Author: Kenneth Harding

About: A slave club hidden away in the Arizona desert is the setting for an incredible tale of the Bondagers and their unfortunate victims. Sadistic acts performed on the young ladies of this modern-day harem soon tame the haughtiness of would-be slaves and total submission and degradation become a way of life.

Sheila Andrews learns the hard way to become a cheerful, pliable, subjugated mistress for her sado-erotic fiance, and picks up a slave for her special kind of desires along the way.

Illustrated.

Excerpt:

Sheila Andrews indignantly twisted herself out of Granville Tomlinson's grasp, and slapped his face, her eyes blazing. “I don't ever want to see you again, Granville,” she scathingly declared, her breathing erratic as her magnificent closely-spaced round titties rose and fell with the vehemence of her shamed anger. “If that's all you want from a girl, you'd better find yourself a whore, because I'm not that sort. It's a good thing we came to understand each other before this got serious. Now please don't phone me or annoy me any more, or I'll put you under a peace bond.” With this, she slammed the door of her apartment, turned the lock, and walked back to the couch, trembling violently, in aftermath. Walking over to the sideboard near the bay window, she opened the cut-glass decanter of Scotch and poured herself a stiff drink, then downed it nearly at a gulp. She stood there a moment, fighting to regain her even breathing, and then sat down on the couch, still fuming.

She had never been so insulted in all her life, and she still couldn't believe that he hadn't been joking. Here they had been engaged for three months, and out of the clear sky this pleasant, brown haired, soft-spoken man who worked down the hall from her in the Chicago advertising agency of Porton, Davidson & Semmering had as much as invited her to join him in an orgiastic secret club in which she would be expected to give her body to any man or woman member who lusted for it. At least, that was the way she had interpreted his remarks. The audacity, the brazen, filthy nastiness of the man!

Sheila Andrews was twenty-three, with a magnificent, thick mane of coppery red hair which fell below her shoulder blades. Five feet six inches in height, delectably proportioned with round firm titties, a breathtakingly undulating, shapely behind whose round, tightly compact globes executed a suggestively lascivious, rhythmic shifting as she walked. Sheila Andrews had come to Chicago just eight months ago from a little farm town in southern Illinois, where she had been attending a girl's college and intended to be a teacher until the sudden death of both her father and mother at the same time from a contagious virus attack. Her father had left her enough insurance to tide her over for a year or two, but she had found a job as a receptionist in the advertising agency. A few weeks after that, Granville Tomlinson had stopped by her desk to tell her that he was going to lunch and where he was going after that, and had remained to chat a little and to discover that both of them liked books and old historical movies. From then on, the pattern had been pleasantly eventful, beginning with dinners at excellent restaurants, occasional movies or perhaps a play or a concert till finally he had asked her to marry him just two weeks ago. And she'd said yes. And now this!

Sheila was a virgin, but only technically. Back in high school, she had tasted love's dualistic pleasures just enough to realize that she was extremely passionate and that it needed only the right circumstance and partner to channel her emotions into fruition. There had been a very brief but exquisitely bittersweet episode with a young civics teacher named Evelyn Amston, a handsome brown-haired young woman of twenty-eight, who had asked her over to her apartment for tea and had wanted to discuss Sheila's term paper. During the serving of refreshments, Evelyn Amston had awkwardly tilted the teapot and wet Sheila's frock. She'd made a great fuss about how sorry she was, and had hurried to help Sheila out of the frock. Then, when the delectable red-haired teenager had stood there in just her slip, bra, and panties, Evelyn Amston had moved to her, her slim hands caressing the girl's sides and moving down to her bottom which she had begun to squeeze amorously. Then she had kissed Sheila, and delicately intruded the tip of her pert pink tongue until a wave of sensual wakening had swirled over the young girl's being.

Before that afternoon had ended, Sheila had found herself lying on the teacher's couch in just her stockings, elastic garters, and her bra, being gamahuched by the mature brownette lesbian, half fainting from the exquisite thrill of being drawn to a quaking, seething come.

She had yearned to go back to Evelyn Amston's apartment and renew that exquisite, lyrical lovemaking, but the very next week her civics teacher had been unaccountably missing and the principal had made a brief announcement during assembly that Miss Amston had been called back to the East because of the death of her parents and that there would be a replacement arriving in a few days.

And then, during her freshman year at the girls' college, Sheila had known what it was like to neck with a magnetic young man whose very touch and kiss made her pulse beat faster and the lips of her pussy twitch and moisten with a titillating anticipation that would inevitably lead to a good hard fucking, except that he had very thoughtfully held back from making her go all the way.

It had been Peter Blount, a twenty-one year old senior from a nearby men's college, who had met her in the little town one Saturday afternoon while she was out shopping, bought her a soda, and then persistently called her for dates until she had finally gone out with him in self-defense.