Chapter 11: Naughty Marietta
Marietta was busy arranging calla lillies in the most commodious of the seven
guest rooms in the main house of Moulton’s estate. It was to be the new nursery.
She sang softly in French as she worked. Two housemaids stood ready to help, but
they were mostly for companionship. While Marietta was quite content to give
orders when it came to most household chores, flower arranging was something she
trusted to no one but herself.
“When will the baby arrive?” asked one of the maids, a plump blonde girl of 19.
“Very, very soon. Perhaps tomorrow,” said Marietta, placing a vase full of calla
lilies on a marble-topped dresser. “Mees Americana is very . . . . how do you
say it?”
“Very round, Mademoiselle,” said the blonde housemaid. The three women burst
into laughter.
“And very ripe,” said the second housemaid, a tall, gawky redhead. More
laughter.
At that moment, MA entered the room, and beneath her loose white robe, she was,
indeed, very round and very ripe. The housemaids looked embarrassed at being
overheard, but MA smiled benignly. Marietta rushed up and kissed her.
“The room is so lovely,” MA said.
“But of course,” said Marietta. “Everything must be perfect for the bé bé — and
for the mama, aussi.”
MA placed her hand on her bulging belly and said, “You are very kind. I wish I
could help you but I . . . well, I feel like my time is coming.”
“The bé bé , he is arrive?” Marietta cried.
MA sat in a straight-backed chair next to the crib. “I think he is arrive,” she
said, grimacing.
# # #
A midwife from a nearby town was called in, and as an extra precaution, Dr.
Foley, the veterinarian who took care of Moulton’s livestock, was also on hand.
Everyone knew, from the sonogram done in Delta-City, that this would be a
difficult birth, but MA was determined to avoid the Clinic, and Marietta had
graciously offered her home and hospitality.
The small infirmary in the east wing of the big house served as the delivery
room. MA was in labor for over six hours. Marietta was there, standing nervously
against the wall and eager to help, if called on. Flag Girl was too frightened
to witness the birth. She was sure something would go horribly wrong.
In fact, it went very smoothly, once the moment came. MA had been lightly
sedated but was conscious as the midwife told her to “push, that’s it, push,
just a little more.”
Then the midwife bent between MA’s legs and came up with — a nine-pound,
three-ounce piglet.
“It’s a boy,” she called out.
Dr. Foley looked over her shoulder. “And he’s a handsome little devil,” he said,
admiringly.
Marietta, no longer able to restrain herself, rushed to MA’s side and squeezed
her hand. “You were so brave,” she said.
MA smiled weakly. “Let me see my baby,” she whispered.
The midwife had wrapped the piglet in a cotton blanket. She gently lowered it
into MA’s arms.
MA looked into its little, still closed eyes. “A face only a mother could love,”
she said softly. Then she looked up at the others and laughed through the tears.
# # #
Donald Stepford and Hilda Heftig were indicted by the same grand jury — he for
false imprisonment, perjury and obstruction of justice, she for assault and
battery. Later, the feds added a civil rights charge against Hilda, who insisted
she had been framed by a sexist power structure.
Stepford was convicted on all charges and sentenced to 20 years in the state
pen. Hilda never stood trial. She choked to death on a piece of roast pork while
in the women’s corrections unit she once had ruled with an iron hand. Her nephew
Sam, who suffered six broken ribs when Hilda landed on him, was fired in a
sweeping police department shakeup. He and Fred Malins opened a private
detective agency — and vowed to get even one day with Ms. Americana.
Thanks to his connections with the rich and powerful, Dr. Bohner was never
formally charged with a crime. MA and Flag Girl testified before the grand jury
about his role in kidnapping and sexually abusing them, and the jury even saw
taped sessions of him raping both women with the Magyar’s wand. But the jury
foreman, a large, gregarious Irishman who ran an auto body shop, persuaded a
majority of his fellow jurors that, from the look on the superheroines’ faces,
it was clear that both women enjoyed every minute of their “torture.”
# # #
The wand, like everything else at Moulton’s estate, came into the possession of
Marietta. She had known nothing of how it was used on MA and Flag Girl and was
shocked when she discovered the videotapes. But shock wasn’t her only reaction.
She had to admit to herself that she found the images, and the moans of the
victims, sexually stimulating.
Later, when MA had recovered from delivering Pascal, Marietta hesitantly
broached the subject of this powerful instrument of ecstatic torture.
“You know where it is?” MA asked.
“Oui. I keep it locked up.”
MA tried to control her emotions. “Can I see it?” she asked.
Marietta brought her downstairs, to the room where she and Flag Girl had
suffered such terrible abuse. She opened a closet, knelt and twisted the dial of
a combination lock on a small safe. Then she rose and held out the wand.
“Would you like to hold it?” she asked.
MA stiffened. “Yes. I guess I must.” She took it in her hands. It was heavy. She
touched the silvery sphere at the end. There was no sensation. She looked at the
base. There was a small dial with an arrow. It pointed to “off.” She turned it
to level one and brushed the sphere across her forearm. It produced a pleasant
tingle — and a flood of memories.
“Will you use it on me?” Marietta asked shyly. “I would like to feel what you
felt . . . . at least a little.”
“Yes,” MA said. “Where would you like me to touch you?”
Marietta opened her blouse and displayed a lovely pair of breasts. “Here and
here,” she said, pointing to her nipples.
It was the start of something neither of them could control. At the very first
session, after having her breasts caressed by the wand, Marietta insisted on
being chained to a big padded X and raped. She shrieked and squealed, all in
French. MA understood only a few words, but she knew precisely what Marietta was
experiencing.
Two days later, Flag Girl was invited to join, and she and Marietta teamed up to
send spasms of pleasure through MA’s body.
Then it was Flag Girl’s turn, and that was the most exciting and exhausting
session of all.
In the geometry of sex, there are no equilateral triangles. Consciously or
unconsciously, two always pair up against one. Flag Girl was the one. Before
long, only she was chained, or placed in stirrups, or bent over a table and
raped. She came to expect it. And MA and Marietta came to see it as part of the
natural order of things, like Pascal‘s rambunctious romps through the house.
Flag Girl’s status, never very secure because of her invincible stupidity, now
slipped to a level below that even of the house servants.
She became an object, something on which to vent one’s anger and frustrations,
to indulge one’s lust, or simply to exercise power. Her weak brain and sensual,
hyper-responsive body made her irresistible yet expendable.
She became, in short, a sex slave.
THE END
