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Torture Me Gently

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By the merest chance, Cal Basset runs into his old school chum Art Gibbons, which open's Paul Stone's latest bizarre novel. Art takes Cal home to meet the mysterious but hauntingly sensuous Helga. From the moment that he lays eyes on Helga, Cal is hopelessly drawn to the domineering beauty. The story takes its most terrifying and exciting turn when, in order to gain Art's freedom from the enslavement of his marriage, Cal agrees to spend a complete week at Helga's complete mercy. Illustrated.

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Torture Me Gently

Paul Stone

This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.


Cal Bassett had been sitting at the crowded airport bar only a few minutes when the well-dressed, heavy-set man pushed his way through the crowd and took the only empty stool — the one to Cal's left.

The man ordered an expensive scotch whiskey as Cal sipped his own bar bourbon. There seemed to be something vaguely familiar about the man's face but, for the life of him, Cal couldn't remember where he had seen the man. He gave up trying to remember a few moments later and concentrated on the drink in front of him.

Even though it was hot and sultry outside the huge terminal building, the lounge was freezing cold from the air conditioner that pumped out the frigid air. Even so, Cal's shirt was stained from the little pools of perspiration that formed under h is arms. He took a sip of the bourbon and tried to fight off the shiver as the raw alcohol hit his stomach. The scents of the people crowded around him didn't help, he thought to himself. The man on the next stool, for example, wore an expensive, but cloying, cologne.

Cal glanced into the mirror over the backbar, surprised to see the heavy-set man staring at him. He colored slightly in embarrassment as he dropped his eyes to his drink, wishing fervently that some airline terminal would devise a way of speedily getting baggage from the planes to the retrieval area. His own plane had landed a half-hour ago, but he knew that it would be another fifteen or twenty minutes before he could expect to get his cheap suitcase from the luggage room.

Wearily he signaled the bartender for another drink, knowing that he shouldn't have three drinks in such a short space of time, but finding some measure of comfort in the dimly-lighted lounge that he knew would be destroyed once he went back out into the terminal.

He could sense the other man's eyes still on him, and it annoyed him to have his privacy invaded like this. Had the bar been less crowded he would have moved, but there was nowhere else to go, every table and every stool was occupied.

Cal half-turned on his stool so that his back would be facing the intently staring man, but that only made it worse. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck seemed to prickle as he felt the stare intensify.

Suddenly the man spoke.

“Pardon me, but haven't we met somewhere?”

The voice was faintly effeminate.

Cal swung around, glad at last to be able to put an end to the discomfort the man was causing him. He found himself looking into the face of a man in his late thirties or early forties. The man's eyes were puffy, matching the full, sensuous lips and rather large nose. At one time the man must have been handsome, Cal thought to himself, but dissipation had taken its toll. The man wore expensively tailored clothing that minimized his overweight body.

“I was thinking the same thing when you came in,” Cal replied. “But I can't think where.”

Suddenly the man stuck out a meaty paw with recently manicured fingers. “I'm Arthur Gibbons,” the man said. “I'm regional sales manager for...” he mentioned a multi-national corporation.

The man's name seemed familiar, but Cal was still at a loss for any connection between the man and himself. It was unlikely that they had ever met, either socially or professionally.

“Cal Bassett,” Cal answered, trying to hide the revulsion he felt as the man's soft fingers pressed against his own. The fingers were like fat little slugs, slightly moist and obscene. He let go as soon as he could, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his thigh to remove the dampness.

“Cal Bassett,” the man repeated to himself, shaking his head slowly, trying to place the name and face of the man alongside him. Suddenly he brightened and a wide smile split the chubby face. “Hey, I've got it! You're the Calvin Bassett who was editor of the STUDENT BANNER at Ohio Central, right? Jesus, how could I forget!”

Suddenly it all came back to Cal. Art Gibbons! The meanest, dirtiest college quarterback in the fifties! A snarling sadist both on and off the field, a youth who could have any female he wanted, yet one who chose to use the same brutal methods against women as he used against opponents. Cal had fought a losing battle on the student newspaper, trying to expose Art Gibbons for what he was — a savage youth who seemed to revel in inflicting injury on others, both physical and psychological!

My God! Cal thought to himself, his mind reeling in confusion at the change in Art Gibbons. The man's voice and manner suggested a homosexual rather than a sadistic and rugged athlete. Cal wanted to toss down the rest of his drink and walk away in disgust as he remembered how Art Gibbons had beaten and raped a naive coed, then had been saved from criminal prosecution by the combined efforts of the school officials and alumni.

