The Insiders

by Rosemary Rogers

  Francie's studied avoidance of her big brother was really due to her new, secret status. She was Brant Newcomb's latest plaything—the current kick he offered his friends at the parties he was always throwing when he was in town.

  Since Brant had discovered her secret weakness, Francie found herself obsessed—both with him and with her own body and the sensations he could evoke in it. There was nothing at all that he could not make her do and enjoy doing; and, after a while, almost nothing that she had not done.

  She was leading a double life, Francie would think with smug satisfaction. Still a high-school senior and, on the surface, a normal teenager. But her other, hidden self attended all of Brant Newcomb's wild "partouzes" and those of his jet-set friends. She was the far-out chick they all wanted, who'd do anything for kicks.

  Two months after she had first met Brant, everything had become old—even turning on. One wild night, she'd even tried acid after everyone had gone and Brant, who had forgotten about her, had discovered her tied spreadeagled on the bed in the game room.

  "Jesus God, why didn't you yell?" he asked her, half-amused and half-annoyed that she was still there. And then, as he looked down at her, he'd begun to laugh.

  "You dumb little cunt! But okay, baby, since you're here and I'm really not that sleepy, want to trip on acid? They tell me you shouldn't use it alone. Want to see if it does anything for either of us? The last time for me"— she saw his frown—"I didn't really remember too much."

  As he untied her, he spoke to her like a real person, a human being, and she loved it—most of the time he either ignored her or treated her like some strange kind of insect he'd discovered.

  Brant turned on some outlandish, weird-sounding music he said was Indian, and then he turned her on.

  Francie never forgot her first acid trip. It was the most beautiful experience of her fife up until then, she thought, and it was made even more beautiful because Brant was sharing it with her. They lay holding each other close on the big bed and watched the night and the music unfold in shapes and colors around them; and then they made love, and it seemed to go on endlessly in slow motion.

  Francie often wished that he'd do it with her again, but he never did; he'd brush off her suggestion with a shrug or a laugh. She couldn't understand Brant—she spent whole nights thinking about him and wondering how she could possess him the way he possessed her. She had to become important to him—she just had to! And so she took enormous risks just to be with him and his friends, slipping out of the house at all hours and sometimes returning at dawn. She knew that Mrs. Lambert knew whenever she sneaked out, but neither of them ever spoke about it. Mrs. Lambert drank a lot, and she needed the job badly; she knew she'd better not snitch on Francie or she'd be out on her ear!

  Because she was wild and freaky and would do anything at all, Brant had started having Francie on tap at all of his parties. She provided a new and kicky type of entertainment for the jaded appetites of his guests, and some of the movies she let them make of her and various other members of the crowd were much in demand, as was Francie herself. Some of them were almost in awe of her capacity for punishment, even some of the experienced call girls who were also regular "guests." She was still so young, and yet more perverse than any of them. Francie was a sadist's dream come true—the perfect masochist. She would let anyone do anything to her.

  At various times she had been whipped and ravished in every conceivable fashion—tied down, stretched out, or suspended by her arms; exhibited naked and open, to be used by anyone who wanted her. Nothing was too wild or far out for Francie.

  She told herself that she did it all for Brant, to prove to him that she loved him. Just like the girl in that book, The Story of O. She was his slave, his plaything, and she would give herself and abandon herself just as slavishly to anyone he "gave" her to.

  But after the first few times, when he used her as regularly as any of the others, the only attention he paid to her was to have her fitted with an IUD. She told herself that he was testing her to make sure she could take his kind of fife; she wanted him to know she could take anything his woman would have to take.

  Once, Brant had to stop a group of fast-rising young rock musicians from literally screwing her to death between them. But Francie herself had not protested against anything they'd done to her. When Brant asked her, his voice hard and old, why she hadn't tried to stop them, or at least called for help, she'd whimpered, "But you told them they could have me, that I'd do anything they wanted me to."

  "Oh, shit! Sometimes I wonder about you! You have to be sick to let them go that far and not try to stop them. Damn it, they could have killed you!"

  Nevertheless, in spite of his disgusted manner, he'd called up one of his doctor friends, who'd come around and given her some shots that made her feel better and stopped the bleeding. And afterward, Brant had taken her home himself, letting her rest her head against his shoulder as he drove.

