Paul Black, illustrated by Bill Ward


“The house feels pain, for it is pain. But it never sheds a tear.” Such was the description of Desmond Hall, a desolate mouldering Victorian mansion whose resident ghost had claimed the life of Martin Thatcher’s young bride. But Martin was not a believer in the supernatural and he was determined to find out what had happened to his wife, certain that she had met with foul play, not with a sadistic spirit from beyond the grave. But he was alone in his search, for his wife had been visiting her aunt at the time of her death. Carla Desmond was a raven-haired hot-tempered woman whose passion for pain and punishment was only exceeded by her passion for her well-endowed houseboy. Then there was Susan Hastings, self-styled occult investigator, another in a cast of female characters eager to demonstrate her discipline and dominating behavior. At stake was not only Martin’s sanity, but a half-a-million dollars. But little did he know that the day he entered THE HOUSE OF PAIN, he would never be the same man again, for there were evil forces at work which were beyond his control, forces who craved the sound of a man in pain, as much as they craved the fortune of Desmond Hall!



But he had gone willingly, or at least it had seemed that way, to his mistress’ room, there to accept her regimen of physical and mental torment and abuse. Abuse it most definitely was, for the whip did not stop sailing through the air. It hissed like a jungle cat, clawing at Rusty’s muscular torso, leaving its tracks in a multitude of hot and burning scars.


By now, the young man had closed his eyes. His head lolled down weakly against his chest and Martin could see how deeply and fitfully Rusty was breathing. “Don’t tell me you’ve come already, you little fool,” he heard Carla say as she finally put the cat down on top of her dresser.


Unable to reply, the gag still held securely in place between his lips, all Rusty could do was shake his head from side to side. Apparently, that was sufficient. Satisfied that he had not yet achieved a climax, or so Martin surmised as he watched what was taking place in the bedroom, Carla advanced upon her victim, her eyes aglow and her hands clenched into fists of excitement.


She too was breathing deeply. Thatcher couldn’t help himself, his eye lingering on the outline of the woman’s heavy and upthrust bosom. The corset fitted over her full womanly breasts, though it permitted him to see the deep shadowy crevice between her lush and ripe looking globes.


His eye slid down along the tight-fitting corset, once again lingering at that most promising of places, right between Carla Desmond’s voluptuous and haughty flanks. He could see the V-shaped declension of her fully-developed pubic mound and though he did not want to think of such things, Martin was unable to stop himself, unable to tear his eye away.


So ripe, so meaty, he thought as his mouth filled with water, saliva which he gulped down even as he kept staring at the delicious and arousing silhouette of Carla’s mons veneris. Finally, he tore his eye away, but only because she had turned away from him to face the scarred and tormented figure of her houseboy.


“Did it feel good, Rusty dear?” she snickered coyly. She reached out and in a gesture Martin almost wished he was the recipient of, rather than the houseboy, Carla rubbed her gloved hand back and forth across the front of his black rubber diaper.


The sound which escaped from behind the black rubber gag was one of definite pleasure. Rusty lifted his head, though he kept his eyes discreetly lowered, refraining from staring at Carla directly, eye to eye. But it didn’t take Martin much ingenuity to realize that what Carla had said had indeed been the truth.


For now, he could see the outline of the young man’s virile member, tenting out the front of the padlocked rubber diaper. And the more she stroked the silhouette of his unruly organ, the more it surged forward, poking out like a stick. Rusty was trembling violently in response to her caresses and as for Martin, he could not help but feel vicariously aroused.


Whereas he had always thought of Ellen as a girl, Carla was very much a woman. Despite the fact that she was in her early forties, she looked a good five years younger than that, if not more. Well-preserved wasn’t even the word for it, for he was able to appreciate her lush figure, her imperious body, without even thinking of either her age or the fact that she was his wife’s aunt. Those two facts were shoved into the background and nearly forgotten.


Having gotten over his initial shock and dismay, Martin still remained rooted to his place, his eye still pressed up against the keyhole. He had lost track of time and didn’t even think of what might happen should Susan Hastings discover what he was doing. Consumed by Carla’s frightening yet arousing figure, he kept spying on her and Rusty, certain that this was only the beginning of their ritualistic and formalized encounter.


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This product was added to our catalog on Friday 10 April, 2015.

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