“You remember me, don't you?” Art Gibbons said sadly, seeing the expression of loathing that Cal was unable to control. “You should, you know. Oh, I know all about those articles you tried to print about me... the ones demanding that I be tossed out of college!” He paused and smiled self-consciously. “They should have let you print them. I was a real bastard in those days, wasn't I?”

Cal fought back an involuntary twinge of sympathy for the overweight man at this admission. It was obvious that something or someone had worked a tremendous change in Art Gibbon's attitude. The hulking man seemed about to burst into tears at the painful memories of what he had been twenty years before.

“We all grow up,” Cal shrugged, starting to get up from the barstool, hating the ambivalent feelings the man aroused in him. “Listen, I've got to split now. It's been nice seeing you again, but....

“No!” Art Gibbons cried out, too loudly, clutching Cal's arm with surprising strength, making the embarrassed man wince in pain. “Please, have another drink! For God's sake, don't leave yet!” He turned and signaled the bartender for two more drinks. “Please, Cal, one more won't kill you!”

Cal wanted to shake off the meaty paw and leave, wanted desperately to forget Art Gibbons — forget that the overweight man had ever existed. But he couldn't. Something was holding him there. The man's face was wrinkled up again with self-pity, and his pleading eyes were almost hypnotic. Sighing deeply, knowing in his heart that he was making a mistake, Cal surrendered to his feeling of compassion and resumed his seat.

“I can only stay a minute, Art,” he said as firmly as he could while the man busied himself lighting a cigarette with an expensive gold lighter. “I've got to get into town and find a hotel before it gets too late. One drink and then 111 have to split.”

“You don't live in Los Angeles, then?”

The question seemed almost an accusation, and Cal shook his head, wondering at the chauvinism of Californians who sincerely believed that the whole world began and ended in Southern California.

“Are you here on a vacation?”

“No, I'm a free-lance writer and I'm doing a magazine article on the farm workers,” Cal replied, feeling uncomfortable again. He knew it must be obvious to Art Gibbons that he was an unsuccessful writer. He could feel Art's eyes sweeping down over his cheap clothing, could almost sense the man guessing that his combined income was hardly enough to pay Art's tailor.

“Still fighting lost causes, huh?” Art asked, not unkindly, shaking his head slowly. “I remember some of the articles you wrote at college... always trying to bring truth and justice to a bunch of kids who didn't give a shit about anything but the football team, getting laid, and getting drunk as often as possible. Still at it, huh?”

Cal wasn't offended. What Art Gibbons was saying was true enough, and things hadn't improved over the years. Cal was no more cynical than he had been at twenty, only a little more weary of the battle.

“I guess you've done all right,” he replied, changing the subject.

Art nodded unenthusiastically.

“Yeh, I've got what I wanted out of life,” he shrugged. “Did you know I played pro ball for a couple of years? No? I wasn't really good enough, but the scouts were impressed by all the broken bones I'd inflicted in college. The pro teams made mincemeat out of me. I lasted two years and then got dumped. But I made enough contacts to get a job with the company I'm working for now. And, as you can see, I've worked my way up.”

“Are you married?” Cal asked, not really interested, already sorry he had stayed to hear Art's story.

“Three times,” Art smiled wryly. “The last time to the daughter of one of the company VP's. She needed a husband and I wanted her money... an old story, huh?”

Cal was embarrassed now, and he made up his mind to leave at once. He had come to Los Angeles without making room reservations, and he knew what a difficult time it would be to find something cheap and comfortable at this hour.

“Listen, Art, I've got to go, really I do,” he said, getting up and trying to pay his bar bill. Art told him to put his money away, that the drinks were on him. Surprisingly, Art didn't protest at his own drink and stood up.

“Why not stay a couple of days with us?” Art asked, the same pleading tone returning to his voice. “No, don't turn me down, Cal! We've got plenty of room, and my wife would be really happy to have company.”

“No, Art, it's too much trouble,” Cal said, shaking his head, moving toward the door. “Look, give me your number and I'll call you if I get any free time, okay?”

“I insist... I insist!” Art said, walking along beside the protesting man. “Why spend money when you don't have it? You can crash at my place and use one of my cars instead of having to rent one. What the hell, it's the least I can do for an old college buddy!”

Cal cringed at Art's use of the word buddy. He had hardly been that. And he had no desire to become anymore of a friend now. But the offer was certainly tempting. Cal had less than two hundred dollars in his pocket, barely enough to finance a week in Los Angeles. And the articles would pay less than a hundred. A voice in the back of his brain told him to accept the offer, that he was being a fool not to use Art's generosity. The man obviously could afford to be charitable.