  After that particular incident, however, Brant didn't call her for quite a while, and when she'd call him, he'd tell her, in that bored, aloof voice, that he felt she ought to get herself quite healed up inside.

  "But Brant, I am, I promise I am!" Francie insisted, almost crying with frustration. She glared at the phone in her hand. "Brant, please, I'm so horny I can hardly stand it! Let me come—I'll be good, and I'll be more careful, I promise!"

  This was a Friday, and he usually gave a party when he was in town Friday night. Why couldn't he let her come?

  "I'll think about it, baby. You can call me again this evening. And in the meantime, if you're that horny, why don't you use that vibrator I gave you?"

  She heard the click in her ear as he hung up and slammed the phone back into its cradle. Goddam Brant Newcomb to hell!

  Like a caged animal, Francie paced around her room. On her bulletin board, right next to her Mick Jagger blowup, she'd pinned a small picture of Brant, cut out from a magazine. She wanted to tear it to bits, but she stopped herself—it was the only picture she had of him, after all. And something told her she'd be going to more parties—he'd have to see her, he was going to need her, miss her!

  Oh, shit! Was there time to call up one of the guys she sometimes screwed around with in school? Probably not—they were usually out with their straight girl friends until late in the evening, especially on a Friday. And—the sudden thought stopped her as she reached out for the telephone—Dave might be coming down this evening, just to check up. He sometimes did, when he planned to stay away the rest of the weekend. He'd blow down early Friday afternoon and return to the city after supper. Oh, godammit, she wished he wouldn't come. He'd probably have that dumb Eve with him, unless they had been fighting again. Thinking of Eve and David reminded her of fucking. They must do a lot of it, she figured. And with no one to interfere. Well, Dave was a damn nice-looking guy, even if he was her brother. He had quite a body, too—one of her girl friends had said once she'd sure like to get screwed by him because he'd probably know what he was doing. She bet he did, too.

  A slow smile started to spread over her face, making her look suddenly much older and wiser. That was a thought. Dave! Big brother David. Why not? She'd learned from being with the fast crowd that nothing but nothing was forbidden, not even a brother and sister making it. Or a father and daughter, for that matter. They did it all the time, those laughing, glittering people she'd met. Didn't think anything of it.

  Wow, Francie thought, starting very slowly to take her clothes off. What a kicky trip that would be—to see if she could seduce Dave. Maybe he wasn't as uptight as he pretended to be.

  And in the meantime, since she was horny, she might as well get out her vibrator and watch herself in front of the mirror while she used it....

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DAVID WAS FURIOUS. Francie thought smugly that she had never seen Dave quite this mad before. It was good to know she could still make him react to her. She could almost giggle right into his red, angry face as she thought of the look he had
worn when she had walked down the stairs wearing just her briefest panties and a T-shirt that did nothing to hide her curves. And she'd made her face up so she looked older. Let David really notice her, for a change.

  He'd already dismissed Rick and Lisa, and had banged the door shut. Now he turned back to face her, and she could not help smiling—a smile that mixed defiance and impudence.

  "Francie, I don't know what's gotten into you suddenly, but by God, I'm going to show you that you're still young enough for some good, old-fashioned discipline! I'm not going to see you turn into a little tramp, blatandy advertising everything she's got."

  Deliberately provoking him further, she ran away from him, stopping to face him defiantly from across the length of the room.

  "You'd better not touch me, David! I'm too old to be spanked like a baby. I'm going to start doing as I please. I'm almost eighteen now, and you can't stop me."

  "Oh, can't I? We'll just see about that, shall we?"

  He almost sprang across the room at her in his rage, and she felt him grab her wrists painfully as he dragged her over to a chair and across his knees in the old way. She fought him just hard enough to make it more interesting, and to make him madder.

  Then he was doing what she craved—his hand coming down hard and efficiently on her wriggling buttocks while she struggled and yelled and felt her nipples burn as she rubbed them again the arm of the chair.

