Page 30 of Passion's Wicked Torment

She tore herself away from him. She tried to rush past him, but he grabbed her and flung her down onto the pillows. He kicked off his sandals, and then she felt his bare foot in the center of her back, pinioning her facedown on the pillows. He bent forward, and his hand reached down to the crotch of her pantaloons and unsnapped something. Then she felt the front and back flaps being peeled up, exposing her loins nakedly. She struggled fiercely, but could not get out from under his foot. The camera continued to roll.

She heard loud breathing and realized that it was not only from Faraday, but from the other men in the room too. Everyone was becoming excited by the sight of her partial nakedness. It was even more erotic to them, seeing her loins exposed so brazenly while her legs and hips were still covered, than it would have been if the pants had been ripped off completely.

Kristin screamed uncontrollably, cursing the men, pleading to be let go. She was burning up with shame. As she lay on her stomach, Faraday undressed. She watched his metal breastplate hit the floor off to the side, followed by his helmet. Then came the underwear he had been wearing beneath his chainmail skirt.

Finally, he took his foot off her back. She turned over quickly. She had not been prepared for the sight she now beheld. The sight of such masculine beauty was electrifying. He stood arrogantly straight before her, with the chest and shoulders of a Michelangelo sculpture. His golden chainmail skirt was still on, but through its wide rings, Kristin could see the long, stiff rod of his maleness. His powerful legs were braced apart. He was glaring at her with eyes that were laughing and lips that were merciless and snarling.

Kristin started to rush away, but he jerked her back down onto the pillows and came down next to her. They wrestled, Faraday deliberately leaving her arms free so she could try to push his hands away as he grasped at her breasts or tried to touch her between her legs. He seemed to not care at all about the way she was scratching him. He was laughing maniacally, working himself up to a sexual frenzy. Kristin herself was sweating and burning up all over with prickly sensation.

Faraday grasped her wrists behind her, positioning her so she was facing the camera, then put his hand to her breasts. “No, no, stop it!” Kristin cried.

In answer, he locked his ankles around her legs, forcing her legs apart, baring her loins for the camera. His hand crept down her stomach and cupped her at her sex. She groaned with pleasure—and with revulsion at feeling pleasure.

The breathing in the room became loud and rasping as Vroman and Stryker grew increasingly excited. Kristin writhed and wriggled about, trying to free herself from Faraday’s vulgar grip.

“The oil,” advised the director in a breathless whisper. “Use the oil now.”

Faraday reached over to where the director had left a blue ceramic flask. He had to release Kristin to get it, and when he did so, she scampered off to the side. He grasped the top of her pantaloons and tugged them halfway down as she continued to struggle away from him He kept pulling on them until she was completely exposed.

He uncorked the flask with his teeth, and spit the cork away. Then he poured the contents onto Kristin’s body. It was slick, clear, scented oil, which ran over her breasts and down her stomach. He poured the remainder over her loins. Then he flung the flask into the swimming pool and attacked Kristin with his hands, rubbing the oil all over her. The feel of his hands gliding slippery over her breasts, was more than she could bear. She shut her eyes, feeling swept away by the intense pleasure that she could not fight down. His hands went to her loins and rubbed all over.

“Oh, God, no, nooo!” she cried, awash in ecstasy, knowing that the whirring camera was recording every graphic moment.

Faraday was still wrestling with her on the pillows, enjoying every second of it. Now he pulled the chain mail of his skirt up to his wide, studded leather belt, baring his rigid maleness. Kristin tried to scramble away from him, certain he would force her legs apart and descend on her now. Instead of doing so, though, he positioned himself on his back and pulled Kristin over him. Overcoming her struggling resistance by his powerful arms, he maneuvered her until her legs were apart and she was straddling his hips. Then he pulled her down, forcing her loins onto the rigid tip of his jutting shaft.

She gasped sharply, sucking in her breath at the incredible sensation. He pulled her farther down onto him, forcing her to descend on his shaft until he was in her completely. She was in a horrible bind now. She didn’t dare try to struggle further, for to do so—squirm and writhe about on his rigid maleness—would only excite him more and bring him to a peak. Yet, what else could she do? Merely remain passive like this, as the camera recorded her in this position for countless perverse eyes to see?

Faraday did not give her time to make up her mind. His hands went up to squeeze her breasts, while he began jerking his hips up and down, forcing her to bounce around on his sex.

Tears streamed hotly down Kristin’s cheeks. The sensation in her loins and nipples became more and more intense. And then, unable to resist the feeling, she arched her back at the blindingly white-hot ecstasy that shot through her, short-circuiting her nervous system with incredible pleasure. She cried out. Faraday, too, surged over the peak of ecstasy. His eyes shut tightly, and he groaned deep in his throat.

