featuring Bettie as the centrefold, photographed by Bunny Yeager ...
Ah, Bunny Yeager. He remembered with pain spiking his heart the events of but one year ago. It had taken some time to find Bettie, but when he did he acted at once. He discovered that Miss Page had gone to Florida, to be photographed by Yeager. Travel arrangements were made, and he arrived in Miami at the end of an arduous journey which spanned several days of riding by night on a train, only to discover after much searching that she had gone that day to a remote tourist attraction called Rural Africa, some seventy miles north of the city, and had not yet returned.
He discovered the location of her apartment—information in this less-congested city was not difficult to obtain with his powers—and there he awaited her return. She did return, but rather than retire, she proceeded to a main building. He watched her through a window, talking animatedly with several others, dining, relaxing, sewing a small leopard-skin garment out on the verandah while she chatted, one of the adorable outfits she wore. And all the while, his ardour grew. She was as effervescent in the flesh as on the screen. He determined that this night she would be his! Finally, just after 1.00 a.m., she left the main building for her cottage close by. This was the first time he had found her alone. He watched her walk along the path, as stunned as a novice lover, unable to approach her, fearful of rejection. She entered her residence and bolted the door. He rebuked himself. How had he been reduced to this! He, a voivode, Prince of Wallachia! Destroyer of the Ottoman invaders, and the betrayers who called themselves countrymen! His childish hesitation now meant that she was inaccessible. He could not gain admittance without an invitation, and without contact with Miss Page, he would not receive one.
The frustration drove him to her window in the alley at the back, where he peered inside through a break in the Venetian blinds. He watched her undress for bed. He held his breath; the sight of her sublime physique stunned him to silence. Such beauty felt unearthly, as if a cloud had parted and this angel had fallen from heaven—did they know she was missing? Unawares, his fingernails clawed the screen over the window. Only when she turned, a delicious look of terror streaking her features, did he realize what he had done.
Quick to remedy the situation, he decided that when she came to the window, he would instil the thought in her mind, through the glass, to open the window, to admit him. He pulled the screen away, for a better contact, and watched her snatch an article of clothing with which to cover herself and hurry toward him until she was so close he could only see her waist. He paused, waiting for the blind to lift.
“I’ll give you two seconds to get away from this window or I’ll blow your brains out!”
Startled by her booming voice, he had no idea she possessed a weapon. The pistol would not harm him, of course, but the noise would draw others. His sense returned and he retreated, biding his time until the following night, when he would find a way to meet her outdoors, to look into her eyes, to capture her will and make her his own.
But the following evening she was gone. Enquiries let him know that the photo shoot had been completed and Miss Page had returned to New York. He felt devastated. Thwarted like a mere schoolboy. Unable to grasp this failure. There had seemed nothing to do but return to New York himself and plot out a further opportunity.
Varietease finished and the end of the film spun off the feeder reel. It was one of his favourites, but he liked the others as well, the ones with the girls play-spanking each other. The one where Miss Page helped tie another to an oak. Miss Page was a woman of unusual thespian talents. She excelled as both the discipliner and the disciplined, and that he found exceptional. He especially enjoyed
Ah, Bunny Yeager. He remembered with pain spiking his heart the events of but one year ago. It had taken some time to find Bettie, but when he did he acted at once. He discovered that Miss Page had gone to Florida, to be photographed by Yeager. Travel arrangements were made, and he arrived in Miami at the end of an arduous journey which spanned several days of riding by night on a train, only to discover after much searching that she had gone that day to a remote tourist attraction called Rural Africa, some seventy miles north of the city, and had not yet returned.
He discovered the location of her apartment—information in this less-congested city was not difficult to obtain with his powers—and there he awaited her return. She did return, but rather than retire, she proceeded to a main building. He watched her through a window, talking animatedly with several others, dining, relaxing, sewing a small leopard-skin garment out on the verandah while she chatted, one of the adorable outfits she wore. And all the while, his ardour grew. She was as effervescent in the flesh as on the screen. He determined that this night she would be his! Finally, just after 1.00 a.m., she left the main building for her cottage close by. This was the first time he had found her alone. He watched her walk along the path, as stunned as a novice lover, unable to approach her, fearful of rejection. She entered her residence and bolted the door. He rebuked himself. How had he been reduced to this! He, a voivode, Prince of Wallachia! Destroyer of the Ottoman invaders, and the betrayers who called themselves countrymen! His childish hesitation now meant that she was inaccessible. He could not gain admittance without an invitation, and without contact with Miss Page, he would not receive one.
The frustration drove him to her window in the alley at the back, where he peered inside through a break in the Venetian blinds. He watched her undress for bed. He held his breath; the sight of her sublime physique stunned him to silence. Such beauty felt unearthly, as if a cloud had parted and this angel had fallen from heaven—did they know she was missing? Unawares, his fingernails clawed the screen over the window. Only when she turned, a delicious look of terror streaking her features, did he realize what he had done.
Quick to remedy the situation, he decided that when she came to the window, he would instil the thought in her mind, through the glass, to open the window, to admit him. He pulled the screen away, for a better contact, and watched her snatch an article of clothing with which to cover herself and hurry toward him until she was so close he could only see her waist. He paused, waiting for the blind to lift.
“I’ll give you two seconds to get away from this window or I’ll blow your brains out!”
Startled by her booming voice, he had no idea she possessed a weapon. The pistol would not harm him, of course, but the noise would draw others. His sense returned and he retreated, biding his time until the following night, when he would find a way to meet her outdoors, to look into her eyes, to capture her will and make her his own.
But the following evening she was gone. Enquiries let him know that the photo shoot had been completed and Miss Page had returned to New York. He felt devastated. Thwarted like a mere schoolboy. Unable to grasp this failure. There had seemed nothing to do but return to New York himself and plot out a further opportunity.
Varietease finished and the end of the film spun off the feeder reel. It was one of his favourites, but he liked the others as well, the ones with the girls play-spanking each other. The one where Miss Page helped tie another to an oak. Miss Page was a woman of unusual thespian talents. She excelled as both the discipliner and the disciplined, and that he found exceptional. He especially enjoyed
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