EDITOR'S NOTE

 

The artistically fertile period of the 1930s and 1940s stand as the Golden Age of science fiction, when phallus-like rocket ships thrust hungrily into the beckoning depths of space, toward orbs that gleamed high and yet so tantalizingly close in the vault of the blue-black night sky. In the inky pages of story after story, shapely and yet almost impossibly innocent young heroines clothed in flouncy skirts and torn blouses were menaced by lustful space pirates, single-minded mad scientists with a lightly veiled bent for bondage and sexual experimentation, and dying extraterrestrial species which needed fresh breeding stock to survive.

Spirited away to garish alien landscapes, the flower of Earth's femininity always writhed most prettily in the grip of the grunting, blunt-fingered buccaneers of the space ways, rubber-gloved experimenters whose immaculate double-breasted white lab coats concealed the deviant desires beneath, or tentacled monsters that slavered after human girl-flesh. And yet- Despite the poor victims' unspeakable predicaments, as the almost-bare things breathlessly awaited the rescue of their jackboot- and jodhpur-wearing heroes, still those unwelcome caresses seemed somehow to arouse the helpless good-girls almost as much as they terrified. Even as bright red lips opened for the obligatory scream, after all, erect nipples pushed up unmistakably through sheer cotton...

In those years anything was possible. Though the great technological progress of the period spurred pulp-fiction writers to speculate that space travel was less than a lifetime away, the level of knowledge about the planets of the Solar System was limited enough to let the imagination run wild. The pioneering liquid-fueled rockets of Robert Goddard, Willy Ley, and Wernher Von Braun combined with the new atomic theories of Niels Bohr and Albert Einstein to suggest that one day soon, ray-gun-wielding spacemen-and shapely spacewomen, always attired as dancing-girls, it seemed-might face bug-eyed monsters on alien worlds.

The sandy ochre deserts of the slowly dying planet Mars, so the famous astronomer Percival Lowell had been saying for a generation, appeared to be crisscrossed with great canals which must have been the work of intelligence. Sun-soaked Venus, solidly pearl-clouded in even the most powerful telescopes, promised the steamy mystery of primitive jungles. The Asteroid Belt, at the time thought perhaps to have been the remnants of some broken planet, would allow a new frontier to forty-niners of the space ways. Swollen Jupiter possessed four moons the size of small worlds, and gaudy Saturn's great moon Titan was discovered to have an atmosphere. Thirty years before our exploration of the planets began in earnest, writers could see the Solar System as brimming with exotic life and ancient civilizations, with excitement and challenges.

It was during such hopeful, naive times that Slave to Six Worlds was written. Yet despite countless glossy full-color magazine covers that depicted in leering detail the scantily clad maidens whose lives-and, apparently, virginities-were threatened by slavering monsters and by fiends of all varieties, this book could not have been published then. No, in science fiction's Golden Age those ripe young breasts never were to be fondled free of their brass brassieres, hardening nipples rolled and thumbed and twisted and sucked. Nor could those chorus-girl skirts be flounced up over sleek thighs to reveal blonde-furred labia whose musky pout called appreciative eyes, reverent fingers, worshipful tongue... Lurid illustrations tantalized, but the lusts they inflamed could not be satisfied.

Only now has this once-hidden manuscript come to light. Only now can it be presented as it was meant to be. Despite the temptation to meddle in matters of plot, style, and even ethnography, I have edited only for the occasional stray typographical error. The science of Slave to Six Worlds may be quaintly dated... yet its eroticism is not.

-O.M.R.

CHAPTER ONE: On a Blushing Bride's Happiest Day, the Revelation of Secret Desires

 

Cynthia Richardson, nee Smythe, settled back contentedly against the limousine's deep cushions of richly tanned Martian boar hide as the car rose with a quiet thrum from the concrete canyons of the teeming hive of New York, up through the buzzing cloud of air traffic and across the Hudson, then into the cloudless sky over the open countryside soon beyond. Her dreamy blue eyes gazed at her new husband, the handsomest young man in the Solar System-and the wealthiest one as well. Rich sunlight gleamed in her golden hair and on her creamy white dress, upon the car's beautiful red-brown leather and its panels of native Titanian redwood shipped all the way Earthward from Saturn.

