Devil to Pay, page 1
part #25 of Cherry Delight Series
Cherry Delight
The NEW Cherry Delight, now an agent of D.U.E.
DEVIL to PAY
by Gardner Francis Fox
Written as Glen Chase
Originally printed in 1977
Digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel and Douglas Vaughan
2021 for the Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC
Cover Illustration by Kurt Brugel 2021
Copyright © 2021 by The Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC.
All inquires please contact gardnerffox@gmail.com
Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.
At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even vintage sleaze.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels back into print.
7.5x7.5 softcover paperback book with 165 black & white pages.
This is the book that collects Kurt Brugel’s first half of the scratchboard book cover illustrations he created for the new editions of Mr. Fox’s stories.
I chose scratchboard as my medium for its graphic punch. The book cover is responsible for giving the reader an initial lead-in for what the story is about. Having all of the book covers based on the same motif will also unify the library as a whole. There is enough of a challenge with doing 156 of anything in art, but to have to illustrate the contents of the book using a “pretty face”, well then we have something special in-store. Purchase from- - -
www.gardnerfrancisfoxlibrary.com/art
Table of Contents:
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELEVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PROLOGUE
The girl crouched amid the brambles, wrapped in a long cloak of coarse brown material. Her unbound yellow hair flowed over the cloak, and blew a little in the faint wind that stirred through the trees which hemmed in a large open space where the grass grew long and green. The girl trembled from moment to moment, there was stark fear in her blue eyes, and on her smooth cheeks were the remnants of terrified tears.
The night was hushed. The moon shone high and full overhead, and where a stone slab lay atop two great stones, in the very center of the clearing, moonlight glinted on a long knife, on a golden chalice, on a small, gold pyx.
From the shadows of the trees about the clearing, men and women in black robes stood silent, waiting.
The girl who crouched to one side of them let her eyes slide toward them in horror. She could not make out their faces, hoods were over their heads so that their faces lay in shadow.
They waited, as she was waiting.
Denise Pascal did not know for whom these somber figures waited. All she knew was that she had been caught up out of a sound sleep by strong hands and, despite all her cries and tears, had been lifted and carried out of the chateau where she lived with her father, and brought by narrow byways to this clearing.
They had stripped her down, torn her fragile nightgown from her trembling body and then wrapped her nakedness in this coarse brown cloak that smelled faintly of the stables. Why, she did not know.
And yet—
She suspected.
Her suspicions were the reason why she was so terrified, why she quivered to the thoughts running riot in her head. In the past few months, there had been whispers, tiny shreds of rumor that had gone through the marketplaces of the little town of Pentref here in Brittany, words seemingly half-spoken by servants which she had barely heard.
One word above all others she remembered now.
Le diable. The devil.
It could not be, of course. Just the same, she told herself as she roved the clearing with her gaze, as she saw the cloaked men and women standing like dumb statues, their cloaks blowing in the wind, there must be something to it.
Long ago, men and women had worshiped devils here in Brittany. There had been Black Masses said by defrocked priests, and there was the memory of Gilles de Rais, that man who had been called “the beast of Brittany’ while he was alive, and who had gone down into fable as Bluebeard of the fairy tales. De Rais had worshiped the devil, as had his ancestors, and had paid for his crime by being burned even as he was hanged.
Oh, yes. They had worshiped /e diable long and long ago, in Brittany. They had said Black Masses, and there had been an orgy, but that had been so long ago. Mais oui! Centuries ago.
Could it be that the ancient rite of devil worship had been revived? No. She would not believe it, Denise Pascal assured herself. Her eyes drifted toward that flat stone. Was it—an altar? Certainly that was a chalice and a pyx upon its surface. She had seen those often enough in the little church in the hollow to know what they were.
Denise shuddered, moaning faintly. She would have leaped to her feet and run, had she been able. But she was so frozen with horror, with terror, that it took all her energy just to remain conscious.
What was that?
She stiffened, listening. Hoof-beats, yes. She had ridden horses since her childhood, she knew when she heard the sound of hooves. But—these were not the hoof-beats of a horse.
There was a different rhythm to them, almost as though the horse were two-legged. And that was ridiculous, naturally. Yet she tensed, she strained her ears to listen to that unnatural clop-clop as it came closer…closer…closer…
Something dark and—gigantic—stood at the edge of these woods. Moonlight glittered on two vast horns” thrust upward from ahead. Denise stifled a cry. It was the head of a goat! She could not be mistaken.
A goat that walked on two legs, a goat which turned its eyes this way and that, as though to study those robed figures which stood so quietly, so silently.
A sigh lifted from the men and women.
