't--but
neither could she offer more than token resistance.  Together, Mr.  Collins
and that damned Jennifer had joined together to position and restrain her
so.  She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her discomfiture.
   "First, I think you should demonstrate for me exactly what you did for
my boy.  What was it he called it?  Praying?"
   Jennifer snorted a derisive laugh empty of mirth.
   "Yeah, she be needin' some prayin' tonigh'!"
   Sarah took a deep breath and exhaled before opening her eyes.  Collins
stood before her.
   "Oh my..." she said involuntarily.
   He grinned.
   "Bigger than you're used to, I take it?"
   Sarah said nothing, staring intently at the Billy club dangling between
Collins thighs.  Although it was not erect it was long and resembled
nothing so much as a fire hose, tapered so that it was thicker at the base
than the tip.
   "There now, you seem predisposed.  I suppose I can afford some
assistance," Collins said, stepping in beside the platform.  Taking his
phallus in hand, he brought the tip to Sarah's mouth, touching it to her
lips.  For her part, Sarah did nothing but stare, unable to comprehend an
object so long.  Of course her experience was extremely
limited--EXTREMELY--but even a horse's member wasn't that much bigger than
what was presented to her now.  As she watched, the tip colored, a dark
brown tinged with crimson that seemed to extend down the shaft.  As it did,
she detected a plumping of the shaft, not so far removed from stuffing
sausage into a sleeve.  She gulped, blinked away a tear.
   This couldn't be happening.
   "Open," he said, a small word with only four letters that carried the
weight of the world.
   Sarah parted her lips at the same time that Mr.  Collins eased forward,
placing the flared head between her lips.  He stopped there and it was
quite a sight: Sarah knelt on her hands and knees, a prodigious semi-erect
penis poised to ram down her gullet while Collins stood, cradling himself
with one hand.  Collins released himself; Sarah felt the weight of it
threatening to fall from her mouth and, no other course of action evident,
sucked hard enough to keep the head firmly between her lips.
   "That's it," Collins said, his voice for the first time expressing an
emotion: Satisfaction.
"Now Sarah, I'm not altogether sure what you call this," he said,
pulling on his hardening manhood enough to demonstrate what he was speaking
of.  "In the backwoods, we call it a cock."
   Sarah gasped a harsh intake of breath around her invaded lips.
   "Don't you like my cock?" he asked, obvious enjoyment in his voice. 
Jennifer laughed came from behind Sarah.  "Why don't you pay tribute, as
you once did here?"
   Sarah remained motionless.
   "Well then, I shall merely help a little.  Personally, I don't like to
call it paying tribute," he said, placing one hand around the nape of her
neck, securing it so that she could not back away.  "I rather prefer to
call it what it is: sucking cock." He slid in, a motion that imbedded a few
inches into Sarah's mouth.  He stared down intently.  "Yes, time to suck
some cock, indeed."
   Collins arched back before sliding forward again, this time burying
almost half a foot in Sarah's throat.  He gazed down, concentration evident
in the hard set of his gray eyes as he observed Sarah's effort.  Satisfied,
he pulled back and gave a bit more, careful to hold her head firmly in
place.  This would be quite the job, embedding his full length between her
lips--but he was a very patient man.
   He had nothing but time.
   *
   Sarah had never experienced anything like this before--the insistent
pressure on her neck, the overwhelming presence between her lips, the
overpowering musk that emanated from Thaddeus Collins.  When he entered her
mouth she could barely breathe, she resorted to flaring her nostrils and
exhaling forcefully before doing the same to draw in breath.  Collins
seemed to like that; he would pause, his 'cock' imbedded in her throat and
watch her forceful breathing.
   Sarah, for her part, held her eyes tightly shut.  She tried to firm her
lips as much as possible, to prevent entry, but it was a failing
proposition.  His manhood bent only slightly before plopping between her
lips and entering the back of her mouth.
   It felt an eternity, the slow motion back and forth, but really was less
than ten minutes before a new, different thought entered Sarah's mind.
   If he finishes, maybe I can save my Virtue...
   She didn't have to fully flesh out the idea--the subtext was clear.  If
she could get him to finish now, he might not be predisposed to do more
later.
