'Before the authorities raided a pornographer's house over on the south side of town. Before they found a letter of yours…'
'God! No!' Reagan moaned.
'I went to bat for you again, Jack. All they had was the envelope actually with your address on it. I told them that it must have been a mistake, that I know you and that you're a good, clean, all-American patriot, the pillar of the community. They aren't going to do anything to you… yet! But if I should say something…' he left the threat of what the postal authorities might do to Reagan unsaid, only snickering triumphantly into the mouthpiece.
Reagan's voice was leaden. 'So now you want to get paid.'
'That's right. I want my little, ah… reward and I want it now. I'm waiting at home. Call that sweet little wife of yours and get her over here fast. I won't be waiting long.'
Again there was a long, deathlike pause. Finally Reagan, his voice indicating the surrender he felt, said, 'Okay. I'll do it. I'll send her over in a cab, but please be gentle with her this time. And… this has to be the last time.'
'Heh, heh,' Samuels chuckled. 'Of course, Jack. Of course it'll be the last time. And I promise that soon you'll get back those pictures of you and your wonderful wife you tried to send through the mails.' He chortled some more, then rang off.
CHAPTER SIX
Young, titian-haired, angelic-featured Sally Reagan sat apprehensively squeezing a handkerchief between her small hands in the back seat of a taxi cab as it sped across Morriston. Her slender, high-breasted body was rigid with the foreknowledge of what was about to happen, and a nauseous feeling eddied in the pit of her stomach.
Oh God, she prayed to herself, please don't let it be as bad as the last time. Please, don't. I… I don't think I could stand it!
She twisted the handkerchief convulsively, and an almost inaudible moan of despair burst past her soft, moistly red lips. In her mind's eye she could picture the almost obscenely ugly postal clerk, Steve Samuels, with his slobbering, rubbery lips and his claw-like hands and his… his horribly huge penis! She moaned again, loud enough so that the cab driver glanced up into the rear-view mirror, frowned, and asked her if she was okay.
She quickly replied that she was and sank lower in the seat, twisting the handkerchief into a twisted rope in her fingers. Why, oh, why, had she consented to come tonight? When Jack had telephoned her from work, and told her of Samuels' call to him and what the weasly blackmailer wanted, she had almost become sick as all the disgusting perversions of that last time flooded instantaneously back into her conscious mind. She couldn't go through the same hell again; she couldn't! And yet she had known that she had to, knew that now as well. If she didn't… submit to Samuels' demands, then the depraved postal clerk would have Jack fired, would ruin him completely through some evil stretching of the truth. And Jack's was a specialized job, which would make it very hard for him to get another. Too, there was the baby — little Jimmy — to think about, and the fact that they'd just bought a small, modest home and had to meet the payments on it promptly or risk losing their equity…
No, she was doing the right thing. She could endure another night of horror at the hands of the lust-insane civil servant, if it meant saving her home and her husband's job — and if it meant that those… those photos which Samuels possessed would never be exposed to nationwide gutter distribution.
Those damnable photographs! Why had she ever allowed Jack to take them of her, with the Polaroid his brother had let him borrow? She should have known better, but she had done it in a moment of passion, wanting to please the man she loved and that, too, was the reason she had decided to send them off for exchange, with Jack's eager approval, to members of the Polaroid Club whose newspaper Jack had somehow found. God, if she'd but known Samuels was going to find out about them, get his hands on them, blackmail the unsuspecting Reagans in such a perverted manner… But she hadn't known, and now it was too late; she — and Jack, too, although he didn't have to suffer the indignities she did — was completely at the mercy of the warped postal clerk.
Sally, distraught and helpless, looked up then through the window at the black night outside. Let this be the last time, she prayed. Please, God, let this be the last time.
She rubbed at her damp eyes with the handkerchief, peering out through the window. The surroundings were now familiar — an old, dingy, run-down section of Morriston and a shudder coursed through the frightened, tormented young wife's warm, vibrant body.
They were almost there.
Sitting in the front room of his ramshackle house, his wizened hands busily working among the contents of the wooden coffee table before him, Steve Samuels grinned in drooling anticipation of the arrival of the tender young Sally Reagan. Oh, he was going to fuck her good tonight! He was going to subject her to every trick in the book, Goddamned right he was!
He would do to her, he reflected, the same things he would do to that uppity Mrs. Jamison… sort of a preliminary to the main event. And Mrs. Cindy Jamison was a main event, no doubt about that. His cock throbbed with aching desire as his fingers worked almost independent of his mind, with practiced ease, for his was a task he had performed many times before.
On the coffee table were a small cigarette-rolling machine, several packages of wheat-straw papers, a scarred wooden cigarette box, and a large cellophane bag filled with a dark brown, shredded leaf that resembled tobacco but wasn't tobacco at all.
It was Acapulco Gold, the best marijuana money could buy.
The weaselly postal clerk chuckled lewdly as his dexterous fingers fashioned yet another pot stick. He'd been damned lucky to get grass as good as this, and he'd had to pay a premium for it, too; but it was worth it, every penny. Good stuff like this really turned them on, these young bitches like Mrs. Sally Reagan (and yes, like Mrs. Cindy Jamison as well); it made them forget their inhibitions, their fear and hatred of him, so that they were his complete slaves to subjugate and to do with as he would. They never forgot a session with Steve Samuels, the perverted government employee boasted to himself; and they were never really the same afterwards…
His huge German Shepherd, Ringo, came bounding in from the kitchen, where Samuels had put out a large bowl of raw meat. The great animal, sleek and bright-eyed, its long red tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth, sat on its haunches next to its master, tail wagging. The postal clerk chuckled again, finished rolling one last cigarette, and then leaned back on the sofa, reaching down to pat Ringo on the head.
'So you're eager, too, eh, my friend?' he chortled. 'Well, don't worry. You're going to get your share of young Mrs. Sally Reagan tonight — just like you've gotten your share of the others. And you're going to get plenty of young Mrs. Cindy Jamison, too, of that I promise you. She's going to feel your prick jammed all the way up to her hot little titties, Ringo, don't you worry.'
The lewd mental image of the beast's speckled red cock buried in the tight, warm, clasping pussy of the haughty Cindy Jamison caused Samuels own prick to leap into erection. Damn, he was horny tonight! He was going to really fuck little Miss Sally, all right — but first, there would be games to play. Games he had perfected with a half-dozen other unsuspecting housewives in Morriston, housewives who had foolishly attempted to send lewd, pornographic items through the United States mails. Games which left them slavering and begging for his mammoth cock to rip their cunts wide and fill them with hot boiling cum…
The evil clerk began to rub his erect prick through his pants, slowly, tantalizingly, his wizened face split into an animalistic grin of lust. It had been a fine day, The Finest Day, when the government had passed the new Postal regulation allowing the Department to open anyone's mail without them being present, under the guise of checking for obscenity or subversive activities or even upon the slightest suspicion of anything illegal or immoral. And the most beautiful part about that regulation was, he could do it himself, on his whim, without asking permission of his superiors!
Oh, it was a grand day, the day of the passage of that regulation! He had complete access to the entire mail input and output of the city of Morriston; he could open letters, packages, registered envelopes at will — and he had. Intuition and the illegal directory of names had led him to suspect certain ones, and at least half the time he had found some kind of incriminating material. He had several mild photos and some letters that were written by respectable wives in the community that, on the surface, were seemingly innocent; but turned over to the wives'