"How soon will we be home, darling?" she whispered, her heart fluttering beneath the high breasts which thrust up full against the white lace of her wedding gown. All at once Cynthia was vaguely aware that the sensitive fleshy pink-brown peaks of those tender mounds ached, crinkled and expectantly erect just beneath the thin layer of white satin. She felt drowsy and excited at the same time.

Although she had been to the Richardson mansion before, of course, never had it been unchaperoned, and certainly never had there loomed the knowledge that the man's bedroom awaited her... ah, at last, at last! Cynthia drummed the fingers of her left hand impatiently upon her thigh, and sparkling reflections from the great lunar diamond of her wedding ring flew about the interior of the vehicle. Capping a shining band of South African gold, that extraordinary rarity of nature had been formed in the violent heat and pressure of the impact of a meteor on the cracked and craggy gray surface of the Moon a hundred million years earlier. Yet now, she mused, it was as beautifully cold and hard on the inside as she herself was soft and warm and wet. She shifted her hips restlessly in the supple leather cushions.

"How long, Steven?" she found herself whispering again.

"Take your time," she heard Richardson advise the bullet-headed robot chauffeur easily through the speaker in the glass partition. "Let's take a spin around the countryside before heading back." He turned back to his bride, smiling at the uncertain twinge of disappointment she could not keep from flashing across her pretty face.

"Don't worry, Cynthia," he added slyly. "I know what you need."

"Why-why, Steven!" she protested, reddening. "Wh-whatever do you mean?" Her gloved hands flew reflexively to cover her bosom... and, blushing further, in her demurely gloved palms she felt the hard nipples pressing right through her gown. Oh, how her poor body longed to be simply taken-grabbed and groped, held down, mastered, made to cry out its joys at the sudden revelation of all the things she had not dared even speak of before! She did not need to be romanced anymore, to be sweet-talked and courted and wooed. She simply needed to be fucked. Oh, the wicked thrill of that forthright, deliciously forbidden word which bubbled up from the simmering cauldron of her supposedly innocent young mind! She could never admit such a thing, of course, and yet, wordless and instinctive, her flesh knew-ah, how it knew!

Steven came across the compartment and settled into the cushion beside her. He insinuated his arm around her narrow waist, wrapping his hand about the swell of her hip with a new familiarity that made her shiver. "Oh, dear, Cyn," he chuckled. "We all have our needs, don't we? And that is one of the reasons we humans marry..."

"Well..." She bit her lip prettily, then snuggled into his embrace. She did not want to appear too eager, but it was all she could do to restrain herself in this coy acquiescence. In mock-hesitance she lowered her arms from the embarrassingly prominent erections crowning her bosom. "Of course, Steven." It felt good to let him touch her and see her, felt good to know that with him she no longer had to pretend to be a good girl anymore. The hand of the man who now owned her, body and soul, caressed her haunch idly through the layers of silks and satin, and her tingling nipples stood up even bolder so close before his face. She was sure that he couldn't help but notice.

He had always thrilled her so, and though it was something her mother said ladies just didn't discuss, Cynthia had longed for this day-and the coming night!-since the very beginning of their courtship. Often when they danced she had felt a strange, moist sort of warmth seeping from beneath her taut belly. Later, alone, she had tried to comfort herself as best she could, exploring her virgin body in girlish innocence. Though she always began in red-faced guilt, her terrible desires invariably pushed her toward the most shocking self-indulgences.

Naked between satin sheets, Cynthia had learned to make her supple young flesh sing out its natural, unspeakable lusts. When first she palmed her high maidenly breasts she may have bitten her lip in coy hesitance, but all too soon she would squeeze the resilient mounds in earnest, relishing the feel of her turgid nipples between appreciative thumbs and forefingers, shivering at the way the tingling sensation rippled straight down to her watering cunt. Teasing herself as she ran frank hands along every curve in her pretty body, she finally might scratch her nails down through the soaked blonde delta of crinkly curls that brooded soft and odorous between her quaking thighs.