   With that in mind, on the next intake of meat Sarah opened her mouth a
little more and flicked his lower shaft with her tongue.
   Anything to finish, she thought.  Anything to finish...
   *
   "Well, well," Collins commented.  "I do believe she's eager at last. 
Let us see how strong her work ethic is," he continued, releasing her neck.
"I shall stand here and, as soon as you complete this--that is, as soon as
I fill your throat--we'll all be off.  How is that for motivation?"
   With only the head between her lips, Sarah looked up between her
disheveled hair, searching Mr.  Collins eyes for the truth.
   If this man could even speak it.
   She had no way of knowing, but she knew it was her only chance.
   After a brief hesitation, Sarah arched her back and slid forward,
encapsulating Mr.  Collins now fully erect manhood between her lips.  She
felt her lips stretching as she approached the base, a stretching that was
increasingly uncomfortable.  More disconcerting was the presence, deep in
the back of her throat, of his pulsing head, a hot iron that tickled her
gag reflex each time she neared the base of his penis.
   She would back off quickly, breathe, and then slide back down again.  It
became almost a challenge--could she take it all?  Truly, his length was
such that she was sure it should have been impossible but, eager to finish,
eager to avoid that which she had been sure would be her eventual outcome,
she gave more than a fair try.
   "That's it," he whispered, and the sound of his voice made clear that he
was enjoying Sarah's ministrations.  "Suck that cock.  Take it.  Take it!"
he hissed, wavering slightly in counter time to Sarah's motions.
   Finally, inevitably, unbelievably, Sarah did it.
   She took it all.
   She quickly pulled back, sure she would vomit everything she had ever
consumed, took a breath-
   --and did it again.
   And again.
   She might have been attacking it, so forceful was her downward thrust.
   The next down time she paused, forehead pressed against his stomach; her
mouth flooded with pre-seminal fluid, the rampant cock clenching fiercely,
swelling even more between her lips.
   "Almost," he whispered.  "Almost..."
   Sarah felt it, the cataclysmic orgasm that she had worked so hard for,
the sure knowledge that she had achieved her objective, when suddenly
Collins stepped back and gripped the base of his penis with one hand.
   "You very nearly got me," he said, face contorted.  What was he doing?
   Almost immediately Jennifer was beside him, replacing his hand with her
own, squeezing very tightly.  "Gotta save it for her," she said, giggling.
"Can' let her off easy like, can we?"
   "Yes.  This proud bitch," he said, stepping away from Jennifer with his
manhood dangling between his thighs, "is about to get royally fucked."
   Almost inexplicably, Jennifer began laughing uproariously.
   *
   Douglas Brown passed by the last grove of pine trees on the left, which
meant he was less than fifteen minutes from The Visum.  His horses,
lathered though they were, would have to make do for a little more.  He
hoped there was a footman working tonight; though, if his worst fears were
confirmed, he was sure the place would be locked tight and his work only
just begun.
   "Hagh!" he called with a quick whistle.  A flick of his wrist and the
whip lashed out, urging his steeds to more speed.  "Hagh!  HAGH!!"
   *
   Sarah was exhausted.  She knelt, hindquarters up, shoulders resting on
the platform.  She was acutely aware how obscene this position was--and
powerless to do anything about it.  Her large breasts rested against the
cold leather, nipples shriveled tightly.  Her jaw was sore, having opened
and closed so many times the last days, and a bitter saltiness rested
stubbornly on her tongue, refusing to dissipate.  She heard them behind
her, moving around, but could see nothing.  Who knew what they were doing?
As if on cue...
   "There now, it's time to extract final payment.  To be clear," he added,
resting his hands on Sarah's haunches, "this is more of a down payment. 
Your husband has amassed quite a debt, and the matter of payment for my
son's services is not forgotten."
   A deep foreboding fell over Sarah--down payment?  Quite a debt?  Young
Master Collins?  It was too much.  She shook her head.
   "No," she whispered.  Louder: "No!"
   "I don't think you are negotiating from a position of strength, Sarah. I
told you," he continued, raising his member and rubbing the head against
Sarah's many folds, "that tonight I shall enjoy this very much."
   "You...  you can't," she blurted.  "I'm..."