  David was so angry he'd lost control. He hit Francie as hard as he could, even though his palm started to sting. It was only after his head had cleared and his arm was starting to tire that he noticed how her short T-shirt was hiked up above her waist, and that her transparent panties hid nothing. When and why had Francie bought herself anything like that? With a sudden uneasiness he noticed that her buttocks, already red and inflamed-looking, kept jerking almost enticingly, even though the force of his blows had slackened. She had a woman's backside, shapely and well formed—but Christ, he thought, this was his sister!

  He stopped spanking her so abruptly that Francie, on the verge of orgasm, lost her head. Still squirming on his lap, she begged him to go on, not to stop now.

  "You bastard, you bastard!" she sobbed. "Don't you stop now; don't leave me hanging! I was almost there, damn you!"

  David felt that this couldn't be happening, this wasn't Francie, he couldn't be hearing right.

  With a movement of instinctive revulsion, he let go of her wrists and pushed her away from him. She fell onto the rug and lay there, still squirming and sobbing, her eyes glaring hate at him.

  "Go up to your room, Francie. Now. My God, you must be— You'll see a psychiatrist tomorrow. Right now, I don't want to look at you!"

  David's voice was dull—he wasn't strong any longer;

  he was really kind of pitiful, he was so square! He wasn't her strong Dave—he was Eve's, Francie thought viciously, still lying there. Eve had made him weak and stupid. She despised him now—he'd never dare spank her again, and they both knew it.

  "Make me go, David," she taunted him. Make me, why don't you?" She pulled the T-shirt up, putting her hand between her legs. "Since you're not man enough, want to watch me make myself come first?"

  He wanted to be sick, looking at her, seeing what she'd started to do to herself.

  Like a parent he thought, God, where did I go wrong, when did this happen? He couldn't let her he there doing what she was doing. She must be sick—why hadn't he noticed?

  "Francie," he said, his voice cold, "either you go to your room this minute, or I'm going to have the juvenile authorities pick you up. Take your choice. Whatever you think you're doing, you can finish it in your room, not here."

  Something in the remoteness of his voice stopped her, froze her hand in midstroke, and she stared at him measuringly. Yes, he did mean it. She'd driven him too far this time. And she didn't want to be taken away and locked up somewhere, because she had to see Brant, she just had to, now! Maybe she'd better pretend to knuckle under.. ..

  She pulled the T-shirt down and scrambled to her feet, her head hanging so Dave couldn't see the calculation in her eyes, her long dark hair hanging like a curtain over her face.

  "David, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened, but

  suddenly everything seemed to go dark It's just that

  I'm a woman now, and you treat me like a kid." She came close to him, and he couldn't help recoiling. For a moment he thought sickly that she might touch him, and he didn't think he could stand it

  "Francie! Just get out! Go on up to your room and stay there. I'll have supper sent up. And remember, I don't want you leaving your room, and I don't want you talking to the kids or using the telephone—do you understand? Maybe by tomorrow morning we'll both be saner and cool enough to talk."

  "Dave, I'm really sorry. Don't stay mad at me! I'll do anything you say. Don't be mad anymore?"

  He couldn't respond. His hps tightened, and he turned his head away from her. After a few seconds, he heard her leave the room and run upstairs. But he stayed there a long time, his hands clenched together, until he felt able to walk and move and talk normally again.

  Tomorrow morning, things would look different, and he'd know what to do. Tomorrow, he'd come down early, bring Eve with him. Lisa was bound to be upset; she seemed to sense it when things weren't right around the house, and she'd go into one of her silent, autistic moods. Only Eve could talk and love her out of her spells. She'd need Eve when he took Francie away.

  But when David came down to Albany with Eve the next day, Francie wasn't there. No one knew what time she'd left, or how. Mrs. Lambert had discovered her room empty, her bed not slept in, just a few minutes before David had arrived.

  The woman was almost hysterical; obviously, she'd been fond of Francie.

  "I didn't want to wake her too early," she kept repeating. "She always did like to he in bed late of a Saturday morning!"

  In the end, after David had sent her to her room to lie down, he'd started to search through Francie's things impatiently, clumsily. There had to be something that might tell him where the litde tramp had gone! Maybe an address book, a diary—did girls still keep diaries? Eve was downstairs with Lisa, keeping her calm. Thank God he'd brought Eve!