Helplessly, she had stroked fingertips through the innermost temple of her burgeoning womanhood. Curious, ashamed, and yet unable to stop, she had explored her own sodden mysteries as deeply Stanley had the Congo, or MacDougal the swamps of Venus. Spreading wide with one hand the thickened petals of hairy pink velvet that glistened and oozed, with the fingertips of her other she drew blissful circles about a tremulous button-like morsel of meat that stood straight up in its arousal, craving a dirty touch at the same time that it tried to shrink back in over-sensitized fright. Fingering herself on and on and on, she inhaled delightedly the salty-sweet tang of her fragrant pussy, listened to every bubbly squelch of her copious juices. Oh, how she had learned to pleasure herself!

Certainly such dalliance in the slippery folds between her sleek thighs had always been enough to make her gasp excitedly beneath the covers in her prim bed. And yet now, Cynthia knew, she would find out soon exactly what it meant to be a woman. This was what her poor flesh had cried for, silently in its confused arousal. Yes, now at last a man would do that to her, all of it, and more. Oh, the agony of having to wait even another moment!

"You are a good girl, aren't you, Cynthia?" Steven murmured, smiling at the bride who blushed so prettily at her sudden remembrances.

"Y-yes, Steven," she replied automatically, blinking. But then she bit her lip guiltily, for if he could sense even half of the wicked things the supposed good girl had fantasized about as she wallowed whimperingly night after night, certainly he would be shocked, even disgusted. She was sure of it.

"Oh, but you've tamed me, darling," he sighed with an almost wistful little headshake. "Or at least as close to it as possible," he amended, flashing a charmingly wolfish grin. "Why, at twenty-three I've done it all... and I do mean all."

The honey-blonde licked her lips a little uneasily. "R-really?" she whispered. At the same time, though, she squirmed inwardly at the thought that a man, of course, could sow his wild oats-why, it was even expected in a way-but a girl was scarcely even allowed to think of such things. It was a strange, very private torment.

Ah, the guilt of her naughty imaginings, the remorse of what she had done to herself in the secret dark! How many times had she repented, blinking sheepishly as she caught her breath, swearing that she would never do it again? But she always broke down again, always! Often, in fact, it was only just moments later as the girl could not help growing restlessly aroused once more by the fishy odor of sex that still wafted from her slippery fingertips, so that, shuddering in her need, she pushed the sweetly reeking digits right up against the flared entrance of her wondering nostrils and she breathed deep of that primal, evocative, impossibly intimate scent. And maybe, whimpering a little with the joy of it and yet without meaning anything by it, really, with her other hand she might pinch at her stiffening nipples again, and her hips would begin to roll and grind, and then before she even knew quite what was happening, she just had to rub herself, grunting and hungry, ever more urgently, on and on and on, until after that second desperate orgasm-or perhaps a third or even a fourth!-she at last was left sweat-soaked and exhausted and sore, guilty and ashamed, and yet somehow so utterly fulfilled that she could not help smiling contentedly in the darkness as she drifted off into sleep. But how paltry these things were, she realized in a sort of awe, compared to what this handsome young man had done...

Steven looked down into her wide eyes, then kissed her chastely on the top of her golden head. "Maybe if you'd like," he offered with a nonchalant little shrug of his wise-looking face, "I'll tell you about those days sometime..."

"Do-do you think you should?" Cynthia asked shyly. It seemed dirty, yet somehow profoundly exciting as well. When she first met Steven he had been a reckless playboy, and despite his wealth, she had wanted nothing to do with him. He had been shallow, arrogant, leering.

He had flown all around the Solar System in his rocket ship yacht, stopping at the hottest nightclubs, the lowest dives, the most debauched parties of the idle rich, picking up girls one after the other. It was common knowledge that he had seduced demure society debutantes, high-priced call girls, gum-cracking cocktail waitresses, overawed coeds suddenly willing to try anything once. Flagrant trysts with the most desirable wenches of every world, uninhibited orgies that lasted languid days, wondrously wicked scandals that could not be printed but whose whispered repetitions never seemed to end-Steven indeed had done it all. The stories hinted at on the televisor and in the gossip columns were bad enough, but it was rumored that the boy's father had spent a fortune to hush up even worse indiscretions.