Jack Warren, Eros pub. 1972, UK, Reprint/ bootleg? softcover, illustrated with B & W photographs.



No light showed from the windows of the first and second floors of the stately Colonial-type house which stood virtually by itself on the corner of Macklin and Van Ness at the farthermost edge of Oakland. It looked like a ghost house, and the illusion was intensified by the dense fog which had come in at five this very evening from the Bay. It was on an April evening, yet the wind was still and bleak. The house seemed deserted, prey of the specters and the wraiths and phantoms of the night.


But in the heavily fortified cellar, constructed underground so that absolutely no windows could be displayed to show light anywhere, there were blazing lights. In the middle of this immense cellar, a kind of auditorium had been constructed by the simple means of hanging purple drapes to shut off each side; the walls themselves acted as the other two boundaries. There was a platform against one wall, and in the middle was a cross-arm whipping post, which seemed out of medieval times with its heavy iron rings set into the wood at each end of the crosspiece.


With her wrists tied by fine but tenacious silken cords to these rings, a beautiful young naked girl was posed, a black bandana tied around her eyes and knotted at the back of her head. The pitiless glare of the high-watted electric lights in the transparent fixtures set into the ceiling illuminated every iota of her flawless young body. She was about five feet six inches in height, rather slender, with long, nervously muscled calves and thighs, from which the surprising amplitude of her full, round, tightly compact buttocks became the more exciting—particularly to those who watched in their upholstered loge chairs drawn up in three rows between one purple drape and the other. In these loges sat some fifty guests, or rather, members of a highly exclusive clandestine club. All of them, whether men or women, wore black masks which completely covered their faces and left slits for the eyes, the nose and the mouth. They were all richly dressed, and the smell of excellent Havana cigars mingled with the delicate tang of expensive French cologne and perfume.


There was even in this blend of scents a cloying reek of marijuana, for several masked young women, leaning forward, their eyes glittering through the slits of the masks, were smoking reefers in ivory cigarette holders.


The girl at the post was stark naked except for black opera-length hose drawn high on her long thighs and secured by red rosette garters which clung almost chafingly to her flesh. She was sobbing softly, and her hair was coppery red, originally coiffed in a thick pageboy which had been gathered together and tied with a silken cord and pulled upwards to a pulley wheel so that it tractioned her sensitive scalp. Her skin was almost obscenely pale white, with rosy flecks. Because her arms were drawn out in a horizontal plane, one could see the dark-red curls of private hair growing in the soft hollows of her armpits. Her spine was deeply hollowed, which emphasized all the more the prominence of her buttocks. It was seen also that because of the traction on her hair and the height of the crosspiece of this whipping post, she was obliged to arch up on her stockinged toes, so that all her muscles were in vivid interplay. Long shivering flexions surged along her calves and thighs, visiting the magnificent globes of her bare bottom, and ran upwards the column of her back, the taut smoothness of the sides where the ribcages could be seen plainly outlined by the tightness of that bare white skin. And one could see also the faint drops of agony-sweat, or rather, suspense sweat, since the torment had not yet started.


This platform was ascended to by three steps, and to the right was a kind of upright roulette wheel, a lottery wheel with a pointer which would designate the number so vital to the entertainment awaiting these masked witnesses. One number would designate the executioner; a second, the number of strokes to be applied and the third, the instrument which should inflict those strokes.


On a low bench near this lottery wheel, which would be spun by the president of this secret club, there lay an arsenal of flagellatory instruments, including a slim, whippy rattan cane, a short-handled three-thonged French martinet, a Scotch tawse of thick black leather whose last six inches had been cut into “fingers,” and a birch rod made of about a dozen peeled, thin hazel switches wrapped at the bulkier end with a black cloth to serve as handle for the designated executioner should the lottery decree the use of this stinging, hissing implement of pain.


It was a Friday night, and the session of this club would last until at least dawn. Then, after a sufficient pause for rest and refreshment, it would resume again in the afternoon and continue well into dawn on Sunday. Finally, there would be a kind of auction late Sunday afternoon, with a luxurious collation served by well-trained slavegirls who also would be masked, and whose anonymity would perhaps make it less agonizing for them, at a command or whim from any one of the masked spectators—whether male or female—to provide intimate sexual services, no matter what might be required of them in this wise.