  Suddenly, David noticed that Rick had come in and was standing silent in the doorway, watching him. He looked up to tell the boy to go away; then he saw Eve behind him, her face worried.

  She came in quickly, hardly noticing Rick.

  "David, I think we have something—it was Lisa. Suddenly, out of the blue, she announced, 'Francie's gone to stay with Brant this time; shell never come back!' Do you know who—"

  "He's the guy in the picture—she said he was her boyfriend."

  Rick's voice froze them both, and their eyes went to a magazine clipping on Francie's bulletin board—one of many other pictures and clippings, so that no one had really noticed until now—following the direction of Rick's pointing finger. The man was blond and sun-bronzed. He was on a yacht, leaning against the mast and holding onto some rigging. His shirt was open to the waist, and one could almost see the bulge in his brief white shorts. He was beautiful and decadent-looking, and Eve knew him at once, with a shock of recognition.

  "Oh, God, not him! How did Francie ever meet him? He's— Oh, David, he's really evil. That's Brant Newcomb!"

  Standing there watching the color recede and then flow back into David's familiar, sharply angular face, Eve suddenly felt sick—for him, her love. The story Marti had told her came back, as well as her own unpleasant experience with the man. Obviously, even David had heard things about him—the look on his face told her that. Francie was seventeen; in spite of her vicious tongue and sneering eyes, she was just a lad— and David's sister, after alL She wanted to protect him, to hold him....

  "Oh, David! What will you do? There must be something—"

  "I know, Eve, I know. I have to think. I must be clear-minded and rational about this, as if Francie weren't my sister, as if— We can't have a scandal, som
ething that might get in the newspapers—that much I'm sure about."

  "But David, how can you find her unless you tell the police? She could be anywhere. We're not even certain she did run away to Brant Newcomb."

  He made a sudden, impatient gesture that silenced her.

  "Eve, you don't understand! If she did—Newcomb's not only a billionaire, he's a client of ours. Howard Hansen handles some of his oil interests—and Howard won't have scandal attached to anyone who works for him. Don't you see? They're even talking about a partnership for me—I just can't afford to have Francie's name, our name, dragged through the mud. We have to be sure, we have to find out if she's with him, get her away— to a psychiatrist—"

  "David!" Concern for him sharpened Eve's voice. "David, listen. You can't let him get away with it, if she's with him. Please listen to me, he's—he's a terrible man! But he's not above the law, is he? I mean, maybe the police will agree not to make it public. After all, Francie's still a minor—they can't put her name in the papers, can they?"

  "No, Eve! No police. No. I have to find her, but I can't use the police. God, if I only knew someone who knows the man...."

  A sudden recollection made Eve put her hand on David's arm, stopping him in mid-sentence.

  "I just thought—David, he's giving some land of a party tonight. Tony Gonsalves was in to do a commercial yesterday, and he was talking about it. In fact, Tony wanted me to go with him to be his front for the evening because he's gay, you know. But I was thinking, maybe you could go? You could mix with the guests— no one ever checks on who's invited and who's not at parties like that—you could look for Francie—"

  "No, no, I couldn't, baby. I can't get mixed up in this thing because if Francie were there and I saw this guy, I'd—God, I'd probably want to kill him! I don't have that much self-control that I could stop myself from throwing a punch at him. There has to be some other way; there has to be." Slowly, his words dragging, then pausing, he turned away from the picture he'd been staring at so blankly, his eyes widening as they looked into Eve's. She somehow knew, before he even started to speak again, what he wanted her to do, and her hands came up in a warding-off gesture. "No, David! No, don't ask me. I won't do itl" It was exactly as if he hadn't heard her. "You're the only one who could do it, Eve. The only person I can trust. If this gets out, you know how bad it would be for me, for Francie, for all of us. They'd say she was neglected, that I didn't have sufficient control over her. It would look very bad." He caught her hands, held them tightly as he looked into her face. "Baby, can't you see? You're the only person who can help me. You could go to that party as a guest, not as a gatecrasher. You could find Francie if she's there, reason with her. She'd never listen to me in the mood she's in! And if you had to, you could talk to him, tell him her real age—I'm sure she's lied about it. Sweetheart, you've got to do this, please!"