   "--about to afford to another man that which you have no doubt provided
numerous times to your husband.  I must say, the good clerk has chosen
well," he added, patting her rounded buttocks familiarly.  "You are rather
built for this.  How many children do you have?" he asked, as if it were a
completely casual conversation.  He positioned his raging erection and
leaned in, creating a small space where he would soon be doing quite a bit
more.
   "Snug," he said, almost irritated.  He reached one hand down Sarah's
back and pulled her bottom towards him, eager to plant himself.
   "A fine filly, they got that right," he said.
   Sarah knew time was short--he would be taking that which she had
(unknown to her until two days ago yet completely beside the point) so far
protected for her entire life.
   "I am...  a Virtuous woman!" she blurted.
   Collins paused.
   "Virtuous?"
   Deepest shame came over Sarah at the admission.  Her body colored in
response, a crimson so deep, so ingrained, it appeared she might well
explode.
   "Well," Collins said, seeming to consider his words carefully, "it seems
I should have the great privilege of not only fucking you this night--" he
placed his hands on either side of her rear end, squeezing the pliable
flesh firmly between his fingers, having nestled the head of his engorged
cock between Sarah's outer lips "--but having fucked you for all future
men."
   Collins thrust, a harsh, brutal imposition of his undeniable desire
between the deepest, darkest depths of Sarah's untainted womanhood.
   "There," he whispered, thrusting again, struggling to gain purchase, "I
will have you."
   He thrust yet again but, as before, Sarah's body seemed determined to
resist.  It was the classic argument--irresistible force versus immovable
object.  Surely one would give; it was only a matter of time.
   And temperament.
   *
   Sarah clenched herself as tightly as she could.  Perhaps he would
eventually capture that which she would not give freely--perhaps--but she
would in no way be a co-conspirator in his efforts.  It was a token
resistance, all that she could muster.
   "This is like a little honey hole," Collins said, fierce concentration
evident in the set of his voice, the pressure of his hands, the impending
force of his entry.  "But like all honey holes," he added, thrusting and,
for the first time, feeling a noticeable (albeit small) amount of movement
inwards, "they always get explored in the end.  Perhaps," he added, shoving
his lower body with renewed vigor, "exploited is the correct term."
   "Ungh.  UNGH!" Sarah grunted as, not once but twice she felt it, the
terrible pressure, and an impending sense of doom.
   "Yes," Collins said triumphantly.  "YES."
   *
   It was done.  Never in her life had Sarah imagined a feeling like this,
a fullness that threatened to overwhelm her senses and reduce her to
nothing more than a shivering, quaking mess of wracked emotion.  The
finality of it--that this man, in this moment, should take her so, was
inescapable.
   Collins eased out before plunging in again, this time nearly burying his
entire length.  "Oh yes," he hissed, "just a down payment..."
   Out and then in, fully sheathed inside the impossibly tight,
irresistibly warm fuckhole that was Sarah Higgins.
   "I think I shall require payment," he said, slowly withdrawing, "daily!"
   As he parted her lips with his length again, burrowing his prodigious
length into Sarah's deepest, darkest caverns, her mind raced back to that
moment, after she had pleasured the son, when the father had stood over her
and stared down, a look of stone cold certainty contained within it.
   He had known.
   He had always known.
   "Up!" he commanded, pulling back on her hips.  "Lift yourself, woman.  I
want to see those udders of yours dangling.  They may be built for
childrearing," he continued, leaning over and reaching down, taking the
heft of them in his hands with his cock fully inside, "but tonight they
shall be my entertainment."
   He pinched and clutched in time with rhythmic hip motions, squeezing
imaginary milk from the bounty of her robust breasts.  "Yes, I shall
provide the milk," he hissed, beginning to thrust a bit more forcefully.
   Combined with her precarious position, Sarah couldn't escape the image
of a small female dog, indelicately 'stuck' and being dragged around by a
much larger male.
   "Nothing more than a bitch in heat, that's what you are," he hissed into
her ear as if privy to her thoughts.  "Take it.  Take it, bitch!" he
continued, emphasizing his words with enthusiastic drives of his lower
body.
   Thaddeus Collins pulled back, hands clamped firmly over her breasts,
capturing the nipples between his fingers as he sighed, quite softly,
before descending on her with one final, bone-jarring drive
   *
   It's inside me, Sarah thought, the sensation of abrupt warmth filling
her inner confines.  It's inside me and it's going to...  to...