The name of the secret club was “Les Masques", the French equivalent of “The Masks.” It had been the brainchild of a wealthy psychiatrist who, now fifty-six and having retired two years ago from his profession, had determined to devote not only his great wealth but his comprehensive knowledge of the female id and psyche to the cultivation of exquisite carnal delights, through pain, degradation, humiliation, suffering and slavery… a twentieth-century slavery with even more vicious cruelties and penances than ever the Middle-Ages’ barons thought of when they usurped the bodies of their serfs, and embellished with the most depraved and modern sophistication.


A hush now fell on the masked audience, as their president, this same noted psychiatrist who had come from the East three years ago and, cunningly changing his name and purchasing this old, abandoned house through an agent whom he paid very well to represent him, had created here in the shadow of the Golden Gate a paradise for sadists and a hell for its victims.


He rose now, from his seat in the very first row and ascended the platform, amid loud gasps of excitement and expectation, He wore a black satin robe, which took him from the neck to the ankles. It was held by a single button in the front, and under it he was naked, save for soft sandals which made no sound as he slowly moved forward towards the lottery wheel. The wheel had numerical signs from the figures one to one hundred, in varying colors. True, there were only fifty members here including himself. If on the first spin beyond that which any one of the masked members or guests retained should be registered, the wheel would be spun again until at last an executioner was chosen. He had declared himself exempt from this evening’s procedures. First of all, he had a confidential and highly important conference scheduled half an hour hence in the study of this sumptuous old house, when he would meet with a fabulously wealthy and equally depraved couple desirous of becoming members and also of purchasing specially trained slaves to satisfy their vicious whims. Besides, the girl at the post would, tomorrow night, come to his bed, either of her own volition or through the coercion of what would be done to her now or later.


He inclined his gray head to the silent audience, then spun the wheel. Gasps of expectation were heard as the immutable pointer waited to select the number. It stopped at last at 33, and a cry of joy rose from the second row of loges. “That’s my number!” It was the voice of a young woman, a 19-year-old silver-blonde, who had come tonight in the company of a man of nearly sixty, her uncle, who was viciously debauched and who had taken her maidenhood when she had been only fourteen, and had thereafter instructed her in all the arts of lechery and lust until she was as avid as he for new, exciting, dangerous joys of the flesh.


Her uncle himself chuckled softly as he watched his lovely young niece make her way past the other seated spectators, so impatient that she did not even stop to apologize when she stumbled against one or another. Carefully, he slipped his hand through a slit in his red robe and put it on his prick and began to tickle the head as she ascended the steps and stood beside the masked president of Les Masques.


“You have won the right to spin the wheel of fortune twice more. Number 33,” the president intoned in a solemn, resonant voice that made the girl at the whipping post sob and groan and press herself forward till her coral-tinted firm young nipples brushed the edges of the vertical post to which she was tethered.


“You know our rules,” he continued. “But first we will designate the number of lashes; the second turn will be selective of the instrument you will use to inflict those lashes.”


The silver-blonde turned eagerly to the wheel and spun it vigorously. Her gray-green eyes glittered as she watched its constant whirling, observed its slackening, and then clenched her little fists as it slowly came to a stop. “Oh damn!” she peevishly exclaimed. The pointer had stopped at the number 37. The girl at the post would suffer strokes only to that number. And now it would be determined what instrument should deliver those kisses of pain on such white virginal flesh, immaculate and till this moment untouched by the ignominy or the torment of corporal punishment.


Once again the silver-blonde spun the wheel, and once again she watched with glittering eyes and heaving breasts. It came to rest at the number 14. She exhaled a sigh of delight, “Aahhh, well, that’s better, anyway!”


The president had coded, long before, the meaning of each number when it came to the choice of whipping instruments. One, for example, would be a paddle with holes; two would be a thin birch rod of no more than six switches; three, a metal ruler; four, a hairbrush with stiff horsehair bristles and so on. The number which the silver-blonde executioner had spun called for an oval-shaped leather paddle whose one side was smooth, and whose other was covered with sharp, coarse horsehair. Thus she might use either side at her choice, or of course both, as she fully intended to do. The agony of the bruising shock of the paddle’s flat surface would be augmented viciously by the digging, spike-like bites of the bristles which would tenderize and sensitize the martyred naked flesh of the young victim’s virgin ass….



Condition: Good, there is some dirt to the cover and there are small pen marks on the inside front covers (front and back).

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