“It's settled then,” Art said happily, steering Cal toward the escalator that would take them down into the luggage area. “Well just get our bags and head on out to the house.”

“Shouldn't you at least telephone your wife and tell her I'm coming?” Cal asked, surrendering.

“No, Helga knew I was coming in tonight and, besides, she loves surprises,” Art answered.

Cal hoped so.

* * *

Art's home was in an exclusive area of the Hollywood Hills. The sprawling, ranch-style house was perched between the glittering vastness of the Los Angeles basin to the south, and the charmless urban sprawl of the San Fernando Valley to the north.

The heavy-set man swung off the street and into a wide, circular driveway. It was almost midnight, and the houses that lined the hilly streets were, for the most part, darkened and quiet.

“Here we are, Cal,” the big man said, easing his body out from behind the wheel of his sleek Jaguar. Two other cars sat near the house, a tiny Porsche and a late-model station wagon. The house itself seemed huge, with towering palm trees and dense foliage surrounding it. There were lights burning dimly in one of the downstairs rooms. “Come on, pal, let's get inside and you can meet Helga.”

They got their luggage from the backseat of the car and went toward the front door. Art pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, but hesitated before inserting one in the lock.

“Listen, Cal,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “there's something I ought to tell you before we go in. My wife has kind of a strange sense of humor, you know? I mean, she says things sometimes just to get a laugh, but she doesn't mean anything by it, you understand?”

“I'm afraid I don't, Art,” Cal replied nervously, wondering what he was doing here at this strange house with a man he had hated twenty years ago.

“Well, she likes to put me down in front of folks,” Art went on, his face flushed with embarrassment. “And sometimes she gets a little, uh, raunchy when she's had too much too drink. Like, I mean, if she comes on strong to you, just don't pay any attention to her. Oh, damn, you'll see for yourself.”

Before Cal could stop him, Art opened the door and ushered him inside. Cal wanted only to leave now, but there seemed to be no way of getting back into town without a car. He promised himself he would say hello to Art's wife and then telephone for a cab. It had been a mistake to come here, he thought to himself as he surveyed the large foyer of the house, and he had no intention of staying around to find out about Helga Gibbon's idiosyncrasies.

“Helga! Where are you, baby?” Art called our loudly, setting down his pigskin bag and attache case. “She's probably upstairs watching television, Cal,” he went on when there was no answer. “Come on, let me fix you a drink and then I'll go find her.”

Art led Cal into the large, well-furnished living room. A bar stood along one paneled wall, and the heavy-set man went toward it immediately. Cal waited in the center of the room, then took the tall, cool drink that Art brought him.

“Hey, there's a light on out by the pool,” Art said, pointing toward the large glass doors that seemed to open out onto some sort of brick patio. There was, indeed, a light glowing out beyond the patio proper, and Cal could just make out one end of a large swimming pool. “Come on, she's probably taking a swim.”

Cal would have preferred to stay inside and finish his drink, but Art insisted that he accompany him outside. They pushed open the glass doors and stepped out onto the patio, then moved toward the pool.

“Helga? Honey, I'm home!”

The swimming pool seemed to take up most of the large backyard. The sparkling blue water seemed spectacularly cool in the humid night. Suddenly, just as the men neared the edge of the pool, a dark shape broke the water's surface, splashing both of them.

“Art!” a glistening, smiling face cried out as Helga Gibbons clutched the tiled edge of the pool. “When did you get back?”

“Just got in, darling,” Art called out, crouching down beside his wife and pointing to where Cal stood a few feet away. “I've got a surprise, honey. I ran into a guy I went to college with. Helga, meet Cal Bassett. He's going to stay with us a few days.”

Cal had just started forward again when the woman hoisted her wet body up out of the pool. His eyes widened in shock as the gleaming, naked flesh came into view. He stopped, unable to move, his prick throbbing painfully as she stood there for a moment and shook the cool water from her completely nude body!

Cal had seen his share of beautiful women over the years, but nothing so gorgeous as Helga Gibbons. Every succulent inch of her six-foot willowy and voluptuous body was forever imprinted upon his reeling, lust-charged brain as she stared back at him with a sensuous smile playing across her full, ripe lips.

He gulped, unable to stop his eyes as they swept over her luscious flesh, from the magnificently swollen breasts with the huge areolas and the meaty nipples, down over her flat little stomach to the flaring hips, then in toward the damp plump indentation of her pink cunt. Cal licked his lips uncontrollably, then moved his eyes down along the smooth flesh of her creamy thighs and along the lovely sweep of her incredibly long legs.