Suddenly, two of the robed people moved. Pale hands removed the cloaks that sheltered the bodies under them, and as the dark robes dropped, two girls stood naked in the moonlight, their long black hair falling almost to their rounded buttocks.
They ran forward, their nubile breasts bouncing, their thighs shimmying. To the giant goat-shape they ran, and hurled themselves at its cloven hooves.
“Asmodeus, father of demons!”
“Satan, we see you!”
The girls wriggled in their abasement. Their rounded buttocks were uplifted, and between their trembling thighs one could catch a glimpse of black hairs. The towering shape stared down at them, then slowly turned and bent.
Denise Pascal gasped. Those two naked girls were crawling closer to the huge figure. Upward they rose, and then they kissed the buttocks of that being.
She had never heard of such a kiss, and so Denise Pascal was utterly shocked. She sought to turn away her eyes, yet could not. She watched as the girls clung to that shaggy shape and pressed their mouths to it in trance-like worship.
Even as they did, the men and women sighed, at the edge of the trees, and they moved forward very slowly, their robes swinging gently to their steps.
Hands touched Denise Pascal, lifting her.
She cried out, but those hands were strong, and she could hear the muffled breathing of those two men who gripped her. Twice she sought to escape them, but could not. Their fingers were iron-hard, and they held her easily.
Forward she was brought, to the very altar of stone where it lay across those rocks, and then a hand gripped her cloak and drew it downward.
Naked as she stood, all white skin and golden hair, and her beauty seemed to quiet the murmurs all about her. She sought to raise her arms, to cover the protruding cones of her youthful breasts and the red nipples, but hands held her arms.
She was turned toward the goat-like thing so that it could see her long, slender legs, the small belly and the curving hips, the nest of golden hairs at their pubic mound. Denise could scarcely breathe, yet she was aware that she was drawing air into her lungs, that those goat-eyes were reveling in this sight of her nudity.
For long moments, the devil eyed her.
Finally the horned head nodded.
A hand caught her golden hair, held her while someone put a cup to her lips. A voice whispered, “Swallow.”
She tried not to drink that potion. It was fine, of course; she knew that much. But there was something in that wine: a drug of some sort, she understood. Moaning to herself, she let the liquid run down her throat.
Almost instantly, a sort of peace came upon her. It was almost as though she were dreaming. A cry went up from the throats about her, all eyes were focused on her naked body. Then hands lifted her into the air.
Strong hands gripped her legs, parted them.
Denise Pascal moaned.
Never had anyone seen her naked before. Yet now she was being shown to all who stood there, watching.
She felt those eyes on her, touching her genitals, as if caressing them. She could not fight. Whatever had been in that wine was now inside her, turning her muscles to water.
Yet she knew what was happening.
Shame made her cheeks turn red. This body which she had guarded so zealously since childhood, was now unclad and being revealed lewdly to these onlookers. Denise moaned.
Then she was placed upon the altar. There were no ropes to bind her. She lay there as though dead, yet her eyes were open, she saw the moon and the stars above, and she heard the cries of the worshipers
A shadow fell across her body. A man stood there, naked, reaching for the chalice. Beside him were those two naked girls who had run to that terrifying thing which had appeared. The girls were the acolytes, the naked man was the priest.
Oh, yes. She could understand that.
They were saying the mass. She heard the Latin words, but they were being said backward, from the end to the beginning of each prayer. It was a mockery of the true Mass, sacrilege raised to its highest power.
She herself was the living altar. The flat stone slab was only here so that her nudity might rest upon it. She felt the touch of the chalice, the stolen Host. She heard the responses of the congregation.
A bit of that Host was pushed between her lips. She tried not to swallow it but the chalice was there against her teeth as an arm held her up, and she was made to drink.
There was something in that wine.
It was not the drug that she had swallowed before.
Denise did not know what it might be, but her flesh became warmer, and between her thighs she felt an intensely pleasant sensation.
The Black Mass went on, but now the naked girl on the flat stone twitched and moved her legs, she turned this way and that as the drug ran through her flesh. Her lips opened and she gave a helpless little cry.
She did not know what was happening to her, but she could guess. Her virgin body was being prepared for the entry of a male organ. And she could not fight against the need for that penetration. Her legs began to open and close. Her hips lifted, fell back.
Soft laughter ran around the altar.
“See? She stirs. She needs the Master!”
“Note the little love pears on her inner thighs.”
“She wants to be taken.”
No, no. I do not. I am a virgin!
She could not say such words out loud, she could only think them. But that drug was eating inside her, her breasts were hard, her nipples rigid with the desire in her flesh. Her thighs lay wide apart, invitingly. She could not close them. Her body was betraying her.