   She couldn't bear to finish the thought--that, as a consequence of this
act, she could find herself with child.  She imagined she could feel it,
the untold tiny sperm, all swimming up towards their final destination with
the same determination of Mr.  Collins, a resilient, undeniable force bent
on a singular purpose.  Of course it was in her head; of course she
couldn't really feel them, moving around, swimming up, racing towards her
egg so that they could implant themselves in it.
   Of course she was imagining it, all of it.
   Of course she was.
   *
   Collins slumped heavily, resting all of his weight on Sarah's back.  His
member, still enraged, remained inside her.  Sarah buckled and held a
moment before succumbing to his massive weight.  She lowered her upper body
until it rested on the platform, mashing the girth of her breasts against
his restraining hands.
   She felt Collins rapid steamy breath on her back, his hairy legs pushed
against her own, the insistence of his body pressed resolutely against
everything she considered her own.  His fingers finally let go their grip
about her nipples, releasing the distended tips of her breasts so as to
withdraw his hands.  As he removed his weight from her back, beads of sweat
fell from his chest onto the small of her lower back, splashing softly
before running down the center towards her neck.
   Collins stood back and gazed down, noting the creamy substance slowly
draining down Sarah's inner thigh.
   "There now, it would seem you are, finally, a proper woman."
   Aghast, Sarah fought back the sob that threatened to spill over, sure
that tears and sorrow would disastrously follow.  This was not a time for
weakness--what was done was done and now was the time for clarity of
thought and iron-like resolve.
   "Or perhaps that should be, finally, a properly fucked woman."
   Just then, an earth shattering crash shattered the quiet Georgia night.
Sarah jerked her head towards the door, unable to believe what she had just
heard.
   For his part, Thaddeus Collins stood back, naked from the waist down,
hands folded across his chest.
   "You were a fool to bring her here tonight, Thaddeus" a voice said,
unusually strong and sure.
   Douglas!  Sarah's heart leapt immediately into her throat, pounding so
hard she was sure it would simply explode any second.
   "Perhaps it was a magnificent mistake," Collins said, taking one step
toward the doorway, "but we both know you aren't going to do anything about
it."
   For one half a second, Sarah was sure that Collins was right--that he
would replace his trousers and don his shoes, that he would merely walk
away, and that he may, in the future, even attempt to repeat the events of
this night again.
   Then, that half a second later, the thunderclap of a discharging firearm
stopped Collins still, filling the air with smoke and the acrid smell of
gunpowder.
   As the smoke cleared Collins, having not moved an inch, asked a very
simple question: "Have you shot me, Douglas?" His voice, ever confident,
had the slightest pang, a mournful sound that said plain as day, everything
he had ever known to this moment was over.
   "Not this time, Thaddeus," Douglas responded, motioning his pistol
towards the hole in the polished wood floor inches removed from Collins
foot.  He then brought the weapon up, pointing it straight between Collins
eyes.  "However, I can make no guarantees about the next."
   Collins took a step towards his trousers before he noticed Brown shaking
his head; evidently, he wouldn't need either those or his boots.  He
walked, trouser less, through the shattered door and out of the Visum into
the cold Southern night.
   "Are you quite proud of yourself?" Brown asked, eyebrow arched, of
Jennifer who stood stock still in the corner.  She tried to be defiant, to
return his stare but found she lacked the will.  "Don't bother going back
to Winthrop's.  Don't bother doing anything in this town--you will find no
work here, no one who remembers your name or even acknowledges your
existence.  This, I promise."
   Jennifer knew it to be so and disappeared herself, never again to be
seen or heard.
   *
   "Sarah," he said, a simple word, perhaps the simplest he had ever
spoken.
   "Douglas," she responded.  Her relief was plain.
   "I went to see you, I...  I should have known, this--"
   "Douglas," Sarah said, quite insistently.
   "Yes, Sarah?"
   "Please, before you do anything else--"
   "Anything," Douglas interrupted.
   "--please untie me."