He knew he was committing an unpardonable social gaff by staring so lewdly at the naked woman, but he couldn't help himself. No one said a word as he completed his obscene examination by bringing his lust-filled gaze up to her smiling face. Her beautiful features matched her perfect body. Helga Gibbons had sparkling green eyes, a patrician nose, lips that were made for kissing, and, when she pulled off her rubber swimming cap, billowing waves of golden silk framed her face and fell down around her gleaming shoulders.

Incredible as it seemed to Cal Bassett, the woman seemed totally oblivious to the fact that he, a perfect stranger, was staring lustfully at her lushly naked body. Cal gulped again, praying that his swollen prick wasn't visible to the lovely woman.

“Why, Art,” Helga giggled at last, “I think your friend is embarrassed. Look at him blushing!”

Art laughed, too, but he made no move to hand his wife the huge beach towel that lay on the grass by the pool. Instead, he looked at Cal with a strange, almost obscene expression on his meaty face, as if inviting the man to drink in his wife's exciting nude flesh.

“I'm s-s-sorry,” Cal mumbled, confused now, backing away, certain that both husband and wife were aware of the gigantic protuberance that strained out against the front of his trousers. His whole body was trembling from a combination of embarrassment and lust, and all he could think to do was to turn and walk quickly back into the house.

“Don't apologize, Mr. Bassett,” Helga called out to him. “I always swim in the nude, and if you're going to be a guest you'd better get used to it. Does it bother you to see a naked woman, Mr. Bassett?”

“No, of course not!” Cal cried out, acutely aware of the way her eyes had dropped to his groin. Now there was no question that she was appreciatively drinking in the outlines of the swollen lump of hot male meat there, just as he had ogled her naked flesh only moments before.

“Good,” Helga said with a smile that sent chills of desire racing through his body. “Why don't you go inside and make me a drink while I have a little chat with my husband. Make it a double scotch with only two ice cubes, please.” She turned to her husband. “Do you need another, darling?”

Art shook his head, that same cryptic, almost obscene grin on his face. “No, thanks.”

Cal scurried back toward the house, grateful for the short reprieve. He had visited California enough times to know that the people here lived strange lifestyles, and that nudity was only one tiny aspect of the rampant sexuality that Californians practiced without shame. Still, it had been a shock to him, and he wasn't at all sure that he could handle the situation without appearing a complete fool.

He went to the bar and fixed Helga's drink with trembling hands, glancing every few seconds out toward the swimming pool where the Junoesque beauty and her overweight husband were sprawled on the grass talking.

Art and Helga Gibbons seemed a strange couple, Art being almost forty and his once-athletic body down dissipated, whereas Helga looked no more than twenty-five or six years-old. When Art had told him that he had married the boss' daughter, Cal's mind had immediately conjured up an image of some ugly hag no one else wanted. And Helga was certainly far from that! She looked more like some luscious Las Vegas showgirl or movie star. Everything about her spelled money and breeding and the kind of supercilious attitude that those two things can bring.

When he finished making the drink, Cal fixed another strong drink for himself, then carried both back out into the yard. He had managed to rearrange his cock in his shorts, but the pulsating, throbbing spear was still clearly visible as it beat against his belly.

Helga had dried her luscious body now, but she hadn't covered the creamy flesh with the towel. It lay beside her on the grass as she took the drink from Cal and motioned for him to sit down beside her.

“Art's been telling me all about you, Cal,” she said warmly, making no move to close her long, perfectly-sculpted legs. He could see clearly the hole of her crotch. Wispy strands of golden-fleeced pubic hair just barely covered the moisture laden, dilated lips of her cunt. The plump flaps were slightly apart, letting him see the darker pink of her inner canal, all wet and glistening with water from the pool and, he suspected, the pungent juices of her femininity. She let him inspect her creamy trench for a few seconds, then continued “I'm very glad he invited you to stay with us for a few days. I love it when Art brings home friends.”

Again that word 'friend.' Cal wanted to correct her, to tell the gorgeous woman that he and Art had never been friends, and weren't now. But there seemed to be no way of doing that without offending his hosts. So he just nodded and sipped his drink, less certain now that he wanted to leave and take his chances on finding a hotel.

“That was a long time ago,” he said vaguely. “I was quite surprised to run into him at the airport.”

“I'll bet you were!” Helga said, suddenly breaking into raucous cackles. “I've seen photographs of Art in college, and heard enough of his drunken stories to know what a beautiful bastard he must have been. You must have been shocked to see the fat slob he's turned into!”

Cal did a double-take, almost dropping his drink at the cruel words. He could see Art blushing furiously, and felt immediately sorry for the man. No one deserved...

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