Kristin collapsed down on his chest, sobbing. The ordeal was too great to bear. When she noticed that her breasts were crushing down against his naked chest, she quickly moved off to the side. He did not stop her. He let her move away from him and pull the pillows over her to hide her nakedness.

Finally someone spoke. It was Vroman talking in a voice thick with lust. “This is going to make one hell of a sexy movie. Faraday, I can see why Ironman likes you as his star in these things. You’re a talented son of a bitch.”

Faraday laughed. There was an edge of hysteria to his voice . . . and self-hatred. He appeared, at that moment, to be a man who knew he was in the grip of a powerful sexual perversity, and he detested being the way he was. But he could not help himself. Still laughing, he got to his feet, wrapped a robe around himself and stumbled off toward the pool dressing room. Then he was through the door and gone.

Kristin gathered up her strength. The effects of the drug had worn off enough now so she could control her movements. When Vroman turned to Stryker, Kristin made her move. She lunged forward and rushed at the camera. The director saw her coming, but all he could do was open his mouth to yell. Before he could react further, Kristin reached the camera and knocked it sharply to the side. The camera and tripod went crashing over into the swimming pool, the reel of film still attached. They quickly sank down to the very bottom of the pool.

The director let out a sharp moan, as if he had been physically wounded. He held his hands to his face in disbelief. Vroman and Stryker stared in awe, temporarily paralyzed by the significance of Kristin’s act. But the significance was perceived by the director. “Ruined,” he mumbled, staring into the pool with an agonized look. “Everything . . . utterly, utterly ruined.”

“Why, you little bitch,” Vroman snarled, grasping Kristin by the arm. He balled his hand into a fist and pulled it back to strike her. Kristin screamed and raised her hands in front of her face. Just as Vroman was about to hit her, the double doors leading in from the entrance way suddenly burst open and slammed back against the wall with a loud crash. A very tall, bearlike man stepped forward.

All eyes turned to him. Vroman recognized him and spoke hatefully. “Get the hell out of here, McShane! This is none of your affair.”

Sean McShane stood in the doorway taking in the scene. He noticed that the half-naked girl was being held by Vroman, whose arm was pulled back, ready to strike her. McShane said nothing, just continued staring, digesting the scene. In addition to being tall, he seemed Herculean in build and strength. From the clothes he wore, Kristin had the impression that he was some sort of mountain man. He was dressed in a bushy fur coat and boots, and leather pants. He even had a coonskin cap on his head, with a tail hanging down at the back

.

His face was tanned and weather-beaten, with bold, strong features. He had brown eyes that—crazily, under the cirumstances—seemed youthful and full of mirth. A heavy, full beard adorned his jaw, which looked excessively square and jutting, as if it were a caricature.

When he spoke, his voice had an Irish sounding lilt to it, showing that he was English-Canadian rather than French-Canadian. His voice was rich and sonorous and

surprisingly good natured. “Why Vroman, me laddie,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily, “you’re not actually asking me to leave the premises, now are ye?”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you! Now go on, get the hell out. This is none of your affair.”

“Please!” Kristin cried out. “Help me! Don’t go!” “There now, Vroman, ya see? I’ve got a regular invitation to stay.” His eyes sparkled as he said this. Kristin was confused for it seemed so out of place in this situation. She was not to learn until later that when Sean McShane’s eyes twinkled so brightly, it was a sign of danger to all around him. It was an indication that violence was very near.

McShane came forward. Stryker went up to him, blocking his path, holding up a hand to keep him back. McShane looked down at him and smiled benevolently. “You’re in my way,” the big man said. Stryker did not move. He made the mistake of swinging on McShane, hitting him squarely in the jaw with great force. McShane smiled down at him. Then he lifted Stryker off his feet and held him in the air for an instant. He shook his head from side to side. He next heaved the man into the swimming pool, out into the center of the deep part. Stryker began flailing around wildly, screaming, “I can’t swim! I can’t . . .” He gulped some water and began choking. The director hurriedly threw him a life preserver from the wall while McShane advanced on Vroman.

Vroman reached into his coat and withdrew a gun, which he aimed at McShane’s chest. “Hold it right there,” warned McShane. He was sweating, though, clearly nervous.

McShane looked at Vroman’s gun and grinned. He put his hands on his hips. He was silent for a moment, as if considering the threat. Then he suddenly yelled, “Boo!”

The gun jerked in Vroman’s hand, and the hoodlum’s eyes went wide. The gun did not go off. Vroman spoke with anger and fright. “Damn it, McShane, I nearly shot you! You nearly scared me into shooting you! It wouldn’t have been my fault. It would have been your own damn fault!”

“Aye, but you didn’t shoot, did you, Vroman me lad. And the fact o’ the matter is, you know you can get away with having your bullies try to beat on me, because I’ll allow that. But you wouldn’t dare shoot me. You know what would happen if you tried that.”

“The entire Royal Canadian Mounted Police force would be after me.”

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