   SIX MONTHS LATER
   Sarah gazed out upon the square, a scene she had become quite fond of
the last few months.  She remembered this view, albeit from the office
below, from the first time she had some to see Douglas in his office (the
circumstances of that visit now nearly forgotten) just over eight months
before.  In particular, she enjoyed the coming and going of people,
watching them tie their horses, the men walking with some affectation, and
of course the mothers taking care of their children.  This invariably
brought a smile to her face (a smile to fill the darkest room) and, always,
her hand went to the rounded belly within which grew her unborn child.
   She sighed and continued knitting the tiny green and yellow outfits with
which she had become so proficient.  As she did, the events of the last
months played over her mind for the thousandth time...
   First, the unfortunate circumstance of a certain, little known structure
burning to the ground on the outskirts of town.  The fire was especially
potent, leaving no identifiable traces in the scattered debris.  Curiously,
no one seemed to notice, no calls were made, no claims filed, no cleanup
initiated.  It was as if the structure had never existed--and its eccentric
brotherhood, loyal to the end, never spoke of Dus Aliter Visum again.
   The Collins clan--father and son, to be clear--had disappeared around
the same time.  It seemed they had gathered their belongings and, after a
hurried stop at the local bank, taken off on a second hand carriage, due
west.  It was said they were headed to California, an imaginary place as
far as most Southerner's were concerned.  It was also said they met an
untimely end mere days into their journey, an end that left no witnesses, a
carriage of personal possessions, and two very large, very empty
strongboxes beside which lay their (newly deceased) respective owners.  No
proof was ever given to back up this version of events--perhaps none was
needed.
   The Junior Clerk of a particular firm, having received word of his
immediate, unqualified termination, returned home to a completely empty
dwelling.  Rather than his wife, and a hot meal, and another attempt to
save her from her own wickedness, Robert Higgins instead found a paper,
issued in absentia, stipulating annulment of unconsummated marriage.  He
didn't fight it but instead, never unpacking his bags, took the next train
from Atlanta out west where he secured employment with Standard Oil.  An
outstanding negotiator, he closed many deals and died, very wealthy and
very alone.
   Charles Winthrop, ever the gentlemen, treated Sarah as if she were the
most prized and highly sought after of possessions, listening to her
advice, deferring to her judgment, and never once making even the slightest
mention or note of any past indiscretions, such as they were.  Rather, the
wife of his business partner was a woman of enormous prestige--a sometimes
headstrong woman, almost always right, who kept her husband out of more
trouble than he ever could have known.
   Douglas Brown, most sought after bachelor for a thousand miles, finally
locked down, as it were, with the most unusually beautiful and full-bodied
redhead anyone had ever seen.  There had been one rumor about the wife
having been previously married--a rumor summarily quashed and sure never to
return.  It was said that Mr.  Brown had an heir on the way.  Lucky man,
that Mr.  Brown.  Very lucky man.
   Sarah Brown, no longer a Crutchfield or Higgins, was happier than she
could have ever imagined.  Her life's dream had been to raise children in
her own house, a simple dream for a simple woman.  Their under construction
home was almost complete, a sprawling structure on the outskirts of town
perfect for raising a family.  For now she stayed with her husband in his
executive apartment above the firm, knitting away at the various articles
of clothing her child would soon need.  She paid careful attention to the
tiniest details; there would be no finding fault with any of her work, that
was for sure.  She treated her husband as a king--a favor he returned in
kind, in all aspects of their private and personal lives.  Surely her
father would have wanted this, for her to be with a man who valued her for
more than what she could do for him (although she did plenty), who saw her
as something more than the sum of her individual parts.
   Still, there was one thing that nagged the back of her mind, a small,
nearly trivial thing really, so unimportant she hated to waste even a
second thinking on it.  As she fashioned a long sleeve on a tiny green
shirt she wondered, neither for the first nor last time, whether her child
would be a boy or a girl.  Each held promise--each came with peculiar
requirements--each would be loved unconditionally and forever.  And then
she wondered whether, when that boy or girl sprang from her womb, he or she
might have Douglas' brown hair or hair red as her own, framing matching
brown or brilliant sky blue eyes.
   Or if, perhaps, her child might just as well be blond, with eyes of
darkest gray.
REMEMBER: It's just fantasy!
   Talk to me: Night.Bane@hotmail.com
  
3 The Gentleman's Club, Pt. 3