Ah, and now—
The shaggy beast-thing was moving forward, toward the end of the stone altar. And hands were drawing her naked body forward, to meet it.
Denise Pascal could see the thing now, towering high. And—and—there, where its genitals were, she could see the stiffened, eager male flesh. It ached to drive between her legs, to penetrate deep inside her.
She did not want it. She did not!
Yet hands were on her legs and under her back, lifting her toward it. She heard the harsh breathing of the men and women, even the breathing of that devil-thing waiting for its pleasure.
Her thighs were bent far back. She was lifted up and thrust forward. She felt the man-club touch her, drive inward. She felt the pain, she knew an instant of utter shame.
Then the devil was deep within her and the pain was gone and she writhed lewdly on the flat stone, giving herself, yielding her body, shoving herself forward as though she could not get enough of what was happening.
The beast-thing held her tightly, as though fearful that she might escape. But Denise Pascal had no wish to escape—not now, not while this mad pleasure was flooding through her flesh. Her hips jerked and rotated, she sobbed and wailed in the pleasure of her senses. Tears ran down her cheeks, but they were tears of pure joy.
All around her, she saw other men and women tangled together in a mimicry of her own mad actions. She stared as one hypnotized at the thrusting organs of the men, as they caught at one woman or another, to kiss them, to cling and caress. She saw women pressing their naked bodies against the men, saw their hands caressing, making lewd gestures.
At any other time, Denise would have been horrified. Yet now, even as that organ was thrusting in and out of her, she felt a part of this madness, of this fleshy ecstasy.
When one woman knelt to take a male spear between her lips, Denise whimpered: “Yes, yes. Oh, do that.” There was no dismay now, no panic. She only urged herself closer to the devil-thing that held her, writhing her hips, so that she could absorb even more of him.
Men and women lay on the ground now, writhing together. Old women and young men, young women and old men—each seemed imbued with an almost incredible lust. Some there were who drew away from their first partners and sought others, and everywhere she could catch the cries of men and women convulsed in what her people knew as menager sa Poudre.
A woman was bent before a man who had her in the manner of an animal, from behind. Almost touching them was another couple where the woman sat upon the upthrust organ, arms and legs clamped to the man who walked slowly about with her until neither could stand anymore and they collapsed in a welter of moving arms and legs.
Ah! She herself was doubling up, again and again, as ecstasy wracked her body. She clung to the devil-thing even as those other women clung to the men who were copulating with them, crying out and screaming in the delights of the moment.
She herself was wailing, too, she realized. And she did not care. Something inside her—the drug she had taken with that second cup of wine?—was stealing away everything but this need for carnal fulfillment.
Over and over she knew the sharp bite of sens Dessous Dessous. Her body bent like a bow, her hips wriggled, she wept and cried out words that had no meaning. Tears ran down her cheeks, which she rubbed away on the hairy hide of the goat-being which was possessing her.
And then—
She felt it grip her, knew the expansion of its rigid phallus, felt the stream that seemingly flooded her.
Those arms did not release her, they held her even more tightly, and now she understood that the goat-being was not yet finished.
Again its member grew strong, rigid, again it began those in-and-out movements, those burrowing, shattering drives that seemed to rob her of her senses. She clung to him, unable to Satisfy this heat that ran all through her.
“More,” she wailed. “More, more, more!”
That which held her chuckled. It was a gentle sound, filled with delight and satisfaction. The goat-being moved even closer, slid its hooves under her buttocks, raised her upward so that she lay upon the stone only on her upper back and her head.
And it drove into her. Again and again, over and over, as though it could never stop. Denise panted, she writhed herself forward, she clung and beat herself against that which held her.
In time, she fainted.
When she woke, she was lying naked on the flat stone, and she was cold. She stared about her, lifting herself upward as though with a great effort. She felt the pain and the ache between her thighs, and she groaned.
Denise Pascal was sober, now.
The effect of the wine and the aphrodisiac had faded from her body. But her mind still retained the memories of everything she had seen, all she had done. She lay back upon the stone altar and stared up at the stars.
“I am damned,” she whispered. “I am damned for all eternity.”
After a time, she stirred, drawing her thighs together, wincing at the pain. She slid to the edge of the stone altar and sat up. The rough cloth cloak which had hidden her nakedness earlier lay in a crumpled heap on the grass, not far away.
Limping slightly, she moved to the cloak, snatched it up and wrapped it about her body. She felt slightly warmer, but she knew no cloak ever made could halt the inner coldness which gripped her.
She was doomed. She had taken part in a Black Mass. Well, maybe le Bon Dieu could forgive her for that—she had not willingly taken part in it. But as for the other thing, the way she had welcomed that membre viril, the manner in which she had enjoyed herself, could never be forgiven.
